​Hair Today…Gone Tomorrow! by Jacqui Martin

​“For goodness’ sake Jacqui, is anything else going to fall off?”
 
As my wig and false boob lay on the changing room floor my friend Lindy and I dissolved into fits of unbridled laughter. The fact that I was here, let alone laughing, seemed like a miracle. I looked back on a life changing year. Physically brutal, emotionally exhausting, and tragically comedic at times … I was here. I had made it.

*                              *                              *                              *

​January should have been the beginning of a new life for my family in America. I would have been taking up my role at a Dallas hospital, my three boys excitedly commencing their first semester in school and my husband launching his new business venture. At least that was the plan.
 
Life had other plans.
 
Cancer: There are few words in the English language that are as hard hitting to those who say it and hear it, few words charged with such vulnerability and emotion. And I couldn’t escape it. I reassured myself; it was caught early, surgery had taken place quickly, this whole sorry episode was nothing more than a bump in the road. Yes… I cried, who wouldn’t? But I didn’t want my children to be scared and upset, I needed to be strong for them.
 
I was blessed. I had a wonderful husband and family. My future was not over, just on hold. Where was my faith? God wanted good things for his children. My friends Heather and Tricia, who prayed for me each morning at 6am, were resolute; strong and certain in the belief I would be completely healed for God’s word declared I shall not die but live and proclaim what the Lord has done (Psalm 118:17). I still struggled to understand the why in all this, but I would lean on my faith and trust the promise of that word.
 
It would take all that I had and more.

*                              *                              *                              *

​I was back at the hospital; again.
 
“Gosh this looks nice,” I said with forced enthusiasm as Andy and I entered the cancer unit. It really was impressive. Light, and airy with high vaulted ceilings, beautiful stained-glass windows, and bespoke artworks. There was an abundance of comfortable chairs, tropical houseplants, a botanical scent in the air and piped music softly playing. It was more akin to a hotel lobby than a medical unit.
 
Andy, who has a phobia for all things hospital, merely grunted in response. Not even those surroundings could stop the feeling of dread or his anxiety. He was already chewing his nails and nervously glancing about him. Today I would meet Doctor Castle my oncologist for the first time, and this was the last place on earth either of us really wanted be. We sat together, waiting. Silent.
 
This was it.
 
Ushered into the consulting room I sat on the edge of my seat, my mouth suddenly as dry as sandpaper.
 
“Do you prefer Jacqui or Mrs Martin?” Doctor Castle asked as she turned towards me.
 
“Jacqui is fine” I replied.
 
“I’m sure you are anxious to know your histology results.”
 
I nodded; words escaped me.
 
“When we examined your breast tissue there was significant tumour infiltration at the margins indicating the cancer is more extensive than we thought. In addition, your surgeon found tumour activity in two other sperate locations which would indicate a probable stage 3 to 4 cancer.”
 
There are times I hate being a nurse. Andy, blissfully ignorant of cancer staging, squeezed my hand. My mind searched for purchase.
 
What exactly was she going to tell me?
 
“I know this is difficult Jacqui,” Doctor Castle continued, “but we have several options. Firstly, a partial mastectomy, taking more breast tissue which would hopefully remove all tumour traces. You are young and have hormone positive cancer so this would be followed by nine cycles of chemotherapy and six cycles of radiotherapy.”
 
She paused. Silent, I struggled to assemble this information in my head.
 
“Alternatively, we can perform a total mastectomy which would completely remove all cancer in the breast. You would need nine cycles of chemotherapy but not need radiotherapy. In both cases a lymph node clearance is needed.”
 
My mind was babbling. Wait; She said hopefully remove? What if they didn’t get it all?  I don’t fancy having my breast sliced like a bread loaf until they remove all the cancer. Lymph removal: they think it’s already spread. Just stop a minute.
 
From the outset I attempted to minimise the impact of what was happening by mentally reciting that oft used phrase it can’t get any worse. Yet here I was, and things had just got worse.
 
“And if I do nothing?” I mumbled. I already knew the answer, but I needed her to voice my fear, needed her to say it out loud.
 
