I saw my oncologist today for what I thought was my last pre-treatment visit. For me, a round of chemo is three treatments over the course of three weeks, with treatment on Days 1, 2 and 8. And I always see my doc on Day 1. My CA-125 levels are also checked every three weeks, on Day 1. You may recall that the last time I saw my oncologist, three weeks ago today, I got a bit of scary-ish news (See my "Wake up Call" post). And was by myself. Today I didn't make that mistake. My husband went with me, and we brought the Maggs along too, to meet all of the wonderful nurses and staff who have taken such great care of me during this process. Again, we thought this was the beginning of the final round. First, the better news: after hovering at the 39.5 to 41.0 level for the past 12 weeks, my CA-125 finally made a move - in the right direction - down to 32. I was soooo relieved. It's an incremental move but movement nonetheless. The goal is to be in the low teens or single digits by the time treatment ends. And I had been getting nervous about the plateau, after having such dramatic drops in the beginning. So I was pleased about that. Then I learned that my doc had been planning to have me do TWO more rounds (of three treatments each, for a total of six) rather than just one. Her rationale was that because I had missed all or part of at least two of the IP sessions (due to leakage), these additional rounds would fulfill her originally treatment plan for me and then some. Now, you'd think I'd be disappointed or frustrated in this further delay in the conclusion of my treatment. But I wasn't. Not in the least. I'd actually been a bit anxious about the treatment ending, as much as I dreaded it in the beginning. You see, there's something comforting in taking pro-active steps week after week in the fight. The fight to best the cancer, for good. Going to chemo is DOING something. The thought of doing nothing made me a little uneasy. My doc says this is normal. And she says that most people find security in checking in with their doctor every three weeks. It means someone who knows what they are doing is keeping an eye on you. This does indeed make me feel safer. She asked if I minded doing an additional round. I did not hesitate to say hell yes. Let's keep going. Let's add a few more liters of cancer-fighting fluid. Why not? Bring it on. So....my last scheduled treatment will now be in mid-June rather than mid-May. Then, about 30 days after my last infusion, I'll get my CA-125 levels checked to see where they are - which will become my new baseline. I'll also get post-treatment scans on my chest, abdomen and pelvis. These tests are the big daddies of all the tests I've had. They'll basically tell us if the treatment has worked. And I am oh so hopeful that it has. Until I know though, I'm focusing on positive visualization of the chemo drugs sweeping out all of the bad cells like Mickey Mouse's wizard character in Fantasia. And trying to stay out of fearful speculation. As always, my stinkingly adorable family makes it much easier to stay positive.

Love always,
Joanna

I'm sure the fear filtered through my last post, as I was certainly writing from that place. I've now had a couple of nights to sleep (or not) on the information I received on Thursday. I've also been given the gift of a little more information, and a little different perspective.

I am fortunate to have a close relationship with my primary care physician, who happens to have his practice at the same hospital where my cancer center is
located. He knew how worried I was after hearing the results of my CT scans and CA-125 test, and decided to dig a little deeper on my behalf.

Something I didn't mention before was that when I had this appointment with my oncologist, for the first time since I started treatment, I was there alone. My husband, who has been with me for every doctor's appointment since all this began in December, could not be with me Thursday. He strongly encouraged me to have someone with me for support and another set of ears, but I told him I'd be fine. Everything had been going so well, I felt like these check-ups had become almost a formality. Turns out I probably should have had someone with me. As it was, I was a little too freaked out to ask questions in the moment.

So, the next day, my doc paid a visit to the Radiology Department at the hospital and reviewed my pre-treatment and mid-treatment CT scans with the radiologist. There were several noteworthy differences between the two:

First of all, the 8 or so tumors that were visible prior to the surgery were essentially gone.

Second, the more recent CT was murky and difficult to see, as the scans were made after about six hours of chemotherapy had been pumped into my abdomen. It was hard to see much of anything clearly because of all of the fluid.

According to the radiologist, the little places near my liver and spleen could be cancer but could also be any number of other things, including little diverticuloses filled with the contrast dye I had just ingested. The radiologist said that if I weren't a cancer patient, they might not have been flagged at all.

My doctor said that he had seen many scans of patients for whom chemotherapy was failing. In those situations, tumors grow and new ones pop up despite the chemotherapy, which indicates that the particular cancer at issue is resistant to treatment. He said that this was not the case with me. He said that he has no reason to believe the treatment is not working in my case, and that there is no reason not to stay the course.

