Our trip to Greece now in question, it had become something more than just a fabulous vacation and a time to reconnect. We needed this trip… to be together, to recoup, to gather our strength as a family for what lay ahead. A week before we were scheduled to leave, we met with the Doctor at Boston IVF, who told us that if we were able to harvest any eggs, the procedure would have to be done during the coming week, and we would not be able to go to Greece. We were scheduled to return July 27th, with chemo scheduled to begin July 29th. Prolonging treatment any further was too great a risk.
The Doctor stressed to us that there were no guarantees that IVF would enable us to have another child. Before my diagnosis, my intent was to have another baby – I wanted it more than anything. I went home that night, awaiting test results from the clinic, feeling as though I had to make a choice between another child, and a trip my family so desperately needed. In my head, I knew that it wasn’t that simple, but my heart ached. I’ve often had people tell me how strong I’m being, or how well I’m doing, and I wonder “what else would I do? Curl up in a ball and cry?” I’d rather make the most of things and have a little fun. With a little humor, I do my best to avoid that moment when it all comes crashing in, when the enormity of the situation is too much to ignore, and you finally do curl up in a ball and cry. Standing in the driveway in front of the fertility clinic, I called my best friend and melted down, crying for all of the plans that cancer had forced me to rearrange, the awful situation I found myself in, and for myself. By the time I hung up the phone, I had cried myself out, and was determined to regain control of the situation in the best way I could. I decided to go to Greece.
In the week I had left before leaving for Greece, I had to pack, prepare for my sister’s wedding, and do “chemo prep” – which included filling various prescriptions, least popular of which included a prescription for a prosthetic hair piece (commonly known as a wig). I found myself wondering if perhaps, by chance, I would be the one woman whose hair was strong enough to withstand chemotherapy. I wish I could say I was one of those women who just didn’t care – but I’d be lying. I was told that my hair would fall out 2 ½ weeks after my first treatment. With everything I was juggling, I couldn’t imagine how I would find the time to find a wig, much less think about how I might feel about losing my hair. I had visited “Windows of Hope,” the gift shop on the Oncology floor of my hospital that sold wigs, hats, and scarves. Everyone in the shop looked like my grandmother, and I couldn’t find myself relating to any of it. I felt like screaming, “this is not my grandmother’s breast cancer!” and running in the opposite direction.
I did what any girl would do, and decided to turn to an expert… my hairdresser. I had been going to The Loft Salon on Newbury St. for the past six years, and had an appointment scheduled for a cut and color in the last days before my trip. I tentatively shared my diagnoses with my stylist, still not fully comfortable with my membership in the breast cancer club. Before I knew it, Michael Albor, the owner of the salon, had a plan in place, setting up a meeting with his team to help me find a wig that suited my face, style, coloring, and life. They would email me options while I was on vacation, and I could have my new “prosthetic hairpiece” as soon as I got home.
I left the salon that day with a reinforced conviction that I could make the most out of this situation, have a little fun, and again have the upper hand over cancer. Not only did I not have to wear a grandma wig, I could still look and BE fabulous throughout treatment. It got me thinking, and I was soon hatching a plan in the back of my head to throw a head shaving party at the salon upon my return from Greece. If I was going to lose my hair, I was going to do it my way. I began sending emails to my best girlfriends, making preliminary plans for party at the salon. I only hoped Michael would be as excited about it as I was….
Before I knew it, I was sitting in Logan airport, awaiting our British Airways flight to London, where we would connect to Athens. I absentmindedly watched Lee chase Gracie around the terminal waiting area, as I pulled my “cancer gift” from the bag. Lee had given me an iPad just before we left for the airport, a gift he hoped I would use to write with. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but as a full time working mother and wife, I never seemed to have the time for it. I decided to first start off with a travel journal. Documenting our vacation somehow seemed easier to me than writing about breast cancer and my feelings, though I knew that it would come out in the wash. I hardly imagined that two months later what I began as a travel journal would end up as a blog on the Hair’s How website. “Friday, July 22nd – i don’t have words for this place. best. vacation. ever. it’s hard to focus on writing and not just staring into the caldera.” We spent a week living in a historic cave house in Oia, Santorini, overlooking the caldera. Every morning, we put Gracie in her sling and walked up a steep path that wound up the hill and through the maze of cave houses. As we walked to our favorite cafe, shop owners would stop to say “Kalimera” (good morning) and fawn over Gracie, giving her gifts of grapes or sweets. Mornings were spent napping, writing, or swimming in the little pool on our patio. We took Gracie everywhere, exploring the black sand beaches of Perissa, a nail biting drive up a mountain to the temple of Thira, and a catamaran cruise across the caldera.
After putting Gracie to bed each night, Lee and I sat on our patio sharing a bottle of wine, and marveling at our good fortune. We had the most amazing vacation, and in spite of knowing that the rubber would meet the road as soon as we got back, we relished every second under the Santorini sky. Towards the end of our trip, I lay in bed, feeling the tumor in my left breast. It had become frighteningly large. As wonderful as our time in Greece had been, I knew it was time to head home and start kicking some cancer ass. 