“That is of course your choice, we can support you with medication and care however in that scenario I need to advise you your prognosis at this point is six to twelve months at best”.
 
There it was. My own mortality. That uncomfortable, rarely visited place we would rather never consider, the dark end. Once spoken my situation was inescapably real.
 
“I know this is a lot to take in,” Doctor Castle continued, “but I need you to think about this, talk it over with your husband and let me know by next week what you want to do. I want to start treatment as soon as possible. I will tell you that with all factors considered, the best option for long term prognosis is for the complete mastectomy”.
 
A switch had been thrown in my brain. Stage 3-4 Cancer; long term prognosis? I could die. As I choked back tears my thoughts were clear. I looked at my husband.
 
“I don’t need a week; I can tell you here and now if it’s a choice between my breast and my life that’s a really easy decision to make. I can live without a breast. I can’t leave my children or my husband.”
 
Andy nodded in consent, “Absolutely. No contest.”
 
Consent form signed and surgery arranged for the following week, I went home. It was time to tell my children and friends.

*                              *                              *                              *

​I don’t think Andy and I said two words to each other on the drive home. We were both alone with our thoughts. Mine were horribly dark and brooding. This was all my fault. Andy must really hate me right now. I had taken away our future, and our dreams, left us homeless and virtually penniless and now I wasn’t even going to be a whole woman anymore.
 
What had I done to deserve this?
 
“Just stop; NOW. Here, by the beach.”
 
I’m sure Andy thought I’d lost the plot. It was a typical January day in Wales. Grey, wet and miserable. The wind was blowing and the waves crashing against the breakwater. He pulled over and sensing my need to be alone, waited by the car as I ran onto the deserted sand, headed straight for the water’s edge …and screamed and screamed into the wind.
 
After a few minutes, I returned to the car, my face stained with tears and wind-blown sand.
 
“I just had to let it out.”
 
“I know,” Andy replied and wrapping his arms around me. He held me until we both began to shiver.
 
“Let’s get home, Love.”

*                              *                              *                              *

​From the outset Andy and I had known that keeping my diagnosis a secret was never going to work. Mike and Tom were teenagers and understood the serious nature of cancer. Their Grandad was still recovering from his surgery. They were naturally upset but with the blunt directness of youth simply asked.
 
“You’re not going to die, are you?”
 
 Better that way. I could answer their question truthfully, telling them what I knew lay ahead. I hugged them both.
 
“Just promise me one thing? Whatever you want to know, whatever you are worried about however small you come and tell me. I’m still your mum. I promise you I will always tell you the truth. I love you both so much.”
 
Sam however was five. How do I tell him?
 
I kept it simple, hoping I had made things easy to understand, and Sam himself provided the best interpretation.
 
“So, this bad thing inside you is making you poorly and the doctor is going to give you some magic medicine to fight it. Like Roman soldiers? You have the Roman army in your blood? Cool,” he exclaimed. Donning his toy shield and sword he charged around the room. “Daddy, look at me, I’m going to kill cancer for Mummy.”
 
It was a moment of innocent perception.
 
Later, I called my best friend Lindy. Lindy was, and still is, that one special friend; the one who shares literally all my highs and lows. We trained as nurses together, lived close to each other, talked, laughed, ate, and cried together. The one who knew everything about me but was my best friend anyway.
 
“Lindy, I just need you to listen. If I don’t get all this out now …”.
 
I explained all that Doctor Castle had discussed.
 
“F***,” she said.
 
A situation summed up perfectly in a word.
 
“What do you need me to do?”
 
As she switched into her, no-nonsense practical mode there were two tasks I knew I could leave to her.
 
“Would you mind making some phone calls? Friends, work colleagues? I can’t face repeating this over and over. And, I know it a big ask, but will you take me to clinic for my first chemo session? You know what Andy is like about hospitals. It will make me worse knowing he is in a state.”
 
I knew before I asked what the answer would be.
 
“No problem Jacqui, of course I’ll take you. I’ll go for a coffee and bring a book to read. Tell me now if there’s anything else you need. I mean it.”
 
There were lots of other practicalities to deal with, but I couldn’t think about another thing. My mind was overloaded.
 
