Cancer, Part 2 (Hair and Things)

In rereading my first cancer post, and talking with some friends about it, I realized I left out some key details about this experience.

1. My best friend, of 30 years!, Drew Pisarra, who I meet at Eastern Junior High when I was in seventh grade and he was in eighth, told me recently that he remembers how we met: I was crying under a tree and he came over to speak with me. He said I was crying because of having cancer. I don’t remember this or any version of meeting Drew for the first time. I do remember that two or three key friends were essential to my mental well-being as a teenager with cancer.

I remember when, after a week of testing to find the cause of a shadow on my lungs seen on a routine check up x-ray, the doctors told me 1. that I had Hodgkin’s Disease, 2. we needed to start MOPP chemotherapy immediately 3. that this cocktail of drugs would cause me to lose my hair. That’s when I cried. Not cancer, but the anxiety of going to Junior High–wanting to fit in, to look pretty–coupled with the fear and sadness of having to go with cancer hair: that’s what broke me down.

We had recently moved to Silver Spring, Maryland from Washington D.C. We moved often due to my Pop’s job as a roving Professor of Social Psychology, practically ever four years. Thus fitting in within a new school was especially important to me. With a last name like mine, it was doubly hard to restart each time.

I’m proud of a solution I came up with. I told my teachers and follow students, at each new school, at each year’s beginning, that my last name, Gross, was pronounced like “moss” or “boss”. To emphasize the pronunciation, I added a symbol of a house’s roof over the “o” to cement this way of saying gross. Before doing this I asked for my grandpa Carl Gross’ blessing, so he wouldn’t think I was besmirching his good name. [When my father was a child, gross just meant 144 or a “gross” of pencils or paper. Hence the name of this blog.]

2. My friends Drew Pisarra, and Margaret Wilson (now Brothman, I think), watched over me like guardian angels. Although the doctors told my teachers about my condition, I’m not sure how many students knew or how 13 or 14 year-olds would handle such a situation. Although I was fitted for an expensive wig, the decision to wear bandannas might have made it more difficult to tell. I tried to pass as a healthy person, but, I was very very skinny and although one couldn’t see the classic cancer hair under my scarf, an adult might have been able to tell.

My biggest fear was that someone would, to tease me, pull off my bandanna. I lived in fear of this exposure. I think Margaret often stood behind me to protect me–or at least that’s how I remember it. And boys did try–maybe just to be silly or playful or, I guess, mean. I’m not sure. I don’t remember. But you can imagine this situation made me rather shy, which is not my basic nature.

The key moments during my treatment:

1. The week of tests to figure out why after a routine check I had anemia and an odd chest x-ray, was almost as bad as six months of chemo. The tests included putting a tube up my nose and down my throat to do a biopsy in the hopes of avoiding surgery. They had to do a surgical biopsy anyway. There was also a bone-marrow test, which I wouldn’t wish on a most disliked person. They pull the marrow from your hip bone near your back. It’s incredible scary because you can’t see what they are doing and there was–at least at that time–no way to completely anesthetize the region. Oddly the fear of pain is more painful than the pain itself. I remember the anticipation of these tests being almost worst that the tests themselves. I starred at the clock ticking down to the start time.

2. Around month three of chemo, I became very disheartened and tired of being sick, tired of the sickness caused by the chemo. [After going to the hospital to receive an infusion of drugs, I was dog sick for a day or two, just vomiting and, in general, knocked out. Leaving the hospital, I’d think about all the tasty things I could eat when I felt less nauseous, such as mac+cheese or a yummy burger.] I remember crying as I sat there getting the drugs. The doctor thought something physically hurt me, but I just said that I was tried of the situation.

3. Near the end of the chemo I was out in California visiting with my Mom who had just returned to the United States after living abroad (Alaska, Zambia, Kenya, Australia) for ten years. She was staying with her husband Art, who was also very sick, at a good friends in southern CA. While I stayed with them, I continued with my treatment. The doctor in CA also wanted to take a bone marrow test. Proudly I was able to talk him out of it–basically by directly asking What the (damn!) purpose of the test was–I guess he didn’t have a good enough reason because it didn’t happen.

4. After six months of chemo and a round of radiation therapy to knock out the last bits of Hodgkin’s, I was declared in remission. But I kept wearing the bandannas, even though my hair was growing back. My Dad suggested I get a haircut–as I had created a sort of ponytail out of long wisps of hair and they needed to be cut off. I was loath to do so, because then I’d have to go without my protective, colorful pieces of cloth. But Dad prevailed and I had a haircut. The cut resulted in  a look probably was akin to Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby or Jean Seberg in Breathless, but for me, I felt exposed and almost bald. My Pops wanted me to go to school the next day, and I was scared.

Sweetly, my teachers, recognized what this haircut meant: I was on the mend and had survived. I especially remember how my terrific art teacher Mr. Klopp was so happy to see me and was very complimentary, which made me shy, but also very happy.

Advertisements

One thought on “Cancer, Part 2 (Hair and Things)

  1. I’m not sure if reading this made me smile because it’s so wonderfully written, or if it’s because I’m just glad you made it through that to be the awesome Molly we all know and love today. It reminded me of how my Mom had some fancy wigs she never wore during chemo, too – she saved those for work, but at home, it was all bandannas, all the time. She loved to yank off her hot, itchy wig halfway through our evening commute, and she’d try to shock the other drivers by acting as though she hadn’t known it was a wig. Like “Oh no! My scalp detached for some reason!” Ha ha! Good times. Bad times, but good times.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s