He also spoke with my oncologist, who said that she rarely orders CT scans midway through treatment. She only did it to try to put my mind at ease (and probably now wishes she hadn't). The normal course of action is to wait about 30 days after treatment is completed to take a CT scan. So that's what we'll do next.

They also said that IP chemo causes inflammation in the abdomen, which can skew CA-125 levels. They reminded me that the numbers are still down 83% and haven't risen.

Bottom line - we still have to wait and see about those questionable spots. But I shouldn't burn energy on freaking out. We don't know that anything is dire. These spots could be nothing.

Given this new information, I'm choosing to reject the notion that these spots are malignant. And I plan to ask to personally eyeball them on CT so that I can better visualize them disappearing altogether.

I'm still a little nervous about it all - and my confidence has been shaken a wee bit - but I'm coming out of it. I'm writing tonight more from a place of hope and strength than fear and doubt. I hope that comes though.

I've still got this.

Well, to update you, I had a pretty sobering visit with my oncologist today.

As you know, my CA-125 protein levels - the cancer marker - are checked every three weeks. As of six weeks ago, they had decreased 83% from where they were pre-surgery. Then, three weeks ago, they were tested and hadn't dropped, which worried me a bit. So my oncologist ordered CT scans to hopefully ease my mind.

Today my CA-125 levels were tested again. I met with my doc to talk about the CT scans for the first time and to hear the status of my CA-125. The news was less than good.

First, my CA-125 levels still hadn't dropped; they seem to be stuck. Then there's a couple of questionable spots near my liver and spleen that the radiologist said bear watching. The spots are not clearly visible, as there is a lot of fluid in that area because of the infusion of IP chemo directly into my abdomen. But they are worrisome.

I asked my doc what would happen if the spots were still there after treatment was finished, if she'd need to go in and remove them surgically. She said no, no surgery. I asked why and she said that she would tell me because I asked, but I wouldn't like the answer.

She said that if these places proved to be malignant and didn't respond to the best chemotherapy available, it would do no good to remove them, except perhaps to make me feel better psychologically. She compared them to dandelions. She said she could go in and pluck the two visible dandelions in a big meadow, but she couldn't do anything about the possibly hundreds of microscopic dandelion seeds spread around the meadow. In other words, if those places around my liver and spleen are a cancer powerful enough to live through 21 blasts of the best chemo available, my abdomen is likely filled with untold amounts of cancer cells waiting to sprout and grow.

I'd be fucked.

And radiation isn't an option either.

So basically, I wait. And as Tom Petty said, the waiting is the hardest part.

Of course I'm scared shitless. I had gotten a little complacent about being in the home stretch of kicking cancer's ass. But I may be going into overtime. I may need a Hail Mary. (I feel certain I'm mixing sports metaphors here in an unforgivable fashion. My apologies to those who understand sports and are cringing right now.)

I posted an article on CafeMom this week about body image and paying more attention to inner health than outer beauty. You can read it here:

http://thestir.cafemom.com/baby/136107/feeling_unattractive_postbaby_body_image

And with the encouragement of several friends, I also entered a "real woman" beauty search sponsored by More magazine, thinking that it would be cool if a different kind of beauty - bald chemo chick trying to focus on inner health more than outer beauty - was chosen to represent. The link to that contest is here if you'd like to vote:

http://www.more.com/events/contests/beauty-search-2012/joanna-montgomery

I confess I feel a little silly now about both of these things. They seem somewhat superficial in the face of, hey, guess what, your treatment might not be working so well after all.

I'm trying not to go down the rabbit hole with this, but rather to keep my head in the same place as my ass. After all, we don't know what these spots are at this point. Although my doctor is worried and so am I, these spots very well may not be cancer. We just don't know.

So we stick with Treatment Plan A. And we wait. The hardest part.

Love and gratitude,
Jo

I wrote last week that I was awaiting the results of some CT scans ordered by my oncologist to - hopefully - assure me that no new cancer was growing inside me. I have not yet met with her to get the official word, but her nurse has gone over the radiologist's report with me and advised that the scans showed nothing new. This was a relief.

Okay, I admit I was also hoping she would tell me that the scans showed that all signs of cancer were gone. Disappeared. That wasn't the case. But apparently the spots are smaller than they were. So that's something.

After the last round I realized that I have now completed five rounds of chemo. At three sessions per round, that's 15 sessions under my belt. This means that, assuming the most recent plan stays in effect, I only have two more rounds or six sessions to go. Which means I'll be done with chemo by the end of May.