Where will we live? We only have this house for another 2 weeks. How will we pay? Neither of us have any income. What if I die?
 
What about the kids? They haven’t been in school this term. How do I get all my belongings back? They’re on a cargo ship. What if I die?
 
What about my US employer? There was a $20,000 fee for falling to take up my contract. All our savings are tied up in a non-refundable deposit on a house. What if I die? …
 
Things can’t get any worse - Who was I kidding?

*                              *                              *                              *

​I was back at the hospital: Again.
 
My mastectomy had been carried out two weeks earlier, and the surgery had gone well. It was a strange sensation to fall asleep surrounded by colleagues who just a month ago were toasting my future only to wake up among them with part of me missing. I really couldn’t cope with their sympathetic looks.
 
It didn’t look that odd at first. The bulky dressing and drain occupied the space in my chest where my breast had been, however, as I attended the cancer unit and Sue the breast care nurse removed the remaining dressings and drain, I saw for the first time the scar that now disfigured my chest.
 
What an ugly thing I had become.
 
A great bright red wield stretching from under my arm across my chest. All my ribs visible beneath my skin. I did not like what I saw; not one bit. No-one, not even Andy, was going to see me like this. Thank goodness Lindy was behind a curtain.
 
Sue could see my distress.
 
“I know it looks stark now Jacqui, but the scar will fade and change completely once reconstruction takes place. They really have done a very good job.”
 
Attempting to focus me on positive things she carried on. “For now, I have here a temporary soft prosthesis for you,” she handed me a soft foam breast shaped cushion.
 
That’s it? Well, this is just peachy, I thought dismissively, a boob I can put through the wash…
 
“Just pop it in your soft bra. Let’s see how it looks,” Sue encouraged.
 
To be fair the effect wasn’t too bad and despite the scar it was not uncomfortable.
 
“Just so long as I don’t go swimming,” I quipped searching for humour, “I can just imagine it floating off in the pool!”
 
Beyond the curtain Lindy giggled
 
“That’s just temporary, you will have a more permeant prosthesis,” Sue explained. As we sat down in the room together, she handed me a prosthetic breast. Squashy, flesh coloured and breast shaped; it even came in its own presentation box. It felt like a chicken fillet.
 
“Crikey that’s pretty heavy” I said, handing it to Lindy who was equally intrigued and keen to investigate.
 
“It’s designed to look and feel as life like as possible and fits into a range of lingerie for mastectomy patients. I will measure you and get that ordered in time for your next visit. Just use the softie for now,” Sue instructed.
 
Measurements over and boob in bag, we went to the next room for wig fitting.
 
“Have you given any thought to the type of wig you would like?” the hair technician Julie asked.
 
What a dumb question.
 
I hadn’t given any thought to the fact I would lose all my hair at all. I hoped that with the help of something called a cold cap I would be able to hang on to it. I was only here now because it was part of the process. I knew chemo could lead to hair loss; I didn’t need reminding of it. Being fitted for a wig was a reminder I was going to have something else taken from me that I didn’t want to lose.
 
I don’t know why but it was anger I felt right then.
 
I remember thinking, this is some sort of one stop fix a woman shop here. Boob gone, no problem here’s a replacement. Hair going to fall out? Chose another set of lustrous locks from our extensive range. It was surreal. I know it was all for my good and it would outwardly and make me visually acceptable. Fixing how I felt, putting me and my life back together. Where did I go for that then?
 
Lindy sensing my change of mood and being familiar with my quick temper attempted to divert my retort.
 
“Jacqui, these are lovely. Just think, it used to be fashionable to shave your head and wear a wig…look at Marie Antoinette.”
 
“I’ve already lost my boob, I don’t want to lose my head too,” I mirthlessly replied.
 
“You can choose anything you like,” Julie pressed on, “Your hair is naturally straight but ever thought about going curly, or brunette instead of blonde?”
 
Reluctant at first, I tried on a few wigs encouraged by Lindy who had suddenly morphed into a personal stylist and whose decisive, “Not that one,” steered me away from any faux pas.
 
