I went out today to a vaguely social gathering and I stayed in the car and cried. No amount of TB telling me I looked beautiful made any difference. No amount of knowing people don’t view me as the sick lady in a wig makes any difference.
I do know all this but it makes no difference.
My hair is growing back…it’s about half an inch long. The few people who have seen it love it…they say it’s a great style and does actually suit me. Yet I see someone who a few months ago had long dark waist length hair and doesn’t want to go out until it’s back again. I don’t care if a crop looks good…I don’t want it cropped.
I see a damaged woman, even though I know my hair will grow long again, my nails will recover and my reconstruction, though not entirely natural looking, is quite something to behold! But still, above all, I see a damaged me.
It’s not about how others see me but how I see myself.
I see every bit of damage this cancer treatment has caused and it breaks my f***ing heart.
But fear not, normal service WILL be resumed.
I’m a feisty old bird, don’t you know?
Books and food and dogs and birds 