Hard to believe.

In January the treatment plan seemed endless. Now I'm nearly three-quarters of the way through.

Part of me can't wait for it to be over. The side effects are becoming more difficult as my body starts to cry "uncle" in some spots. However, part of me wonders if six more sessions is enough. If anything will ever be enough.

Working on trusting the process and taking it a day at a time. It's gotten me this far...!

And the latest on our girl? She's now sitting up in her little Bumpo chair and feeling very proud of herself. 

Time is flying.

Well, I haven't posted a plain ol' fashioned health update in quite awhile. Mostly because there hasn't been much new to report. I'm rocking along with the chemo, and am about halfway through at this point. Despite what I was told in the beginning - probably so as not to scare the hell out of me - chemotherapy seems to be a pretty cumulative experience, at least for me. The more I get, the more I feel the side effects.

Don't get me wrong, the side effects aren't something I cannot endure. I may get queasy, but I've never thrown up. And my energy may wane after treatment, but I'm still functional. I'm one of the lucky ones.

Honestly, the thing that affects me the most negatively are the side effects of a drug called Neulasta. Neulasta is a white count blood booster with which I am injected once every three weeks. Not only does the shot itself hurt like a mother, the side effects include bone, joint and muscle pain; heavy duty fatigue; and wicked headaches...like a really bad flu. But it's worth it so I don't get sick. So far, so good in that regard.

As you know, I was on quite a downward streak with my CA-125 protein levels, the cancer marker. A month ago, after two months of treatment, I had experienced an 83% decrease, which is phenomenal. However, when my levels were tested last week, they appeared to have plateaued...no notable increase or decrease. 

This was a bit concerning to me, as I had been experiencing some abdominal pain over the past few weeks. The story I had been telling myself was that the cancer was regenerating itself and growing inside me...the pain was from new tumors setting up shop.

I told this to my oncologist who said that, first of all, this was pretty normal. In fact, she said that I would likely think that every ache or pain for the rest of my life was due to a recurrence of the cancer. I can see that already.

Second, she said, she was not worried. She said that the abdominal pains were likely the result of my insides being hosed down with deadly poison nearly every week. And, she said, if the lining of my abdomen was inflammed, this could skew the CA-125 results. So, not to worry.

Of course, I was still worried and she knew this, so to ease my mind, she ordered CT scans of my chest, abdomen and pelvis. I had the scans Friday night, and should get the results in the next day or two. I'll keep you posted.

The waiting is hard. I continue to see new friends and acquaintances thrive in treatment then take turns for the worse, never to bounce back. This disease is brutal, just fucking brutal. But I still hope to beat the odds. Because despite all of this cancer business, life does go on. And I am enjoying it immensely for the most part. I am loving our life on the hill, my husband, baby and me. Cancer or no cancer, I don't think I've ever been happier. I just want it to continue. And I'm going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.

On that note...our little Magnolia had her four-month check up today with the pediatrician. She's sprouting like a weed, that girl. She has grown four inches in four months. She's 2 feet, 1 inch tall and in the 84th percentile for height. At 13 lbs, 14 oz, she's around the 50th percentile for weight. With chubby cheeks and fat little thighs, you can tell she's thriving just by looking at her.

Her latest trick? Laughing. Her silly daddy can get her going better than anyone. And if a baby's laughter can't cure whatever ails you, I don't know what can. Just take a listen to this:

So, onward. I'm going to continue to submit weekly columns to the Stir on the Cafe Mom platform. If you'd like to check them out, go to http://thestir.cafemom.com/column/mommy_has_cancer. They're typically being published on Tuesdays or Wednesdays if you have some time to kill. (The Stir is a great website, period...you can get lost on there, in a good way.)

And I'll use this site here (http://itscancerbaby.com) as a way to provide health and baby updates to those of you who are interested. 

We continue to be amazed and astounded in the wake of the love and support we receive from you folks every day. It is what shores us up and keeps us going.

Now go call your mama or someone special in your life and tell her that you love her. 

Love and gratitude,
Jo 

So, the very cool Stir platform on the Cafe Mom website has picked up our little blog and will be running it as a weekly column....so surreal!

The column launched yesterday, with the first post being designed to tell part one of the story. There will be a bit of overlap/duplication in the first few columns, as new readers get brought up to speed, but the blog and the column should soon be in synch. And I'd be honored if you'd continue to follow.