“That’s it. That’s the one” said Lindy almost overcome with emotion. Tears welled in her eyes exactly as they had done when she saw my wedding dress years ago. “You look fabulous. Honestly. You must get that one”.
 
I had found the right one. A blonde shoulder length wig with highlights and soft feathered layers.
 
“I think that’s settled Julie,” I said, “however there is another I have my eye on which I think might be fun.”
 
My fun-loving self suddenly resurfaced, and I leaned over and pulled out a wig which would not have looked out of place on Captain Jack Sparrow[1]. A red patterned bandana attached to which were fifty or so tightly plaited braids. I could see Lindy rolling her eyes as if to say have you lost your mind?
 
“I know it’s crazy,” I said, “but why not? It will be hot in a wig in the summer and Sam will just love this.”
 
Wigs ordered Lindy went off for a coffee and I climbed the stair to the treatment ward ready for the first of my chemotherapy cycles.
​

[1] Depp. Johnny, Pirates of the Caribbean, The Curse of the Black Pearl,(2003), Jerry Bruckheimer. Burbank CA. Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures.

*                              *                              *                              *

​Bethan, my oncology nurse, greeted me as I walked onto the unit.
 
“Jacqui. I have you a nice comfy recliner in our day area for today,” she said leading me into a bright room that overlooked a roof top terrace garden.
 
There were 5 or 6 other ladies in the room each had their own chemotherapy in progress. Some wore what looked like a Russian cosmonaut’s hat under a device resembling a 1950’s salon hair dryer.
Bethan saw my quizzical look.
 
“That’s the cold cap,” she explained, “it will freeze your scalp and protect your hair follicles from the effects of the chemo. You said you want to try it?”
 
“Well, aren’t I just going to look stunning,” I laughed.
 
I settled into my chair, closed my eyes, and took out my Walkman. I had spent hours putting together a tape of all my favourite Christian music tracks. I was going to fill my ears, my mind and my soul with the word of God in song and leave nowhere for nagging dark thoughts to take hold.
 
“Crikey. That’s bright red!” I exclaimed as Bethan appeared with my chemical cocktail.
 
Bethan laughed,
 
“Yes, it is rather loud. And just to warn you, you will find your urine turns the same colour.”
 
She busied herself connecting my intravenous drip and setting the cold cap, which certainly lived up to its name. It seemed like no time at all before I had finished the treatment and Bethan was disconnecting me. I toddled off to the loo and sure enough produced a bright red wee…just as the theme music from the X-Files[2] was playing over the radio system. I grinned to myself. Aliens. How apt.
 
Back in my room, Bethan was waiting.
 
“Here’s your chemo pack. Doctor has prescribed steroids and anti-sickness pills to help with any side-effects and you need to come here to check bloods next week. Your next cycle is in three weeks. The appointment card is in the pack. Any concerns please call the unit any time.”
 
“I’m surprised I feel OK to be honest,” I replied, “I thought I would be throwing up all over the place; that was my biggest fear. I just do-not-do being sick.”
 
Bethan gave me a knowing smile.
 
“I’m glad you feel good, just be reassured the tablets are there if you need them.”
 
I headed back downstairs to the café thinking to myself, that wasn’t too bad. If I feel like this, I can manage. “How did it go?” Lindy asked. I recounted the session events and we giggled at my X-Files moment. It had been quite a day and I went home to Andy feeling more positive. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.


[2] Carter, C. (1993-2018) The X-files An American Science fiction series. Ten Thirteen Productions; 20th Century Television.

*                              *                              *                              *

I began vomiting four hours later…and it just never stopped. For days. I couldn’t keep anything down including the anti-sickness pills designed to stop me vomiting. Any movement set me off on another round of heaving. My mouth tasted metallic and whether from cold cap or heaving I had the worst migraines I have ever experienced.
 
Andy had picked up some work but now also had to do household duties and cooking as I had lost my ability just to take care of my family. I tried to get up and be mum, but all I wanted was to curl up and sleep.
 
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I told him tearfully as I lay back on the pillows, “I can’t begin to tell you how ill I feel. And the boys. I really worry about the boys. They don’t want to see and hear me throwing up constantly.”
 
