The Tortoise and the Hair

December 30th, 2010 § 4 comments

One of my favorite romantic movie moments occurs between Denys (Robert Redford) and Karen (Meryl Streep) in the movie Out of Africa. The two lovers are out in the African desert at a fireside camp. Karen leans her head back into Denys’s hands. He washes her hair gently, then cradles her head in one hand and pours water from a pitcher, slowly and gently rinsing the soap from her hair after he’s done washing it. It’s a tender moment, to me utterly soft and sensual.

Before I left the hospital after I had a double mastectomy, the staff told me I might not be able to lift my arms over my head. With both sides affected, they said, I’d likely be unable to wash my own hair.

Recovery is slow in the week after surgery. A clear thin tube (like aquarium tubing) is literally sewn into a small hole in the skin under each arm. It carries excess fluid away from the mastectomy site as it heals. Fluid is collected into a small “bulb” and measured every few hours. After certain medical criteria are met, the drains are removed, the incisions sewn up, and then you can finally take that longed-for shower.  Eight days after the surgery I received the all-clear. As any mastectomy patient will tell you, the day you get your drain(s) out is a great day.

Only then did I try to lift my arms. And hurt it did. I tried to shrink down into my body. I tried to be a tortoise withdrawing my head back inside my shell, shortening my height so I wouldn’t have to lift my hands so high to reach my hair. It was a painful challenge. I worked up a sweat trying to get my fingers to touch my scalp. I knew it was a questionable proposition. But I thought I could do it.

I thought about that scene— that romantic tender scene from Out of Africa. And I started laughing. I laughed and I laughed and tears came down my face. That cry hurt. It was one of those “I’m laughing and I’m crying and I’m not sure if it’s funny or sad or both and I don’t want to think about it so I’ll just go with it and I hope I’m not on Candid Camera right now…”

I was laughing at the absurdity of it. Here I was. It was my chance to get Clarke to wash my hair. My big fantasy moment. I was going to be Meryl Streep and he was going to be Robert Redford and he was going to wash my hair. Except I couldn’t move without pain. And I certainly wasn’t feeling romantic. I had just had my breasts removed. And I had these weird temporary breasts (tissue expanders) in their place. And my chest was numb. And my  underarms hurt from having tubes in them for a week.

Because I hadn’t properly showered I still had purple Sharpie hieroglyphics all over my chest. And I had no nipples. And I had big scars and stitches in place of each breast. And a small angry scar with stitches under each armpit where the drain had just been removed. Let me tell you… this was clearly not how I envisioned beckoning my loving husband to come make my little movie scene a reality.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Had I called him from the other room, he would have done it in a second. He would have been there for me, washed my hair, and not made me feel the bizarre, odiferous (!) freak I felt at that moment. And I would have loved him for it. But I did not want him to see me like that.

In that moment I had a dilemma. What kind of woman was I going to be?

What kind of person was I going to be with this disease from that moment going forward?

I was going to push myself. Do it myself.

I wasn’t going to be taken care of if I could help it. I knew I was going to have trouble asking for help, have trouble accepting help. I knew these things were going to be necessary. But I also knew they were going to cause me problems. That’s the kind of person I am.

I knew asking for and accepting help were actually going to make me feel weaker than I was already feeling. And it was only the beginning. I knew these actions were going to make me feel weaker than I knew I was going to get. I wanted to do everything myself for as long as I could. That was what was going to make me feel alive: doing it myself.

I am not sure I did the best job washing my hair. I probably missed a spot or two. But I did it. And I didn’t ask for help.

Granted, it was something small.

But in that particular moment, on that particular day, that particular act gave me a feeling of pride as big as anything else I could have possibly accomplished.


a postscript: I wish I had been more accepting of help in the early days. I wish I had not seen it as a personal “weakness” the way that I express here. I don’t want to change what I wrote then, but I do want to say that I don’t think I was right to push myself so hard. If I had it to do over again I would accept help more often; maybe not for the hair-washing, but definitely for other tasks that I should have outsourced. I have learned from my experience.

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§ 4 Responses to The Tortoise and the Hair"

  • Diane says:

    I confess I love OOA. It’s a beautiful film. And I had to have my husband shave my head after it started to fall out after my first round of chemo. A Hollywood scene it did not make but it has drawn us closer after the experience. I washed my hair in the sink fir the first several weeks following my bilateral mast. Arms proved worthless. Couldn’t lift my 2YO to put her or take her out of her crib. That was the hardest part for me. Thanks for sharing your stories in such a powerful way. (btw – you are right on re:drain pain. I created a temp pocket to stick to your clothes. As Forest Gump says in another of my Hollywood favs, “One less thang!”

  • Ann Gregory says:

    I love you for so many reasons, and this post is just one. You’ve done an amazing job of putting words to your experience, yet again.

  • ThePeachy1 says:

    so strong, so honest. I realized today something I never bothered to tell my spouse. had no clue, it was the most improbable of sane decisions, the literation of outside the box / safety zone of chances. Complete opposites. All odds against us. Yet here we are. I thought I knew just who I was, yet over the years, through tears and screams he taught me that finally I didn’t have to be anyone but me to be truly loved by him. I don’t think I have ever told him how direction less and void I would still be if not for his constant silent support and endless forgiveness.
    More than once, he has taken care of me, in a physically and emotionally vulnerable state. a state I wish on no one. We will never be romantic movie moments or dramatic inspirational accompaniments with music. But I know for each of us, when the end comes, the other will be there, with nothing but love. I would say stay strong, but I think the HULK wishes he was as mighty as you are !

  • This is a poignant (and well-written) piece that brings home just some of the losses cancer patients suffer. Thank you for sharing.

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