The Academy considers a documentary short that explores cancer and our self-image.
 
Below is an excerpt from my own memoir, Both Sides Now.

Week # 3.

To rate the weeks by difficulty, this is the worst so far. My older sister Colleen has come to help me. Little do I know that she is the perfect person for what is to transpire.

Two weeks ago I walked through a door into a world that no one would choose. From the time that purple solution ran into my vein, from the time I lay down under the radiation machine, I sensed I would never be the same.

Maybe my life was too good and I wasn’t looking for this kind of upheaval. I wonder what’s so good about being the same? Aren’t we supposed to grow to evolve? Well, I liked the old Mary-Jo. I liked being in her body. She was resilient, quickly bouncing back from any assault. During my third week of treatment I realize that this is a new body I inhabit, and it doesn’t bounce backward or forward.

My mouth is lined with canker sores. Air rushing in is like acid. So the joy I feel from seeing my dogs leap into the air after a tennis ball must not morph into a smile. Full out smiles hurt.

Up until now, I had no idea all the things my tongue does all day. But each time I attempt to run it over my teeth or swallow or spit I want to cry. I don’t, because even that would hurt. Sometimes I wince loudly. My sister mirrors back only compassion.

I feel sorry for myself, and I said it. I’m strangely accepting of the me who wants to draw energy from normal people…

…my hair is falling out. It was supposed to “thin,” but each day finds more clumps on my pillow. I have an appointment with Summer, my hairdresser, in a couple of days. She and I discussed hair loss three years ago. She understands. Her father lost his during chemo.

When Colleen and I walk into the salon, I feel as if I am going to visit a compassionate friend. Summer’s huge mirror reflects back my resolve. I want to take charge of what is still under my control
“Just cut it,” I say. I want it gone. If it’s going to thin, then let’s make it less obvious.

She begins to wash my hair, and it clumps in her hands and hangs suspended. Before the mirror she struggles to comb through the mass that looks like a bird’s nest. Across the room, a young assistant watches my hair accumulated on the floor. Do I imagine her lips curled in disgust?

I gesture toward the floor. “Please get rid of this?” The mess embarrasses me. The young woman grimaces as she sweeps. I bet she isn’t aware of the look of horror on her face. I want to be young and safe like her, not me, not who I am today.

Summer tries to distract me. She tells me that human hair is used to soak up oil spills. Soon the largest environmental disaster in our country’s history will soil the Gulf Coast. I wonder what part my once shiny, healthy hair played.

The technicians at the Radiation Center call my new do, “cute.” I appreciate what they say, but I have never been “cute.” I try not to get too attached to my new look which I feel isn’t going to last.

The next morning more hair accumulates over the drain as I shower. It looks exactly the way the women in my support group described it. I don’t even question this unpredicted occurrence. This treatment is not going to follow any rules. I realize I need to do something proactive…           

  …The wig store is filled with Styrofoam heads that look like Dolly Parton, lipstick and all. On each is a different do. I sit before a mirror. Monica listens carefully as I explain that she should be careful with what hair I have left. She shares that she has been an EMT, as she gently positions various dos. I appreciate her trained touch.

None match the color of my reddish-blonde hair. I am attracted to a gray wig. I wonder why. It’s elegant and understated. It makes my eyes look very blue. But am I ready to go gray?  I already feel so old. We look some more and finally find the same tone as mine, though darker and short. It’s almost too glamorous for how I feel.

As I consider my choices, the storeowner steps in behind me, pulling off one do, replacing it with another. I don’t like her abruptness. She is not guiding me through this difficult passage as Monica was; she is selling.

I stiffen as I see a few of my hairs flutter to the floor. “Be careful with what hair is still there.”

She moves too quickly. What is the hurry? She positions another wig, and I am sure six or seven more precious hairs are sacrificed. “Be careful,” I repeat.

I turn toward Monica, “I want her to take care of me. I liked the way she touches my head.”

Monica looks shocked. The owner steps back with an apology. My sister, a therapist, with an almost imperceptible smile, duly notes my assertiveness.

Colleen and I play with the wig at home, hamming it up, taking photos. But it’s not really a game to me. By the morning I need another plan.

“I’m going to call Summer, and I think I’ll buy that gray wig too.”

I put a tearful call into Summer’s message machine. “My hair is still falling out. I need you to shave my head.”

Back at the wig shop I agree to bring cards in to the Cancer Center with the address on them. The owner gives me a discount on my second wig, which I don’t bother to try on.

Within the hour, I stand at the kitchen counter wondering. I think I am talking to myself.  “I don’t think I can sit in the salon and have my head shaved. How am I going to do this?”

“I can do it for you, Mom.”

I look up to see Kurt, my six foot four son, in a state of baldness. “Oh my God. Oh my God!” I am shocked and can’t stop laughing and crying. Within a few hours I get a photo on my phone of my son Craig’s bald head, and then Matt, his friend. Baldness is easier shared.