This blog started out as a way for me to essentially hide behind the keyboard and keep friends and family informed of new developments, without me having to have difficult face-to-face conversations. However, it quickly became something much more for me...certainly therapeutic, as well as a vehicle for an exchange of positive energy like I never could have imagined. I'm endlessly grateful for the continued love, support and well wishes. And I'm hoping to ride this tide of healing energy all the way to cancer free. You people are like a chemo turbo boost and then some.

Here's the link to the new column:
http://thestir.cafemom.com/column/mommy_has_cancer

Check it out if you're of the mind. And I'll continue to keep you posted here as well.

Love and gratitude,
Joanna

So, I now have a few more sessions of chemo under my belt and I'm doing well. Really well, all things considered. I was able to successfully endure the IP chemo with no problems, which was a huge relief. And, best of all, my CA-125 cancer marker has now decreased 83% from its highest point immediately post-surgery. 83% in less than 90 days. We're so grateful and relieved. The treatment is working....!

I finally broke down this week and got a second port, for administration of the IV chemo and pre-meds. As much as I didn't want another surgery and another scar, it was becoming too stressful for me - as well as my nursing team - to deal with vein issues every single time I came in for treatment. Plus the trackmarks on my arms were starting to look a bit sketchy. The port will also save me a significant amount of time on chemo days (the difference between pushing liquid through a thread vs. a straw), and time for me is precious. So I did it. I took the new port for its inaugural test drive today, and have to say it made the process so much easier. I have no regrets.

One thing I appreciate about the chemo - besides the fact that it is hopefully saving my life - is that I essentially get to catch up on my sleep on chemo days. You see, on the two of every three days that I get the drug Taxol injected into me, they also give me intravenous Benadryl to prevent any allergic reactions. And that stuff knocks me right out. It's like getting a roofie (or what I imagine that would be like...). It hits pretty quickly and then I start getting foggy. Next thing I know, chemo is over.

I have some wonderful friends who have offered to sit with me, bring lunch to me, play games with me, and keep me company during chemo. I'm not very good company on the Benadryl days, let me tell you. Today a very sweet friend came to eat lunch and hang out with me. As we ate our food, we talked in detail about my friend's scheduled trip out of town to see Jack White perform over the weekend. Then, the Benadryl hit. Next thing I know, I heard myself slur, "so what are you doing this weekend"? My friend slowly and patiently responded, "Going out of town. To see Jack White". Oh, yeah.

But it's all good. As a new mom, sleep is such a luxury. I would even say delicious if I liked that word used in that context (which I don't). And how nice to wake up and know that, while I was sleeping, my system was infused with even more cancer-fighting drugs. One step closer to cancer-free! I'm ready to get my CA-125 count into single digits. That's the goal. And I'm a hell of a lot closer than I was a couple of months ago.

I have an amazing friend named Molly who also happens to be a strong female cancer survivor herself. Molly talks about the "upside of cancer", the unexpected benefits that come from this sort of trial by fire. I've already seen the upside. The deep appreciation for life and family and friends. Being overwhelmed with gratitude for all that you have, and all you have been fortunate enough to experience. Recognizing how much you have to live for....wanting to Live with a capital L. Having such a new appreciation, for everything....good, bad and ugly.

Another upside has been all of the amazing people I've already met in this process. Being embraced by a huge, powerful and loving community, the strength and magnitude of which I never really knew existed. No matter what happens, cancer will always be part of who I am. And I'm okay with that...more than okay.

As I've written, I initially started this blog as a means to hole up with my fear and grief and hide from most of the outside world. And to avoid sending those annoying mass emails and having to tell the same story over and over (and deal firsthand with the reactions). Hiding behind the keyboard just felt safer in the beginning, which is what I needed. And it was just what I needed.

I don't feel like hiding anymore. I love taking off my hat in public and displaying my bald head as a badge of honor. Any time I hear of someone going through something similar being inspired by me talking about my story, I am so touched and honored. I don't know that there's anyone whose world hasn't been affected by this disease. And we're all a family of sorts. I'm loving this new family...and the deeper level of intimacy that comes with being a member. There's no room for bullshit in this family, and that's incredibly refreshing.

I was recently contacted about this blog by AOL. They were interested in making it a weekly column for The Stir on their Cafe Mom platform. First, I was stunned that anyone would be all that interested in what one woman from Nashville, Tennessee had to say. After all, I'm just one woman going through cancer treatment; there are millions of us out there. But then I thought that if I can help anyone else out there better deal with their own battle with this disease through hearing my story, I'm in. So I'm in.

