A Temporary Battle Scar
- timandcloe
- Apr 15
- 4 min read
Today’s post is a shorter one.
Not because I’ve suddenly discovered restraint, but because Cycle #2 is still clinging to me like a needy ex, throwing in little side punches just to remind me it’s not done yet.
So I’ll come back next week with the full debrief, including the moment I loudly assured my oncology nurse that I had nothing in my “prison pocket” (ugh...still not over that one), the nickname I’ve now been given by staff, and how far we got in Tim’s word challenge.
Spoiler: not far. And somehow acquired new participants.
But for now… let’s address the elephant. The bald, slightly hairy, unexpectedly well proportioned elephant in the room.
Here goes.
Fuck me, I have a great shaped head.
Honestly.
A spherical dream. A premium dome.
The kind of head shape that makes you wonder if hair was just unnecessary packaging all along.
No dents, no weird flat bits, no surprise ridges. Just smooth, uninterrupted excellence. A hidden pearl, casually sitting under years of shampoo and questionable styling decisions.
Right. Now that’s covered.
Fuck cancer. 🖕
Today was one of the harder days. No poetic spin on that one. It just… sucked.
By lunchtime, my body had well and truly turned on me.
Between the lingering effects of chemo, yesterday’s delightful addition of a titanium clip into a lymph node in my armpit (because apparently we’re accessorising internally now with a newly shaped clip from the other two currently residing in my boob), this morning’s injection into my stomach that felt suspiciously like it was administered with a barbecue skewer, and a bonus flu jab, I was absolutely cooked.
So there I was. In bed. Sore, exhausted, intermittently sweating like I’d been dropped into a surprise sauna, casually running my fingers through what little hair I had left…
…only to discover I was essentially stroking what can only be described as a Bob Marley tribute dreadlock forming at the back of my head.
Not chic. Not intentional. Not salvageable.
So I rallied the boys, and we decided to get out of the house. Fresh air, a drive, and apparently a spontaneous emotional ambush in the form of a wig shop.
You see, I’ve been avoiding this part. Hard.
Wigs have always felt like a line I wasn’t ready to cross.
It would confirm to those around me that I was sick, that I had cancer, that it had me.
And because I was quietly convinced I’d walk out looking less 'effortlessly fabulous' and more like an 'unwell Victorian child in a period drama.'
But, even with that mindset today and despite the deeply unsettling mannequin lineup in the window of the store, serving strong discount 80s pop icon energy, I allowed myself to walk in to just test the waters.
And look, can confirm the following:
#1 Blonde is not my journey.
#2 A short bob turns me into a Temu Willy Wonka.
#3 There are more variations of “slightly wrong” than I ever knew existed.
But somewhere between the laughter, the boys handing me increasingly questionable styles, and me catching glimpses of someone I barely recognised… something shifted.
I found a couple of wigs that might help on the days when my inner light is running a little dim.
And more importantly, I found the courage to stop dragging this out.
So I asked them to shave my head, there and then.
It sucked.
I cried.
The boys hugged me.
And then… it was done.
This is me now.
And as much as I hate it, this is a sign that the treatment is doing exactly what it’s meant to do.
Killing off the bad stuff. Clearing the path. Working hard to make me stick around.
And that’s where I find my resolve.
I’m choosing to see this not as losing my hair, my beauty, or myself, but as gaining a very visible, very temporary battle scar -
One that I’ll look back on with pride for the courage it took to get through this.
Albeit a Velcro-looking one, yes.
But still mine. 💛
And for the record, I made it very clear: no solidarity head shaving. I know it’s meaningful for some, but for me it would just highlight the difference.
This is a choice for them, and not for me. If I had the option, I wouldn’t be doing this. And I don’t need a visual reminder of cancer every time I look at the people I love…
And also because I’m already doing the whole bald thing unwillingly, I didn’t need everyone else joining in and somehow turning it into some sort of accidental cult looking meeting.
So, anyway, that’s where things are at for now.
Just over here, stroking my own head like a confused kiwi fruit… while Tim, the dirty man, can’t seem to keep his hands off it.
This blog is to allow me to write a little more about it along the way. Partly to keep friends and family updated, and partly because writing has always been how I make sense of things.
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