In my bathroom I cut off as much as I can. I want to get rid of this hair. “It’s not mine. This hair has nothing to do with me.”
I want it gone. I cut away and place the golden, auburn hair in a ziplock bag. Kurt begins to shave what is left. I want him to hurry. I remember how a month ago while waiting for my luggage at LAX, a woman had asked me what hair products I used to create that shine. Today, only my scalp shines.

When he’s done, I look at my changed reflection. The face I see in the mirror looks like a concentration camp victim. My hair was my “crowning glory.” That’s what my mother used to tell me. I can’t cry. I shed not one tear for my loss. I feel disgust at this colorless head. Now look at me. My ears, my father’s ears, stick out. I feel repulsive. I’ve never seen my head bald.

Suddenly, I feel a hand caressing it. “It’s beautiful. I remember this head from when you were a baby. Look at the shape of it. It’s beautiful.”

I do cry now, not for the loss but for the connection. Colleen sees her baby sister. And she thinks this part of me is beautiful.
           

If the day of love makes you feel like ordering a large pepperoni pizza and eating it all by yourself or downing a gallon of Håagen Dazs, you’re not alone. Some of us are still trying to get over a bad case of VDD, Valentine Deficiency Disorder.

While $100,000 is spent each year on flowers, many of us don’t even get a single daisy much less a dozen roses. Could it be that our loved one took our diet resolutions seriously? If so, you likely won’t be at the receiving end of one of the 300,000 boxes of candy to be sent on February 14th. My own mailbox has been empty since the celebration began in the 5th Century and certainly since Be Mine messages started going out in the 1700s.            

To make matters worse, many are finding that the cold, rainy days of winter bring on the blahs, the blues, cabin fever and a desire to relieve our boredom. Five-percent of those affected by the shorter days and lack of sunshine feel hungrier during these colder, darker months. As you sit home, your refrigerator calls to you. There’s a good reason.

Our serotonin, a neurotransmitter associated with hunger control, drops during the colder, darker months. When we begin to crave baguettes, mashed potatoes and tortellini, the compulsions are not all in our heads. These yummy foods, specifically the carbohydrates they contain, raise the levels of tryptophan in our brains. This causes the release of serotonin. We are rewarded with a boost to our mood.

So you think - I feel so hopeless, I just promised myself that I’d lose ten pounds, and now the weather is sabotaging my efforts. What next? I’ve got help for you, but it requires exercise, an exercise.  Instead of focusing on the positive, I’d like you to consider a subject that is scandalously the opposite. Ask yourself; what do I hate? To what do I have an aversion? A passionate dislike? What people, places, activities, events and situations make me feel like I’m in prison? Try to think of things that you encounter on a regular basis, disagreeable circumstances that challenge you more than once in while, because these are the things that regularly trip you up.

Be honest. What puts your body and mind into escape mode, which could translate into the intense feeling of being a trapped, caged and then hungry? A too chatty neighbor? A passive aggressive coworker? Any situation that gets you thinking about how good cleaning your oven would be. Don’t feel compelled to share your insights about what makes you feel trapped, frustrated, or tortured with anyone. They’ll have a list of their own, and what if you’re on it?

Scientists tell us the human nervous system is similar to that of rats. Insights into why our weight-loss or give-up-smoking plans fail have been found by studying the responses of these beady-eyed creatures to their surroundings. Even though I’m rodent phobic, I’d like to share an interesting study I read recently.

One group of rats was confined in cages with nothing to do except choose between drinking regular sugar water or water laced with opiates. Guess which lever they pushed.

Another luckier group was placed in a delightful, zoolike space called Rat Park. In this environment they could burrow, run through tunnels, visit with friends and roam about freely doing the things that rats love. This second group was offered the same addictive cocktails. But guess what; they chose to drink only plain sugar water!

One might conclude that the confined group accidentally pushed the lever a few times and got high. After that they were powerless to stop. They had a serious addiction, but it was only physical. But this is a study about how environment contributes to compulsive, behavior. Also it’s a story with an encouraging message.

Eventually, as part of the experiment, the “junkie” rats were given a reprieve from their deprived, unproductive imprisonment. Moved to the more interesting Rat Park, the addicted rodents stopped pressing the opiate lever. They turned away from their obsession and got busy doing things they enjoyed. Their new behavior caused physical withdrawal, but they endured it.              

Martha Beck. In The Four-Day Win, Suggests The Three Bs, things you can do to relieve you own feelings of being a rat in a cage. This positive behavioral strategy just might keep you out of dangerous, I-can’t-help-myself territory.

·      Bag it: Don’t do it unless to not would produce an outright catastrophe.

·      Barter: Trade with someone else. Or if you are in a position to, delegate it.

·      Better: Add elements that make the situation more tolerable.

My advice is always to start small, but continue to practice your new approach. Don’t be dramatic about this. Even modest attempts at bagging, bartering and bettering can keep your mind open to a sense of your own freedom. Remember you can choose which lever you push