First Fears

In the third column on Page 60 of the February edition of Marie Claire magazine, in an article on hair thinning and hair loss, the author writes the following:

"I spoke to 34-year-old breast cancer survivor Courtney Hagen, who revealed that when she heard her diagnosis, her first fears were for her golden locks."

Far be it from me to stomp on anyone's artistic license. I understand the power of a pithy soundbite. But I do feel that I have to defend myself at least a little from being perceived as a moronic airhead nincompoop, and also to share a bit of the less glamorous, less kicky, less "Marie Claire" parts of this disease.

My first fears? I am going to die, much sooner than I thought. I am never going to have children. My wonderful husband will grow old without me. My parents will suffer the horrifying fate of burying their child. There are places I have always wanted to see that I never will. I will die without having truly added anything to the world, without having made a difference, without contributing to something larger than myself.

The worst part of this disease is that even now, after treatments that did not make me sick, after surgery from which I bounced back in just a few weeks, after enjoying the benefit of being able to go braless for the first time since I was 11 years old, those fears never entirely disappear. Because even though my prognosis is excellent and chances are outstanding that I will live to see and do and achieve many more things, I am not "cured."

A friend recently shared the sad news that her mother has been diagnosed with breast cancer. In a natural reaction, especially for someone as bright and analytical as she is, she had been in a research fog for three days straight, soaking up all the information she could about the disease. "Only now do I truly realize the long term emotional impact of this for you," she said, as I imparted what little wisdom and experience I could over the phone. "The fear never goes away, because once you have had this disease, it's always there."

Like my scars, the fear fades with time, as every week takes me farther away from the diagnosis and closer to the magical "five years out" mark, as my hair grows back and my chest muscles grow more flexible, as I allow myself to believe in the statistics a little bit more every day. But the fears have not disappeared entirely, nor do I expect they ever will. But I firmly believe that there is more to be gained from looking into the future than from lingering in the past.

Which is why I just rolled my eyes when I saw the sentence, distilled from a 35 minute conversation the author and I had on the phone in late summer. Although my self-righteous, "I'm no airhead" defense holds a little less water upon reading the rest of the paragraph, a direct quote my friends will immediately recognize as accurate: "I had a double mastectomy, but I was more traumatized about losing my hair." A statement even my doctors will vouch for.

Runway(s)

Project Runway, the least annoying reality show on television, already had me as an unashamed member of its fan club even before last week's episode. The ironing board was set up in front of the TV and I was happily, compulsively multi-tasking when the delightfully starchy Tim Gunn announced that the designers' challenge was to create a garment using only materials available at the Hershey store in Manhattan. They had 5 minutes to load up anything they could carry, from Kisses to window decorations, in a mad "Supermarket Sweep"-style dash through the store. The chocolate icing on the peanut butter cake? Hershey will donate all proceeds from the auction of the fashions to the Young Survival Coalition and the Tour de Pink.

I'll take a competition that hinges on talent and creativity over one that relies on deceitful antics and the fickle fingers of teenaged text messengers any day. And the fact that this one involves fashions judged by snarky-cum-constructive designers, editors and models? All the better.

And some of the fashions were indeed delicious. Irritatingly smug and dramatic though Christian can be, his Reese's peanut butter cup wrapper dress was chic and fun (although I can do without the off-center beanie). I loved Chris's sophisticated, graphic strapless dress that is both familiar and yet could also be a fun dinner party game if you did not immediately recognize the materials. Rami's ultimate winner is the kind of bold, high-fashion dramatic piece I dream of wearing to a party, if only I had the balls (oh, and the size 0 figure).

Here's to their successful auction once this season of Runway is over, and to raising lots of (chocolate chip cookie?) dough for the YSC. It would be great to hear that some of the dresses even managed to get worn out in real life once or twice.

Despite the January date, it's just about warm enough for these to pass muster as seasonally appropriate in my current location - Chicago, where I am briefly in town for a business trip, is a balmy 64 degrees at midnight. Hence the plural title of the post, which was mostly written while I waited out Hour 3 of what was ultimately a 4 hour delay, parked on a plane that had just pushed back from the gate at the airport due to the bizarre midwestern tropical storm. Thank heavens for portable WiFi. American Airlines, I'm sorry, but as Heidi would say, you are Auf.