There was nothing Andy could do, except offer words of comfort and keep me supplied with glasses of water or ginger tea. Rationally, I knew that, but I began to resent the fact that Andy was fine while I was dealing with all this. He was the smoker not me. I could hear the family downstairs eating tea, watching TV, having a laugh…acting like everything was fine. Clearly it wasn’t. I wasn’t fine.
 
God where are you? I felt like the person in the song by Casting Crowns[3], struggling to hear God, waiting for Him to turn up. Where was HE?
 
After a week of feeling like I was at death’s door, things began to improve. I stopped vomiting and although I remained nauseated, I could eat and drink. I could spend time with my boys. I tried not to dwell on how I felt, to be more cheerful, to act as I thought I should. Friends visited and told me how
brave I was. I wasn’t brave at all. I had no choice. None. If I could have given this away, I would have. Gladly.
 
Then, just as I felt I was getting back to normal and thinking thank God that’s over, it was time for my second chemotherapy cycle.
 
That was the worst of it.
 
I had had the first session blissfully ignorant of the impact. Now I was in no doubt what to expect and knew I had no choice but subject myself to all this again; eight times.
 
Still, it can’t get any worse…


[3] Casting Crowns. (2003) Praise you in this storm. Voice of Truth: The Ultimate Collection [audio CD].Beech Street/Reunion.

*                              *                              *                              *

My life became ruled by that three-week cycle.
 
The staff at the cancer unit were lovely but the sickness became paralysing. Anti-sickness pills weren’t working so the Macmillan team visited to administer an infusion of drugs to combat it. Sores developed in my mouth and tongue making eating and drinking difficult. The sicker I was, the weaker I became. The final irony was the massive weight gain I experienced due to the high doses of steroids. Not only did I have cancer it appeared I had the only cancer in the world that made me fatter. Isn’t that just fabulous.
 
A few days after my second cycle, I began to notice some hair loss until one morning I woke and sitting up saw the outline of my head in hair on my pillow. My hair was coming out in handfuls. The cold cap hadn’t worked either.
 
I had never considered myself particularly vain and had joked I could look stunning like Sinead O’Connor[4] but losing my hair devasted me; possibly even more than losing my breast.  What I didn’t know at the time was having to shave my head was equally devasting to my husband. Years later, Andy admitted the worst moment for him was the day he had to shave my head.
 
I looked at myself in the mirror, head shaved, face swollen from medication, eyes sunken and heavy, and I distinctly remember thinking, “Who the hell are you?”
 
A wig wasn’t going to fix that.
 
Jacqui was no more.
 
Although I needed the love and support of my family and friends, I withdrew from them, keeping in my room. The dark days of depression arrived. I wasn’t the person Andy had married or the mum my boys knew. I was fat and ugly and sick. I was making everyone miserable. Why would anyone want to spend time with me?
 
I concluded Andy didn’t want me anymore.  Occasionally I asked him to take me for my treatment, and every time there was a reason he couldn’t. He didn’t come. Not once. He was going about like nothing had changed, still smoking and I bitterly resented it. I learned years later that every time I left the house for the hospital Andy would be physically sick with worry… but I didn’t see that, and he never burdened me with an explanation. He just could not allow the thought of losing me to enter his head. Seeing me so ill was too much to bear so he threw himself into doing all the practical things and kept it as normal as possible for the boys.
 
When I wasn’t resenting Andy, I convinced myself he was going to leave me anyway. He hadn’t changed. He tried to comfort me with hugs and affection, but I found myself flinching, avoiding any physical contact, pushing him away. After all, why would he want to love me?
 
My boys were young, they had their whole lives and future ahead and I was just causing them so much misery. They would be better off with a new, fun loving happier mum. They would all be happier without me and certainly financially better off as my life insurance would ensure no further worries.
 
As for God? Well God was clearly punishing me for the life choices I had made.
 
I sat with these emotions. Brooding for endless hours, unable to voice my pain. Paralysed by the fear of losing everything on the one hand, on the other actively wishing I was dead so all this would stop. I was fighting for my life yet believed the best thing for everyone was for me just not to be here.
 
