The Pros and Cons of Looking Good

Based on that title, you probably think I’m getting a little full of myself, but let me explain. I’ve looked “sick” in various ways for the past 2+ years. Since 2010, my weight has fluctuated from 85 to 130 lbs., my hair has fallen out three times, my skin has displayed a range of colors, from blotchy red to pasty white, and I’ve sported a face mask that suggests I’m either a serial killer or preparing for impending nuclear disaster. I’ve been confined to my apartment for months, in and out of the hospital more times than I care to count, and on kidney dialysis.

Compared to all that, I now look pretty good. The upside of this is that the standard has never been lower. Who else is told she looks “fantastic” just because she has hair? I’m greeted by exclamations of, “You’ve gained weight!” as if I just won the lottery, and I keep having to fight the urge to retort, “You’re looking rather chubby yourself!” and remind myself that’s a good thing.

When I stop and think about it, I’ve come such a long way over the past couple years. The other day while I was taking a walk, I remembered the months that I either wasn’t allowed outside or didn’t have the strength or energy to walk more than half a block. However, I still have some serious challenges, some physical but mainly emotional, as a result of my disease and bone marrow transplant. I think people have seen me looking sick for so long that now, because from a physical standpoint I look and feel so much better, they assume I’m great!

On my bad days, I dread going to the doctor or seeing people I haven’t seen in a while because I don’t want to hear the constant repetition of, “You look so good!” You’d think I’d be flattered to hear that I look good, and sometimes I am, but in reality that assertion often makes me feel pressure to reassure people that I’m doing well for their own peace of mind. What if I told you about my depression, fears about the future, or hip pain from a steroid-related condition unknown to almost everyone? Would that let you down? I can also feel misunderstood when told I look good, because my appearance often doesn’t correlate with how I feel. When you look good, people think you feel good, and so they don’t understand when you can’t do “normal” things or handle as many responsibilities.

With all that said, I am grateful that I’ve come so far, a concept that I’m still trying to grasp. I also appreciate when people compliment me, because I know they see dramatic changes in me that represent growth and new beginnings. I want to feel as good as I look, but it’s taking me time to get there.

Crazy Hair

I guess I should be grateful that I now have enough hair to experience a bad hair day, but I’m not. Instead, I stare in disbelief at the stubborn tendril that curls over my left ear, defying gravity and maximum hold hair gel. My bangs (i.e. hair not yet long enough to tuck behind my ears) fall across my forehead in a way I like to (not so) affectionately refer to as “The Swoop.” I experiment with parting my hair on the left side, then on the right. I waste precious moments of the day untucking and retucking my sideburns behind my ears, wondering all the while if girls are even supposed to have sideburns. Caught in that awkward stage of trying to grow my hair out while not looking like an overgrown sheepdog in the process, I long for the day when my bangs are long enough to pin back without giving me a receding hairline.

I know, you think I’m exaggerating. But what you see is the result of many minutes (okay, hours) of patting, twisting, pulling, scrunching, and combing. Zack, however, gets to see the real deal. My morning hairstyles are his source of constant amusement. My hair has its good days and bad days, and half the time I look in the mirror and think, "What the heck am I going to do with you?" Sounds like a metaphor for my life.

Yet for all its untamed craziness, my regrown hair (and the fact that my face no longer looks like an overinflated balloon) has stopped people from staring at me and assuming I’m sick. Now I can go in a grocery store without little kids pointing at me and asking their parents, “Why doesn’t that girl have hair?” I can join the ranks of other women who chopped off their locks and lament with them about the awkwardness of growing them back, without sharing that I lost my hair from chemo, not by choice.

I’m sure I’ll have a moment next week or even tomorrow when I hate my hair, but today, I think it’s pretty cute.