The Advice Page
This advice is stuff nobody told me, and I didn’t find in any booklets from the American Cancer Society, from the social worker at the hospital, or anyone else. Hopefully someone will find it useful.
Cold heads. It’s cold when you have no hair. Even though the caps inexplicably called “Lovies” from the TLC catalog make you look, depending on your makeup and glasses configuration, like Norma Desmond, Woody Allen as a sperm, or the Swedish Chef, they’ll keep your head warm at night.
Keeping your hat on. Ordinary hats that you get at department stores can fall off in a stiff breeze and are practically guaranteed to fall on the floor if you nod your head too vigorously. Hats from shops that cater to cancer patients often have stretchy bands to keep the hat on. When you’re trying hats on, try bowing to your audience to see what the hat does.
Keeping your wig on. I’m underqualified to talk about this one, since I’ve worn a wig for a grand total of about four hours, counting the time it took to get a good photo for the Bleos. But one thing I’ve noticed is that people who want to hug you are pretty careful not to knock a hat off, but they’re not nearly so careful when you’re wearing a wig.
Going shopping. It’s virtually impossible to try shirts on without taking your hat or wig off. If that embarrasses you, avoid clothes stores with communal fitting rooms.
PET scan rooms. The room with the PET scan machine is kept at a temperature that’s comfortable for the machine, which is a little colder than many hairless, hospital-gowned patients would like. The machine objects to anything metal, and you’ll object to lying still for 35 minutes wearing a wig or a brimmed hat. Bring your Lovie and wear all-cotton clothes (the nurse might allow you to wear all-cotton clothes into the machine).
Keeping the insurance company happy. The disability insurance people will periodically require proof that you aren’t making this whole thing up. Keep copies of any reports (blood tests, pathology reports, etc.) you can get your hands on, so you can send them in as required. Also, filling out forms can make doctors cranky (quote from one doctor, “Why do I have to fill out a form to convince them that you aren’t having radiation for the fun of it?”). When the insurance people send you a form for the doctor to fill out, do as much as you can yourself.
Nobility. If you have the least shred of humor or optimism about your situation, people will call you noble or inspirational. They might expect you to express sentiments like, “Cancer has tightened my bonds to all humanity.” Screw it. Cancer sucks.