One afternoon when the children were out, Andy returned from work to find me on the floor sobbing, surrounded by my CD’s.
 
“Are you alright love?” he asked.
 
I choked through tears and finally blurted out…
 
“I can’t find a song to play at my funeral!”
 
It was absurd, but at the emotional dam broke and I could finally voice my hurt, anger, and fear as my loving husband simply held me close.
 
“I am going no-where,” Andy said, “I love you, I always will. You are my world and nothing you can say or do will change that.”
 
“Besides,” he said helping me up from the floor, “it’s obvious which song we would play”
 
And with his cheekiest grin declared, “Fat bottomed Girls by Queen!”[5]


[4] Sinead O’Connor. (1966-2023). Irish singer song-writer and activist.

[5] Queen. (1978) Fat Bottomed Girls, Jazz [Vinyl LP]. EMI.

*                              *                              *                              *

​After that, there was a real change in me.
 
The treatment didn’t get any easier but once I had opened-up and finally let those who loved me in, everything seemed more bearable. I mourned the loss of my breast, my hair, my career in the USA, my house but this was all just “stuff” …all replaceable. I was not. I realised what I looked like was not as important to those who loved me as the fact I was still here. Still Jacqui. I still had a future.
 
The last barrier to overcome was that of my new physical appearance. Intimacy scared me. I had hidden my appearance for weeks. How would my husband feel when he finally saw me?
 
As it happened it wasn’t my husband but Sam, my 5-year-old son who helped me with that.
 
Dizzy spells were frequent occurrences, so I had taken to having a bath with the door unlocked just in case I needed help. On one particular night, as I sat in the tub, Sam burst into the bathroom, stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me.
 
I held my breath dreading his reaction.
 
“You’re amazing mum!” he exclaimed, “Superman one side beautiful lady the other.”
 
That humble but enthusiastic affirmation from my son healed so many wounds. If my 5-year-old thinks I am amazing, I didn’t need to hide myself away. 

*                              *                              *                              *

​At last, my chemotherapy cycles were completed. I was off the steroids and my hair had started to grow back in tufts and patches, although I still donned the wig for now.
 
Lindy had badgered me into a visit to a shopping outlet; a huge step for my first foray back into normal life. I badly needed some clothes that fit now the weight had dropped off and Lindy, who was back in personal stylist persona, didn’t want me in anything resembling a tent. She accompanied me to the changing room.
 
As I removed my jacket; my wig came off.
 
“That saves getting my hair in a mess.”
 
As I reached to pull my sweater over my head, I heard a plop.
 
I looked down, there on the changing room floor was my left breast.
 
I looked at Lindy. We both looked at my boob in the middle of the floor.
 
“For goodness’ sake Jacqui, is anything else going to fall off?”
 
We both fell about helplessly laughing.
 
In the midst of all this abnormality we had found a little pocket of normality. Lindy felt it too.
 
We were back.

*                              *                              *                              *

The events of 2005 are now far behind me… but forever changed me.
 
I grew. In every imaginable way.
 
My dreams weren’t over. Just different. I went to university and graduated with honours, embarked on adventures travelling the world and eventually returned to the nursing career I love.
 
I learnt it was fine to be vulnerable and admit my fears, as its only by doing so you can conquer them. I learnt how resilient and strong I can be in the darkest of circumstances, even when filled with doubt. I learnt where there is love, trust and commitment, nothing can take that away.
 
Looking back, I see the fingerprints of God all over my cancer journey. As He promised He didn’t leave or forsake me. When I felt alone, when my strength failed, my friends held me up in prayer. When I walked through the shadowlands[6] and feared death, He carried me. I had not died but lived.
 
I will forever be grateful for what God had done.
 
In 2014 I was given the all-clear.
 
I’m still cancer free.


[6] C S Lewis. (1898-1963), Farwell to the Shadowlands The Last Battle (1956) Harper Collins. A term used by Lewis to describe the world we live in; a place in shadow where the sun is always shining somewhere else and  we do not see or experience God in His full reality.

​

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