I've heard from so many people who have said that they or a family member are going through a similar situation but that they're "not telling anyone." I very much respect their rights to privacy. For me, though, I feel that talking openly about this disease makes me stronger and it weaker. So that's what I'm going to keep doing.

Next week, the column will launch on thestir.cafemom/columns, and I'll put a link to it here if you'd like to follow it. I've always loved writing - it's one of the things I love best about my job - and now, if all goes well, I'll get to write for a larger audience. Scary and exciting....I guess this is also part of the upside of cancer.

I'm fortunate that I have had so many good days during treatment; and that my regimen is tough, but also essentially affords me ten days off every month to recharge and recover. This allowed me the opportunity to travel to Arizona last week with my husband and baby (yes, the Moo has now earned her wings) to visit my wonderful in-laws and my amazing aunt (whose ass you've all seen if you've been reading this blog from the beginning). I think the trip was good for all of our souls, theirs, Mark's and Maggie's. I know it was good for mine.

Attached to this post is one of my favorite photos from the trip, taken by my talented and beautiful sister-in-law, the photographer Erica Montgomery:

Thanks, again, for the continued support and well wishes. I have no doubt, whatsoever, that all of the positive energy I'm receiving every day is a big part of what is carrying me through.

My doctors told my family that the survival rate for those with my type and stage of cancer is 50%. But that certainly didn't factor in my husband, new baby, family, friends and all of you.

Love and gratitude,
Joanna

I have cancer.

I have cancer.

Believe it or not, I forget about it sometimes. A surprising amount of the time, actually.

When I was pregnant, the thought "I am pregnant" was like an underlying 60 cycle hum...with me virtually every waking moment. I went to sleep thinking it (when I could sleep), and woke up thinking it. I don't think I ever once forgot I was pregnant.

In the two months since my diagnosis, however, there have been many times it has slipped my mind that I have cancer. Now, with the bald head, a walk by a mirror or reflective window is a startling reminder that I am living with this disease. (Seeing my reflection in someone else's shocked reaction is also a sobering reminder.) I've lost track of how many times in the past couple of weeks I've caught my reflection in a mirror and been a bit taken aback by my alien appearance. Yet, despite the angst leading up to the loss of my hair, that part really doesn't bother me. The part that gives me pause is that it's a reminder that I have cancer.

Oh yeah....that.

(Fortunately, my husband doesn't seem to be fazed by the new look. In fact, he may even kind of dig it. Probably because he's a nerd at heart and I now look like something from an episode of Star Trek.)

(Photo credit: Brooke Kelly Photography)

But, yes, the bald head is definitely a reminder of the illness. That and, of course, the times when I do not feel good as a result of the chemo. And the track marks on my forearms from blown veins and failed IV attempts. And the scars from surgery. Okay...there are plenty of other reminders of the disease; but often, when I'm feeling good and just living life, I forget. After all, it's the treatment that is making me feel bad and look different right now, not the disease. And the effects of the treatment are lessened with each day following an infusion. Until the next time, of course.

Last night, my husband and I had our second date night since the birth of our daughter. We went to dinner at our favorite restaurant, and then went to see a performance by one of our favorite artists, Ani Difranco. (Side note - Had I been sporting a shaved head the first time I saw Ani perform live in 1997, I would not have been the only chick doing so. This time, I'm pretty sure I was.) We had a wonderful night together, full of joy and laughter and closeness.

Toward the end of the night, I said something about appreciating times like these even more now...that nights out were more special somehow, and I felt more present with him because of it. He agreed, and made a comment about the cancer making us better appreciate things. I was surprised, as I had been thinking about the fact that we are now parents and have to arrange child care before going out....that what used to be just a regular night of the week now required quite a bit more planning and organization. I had completely forgotten I had cancer.

It's easy to forget about the cancer sometimes because things are so damn good in so many other areas of my life. I am grateful every single day for my husband and daughter and our life together. As I overheard my husband tell someone on the phone this week, "if it weren't for this temporary black cloud hanging over our heads, we'd be shittin' smiles every day."

Earlier this week when I went to the cancer center for my weekly blood work, the regular valet who opened my car door asked how I was doing and then said, "Well, you look good...still." There was an implication in his pause before the word "still" that indicated this might not always be the case. To my (likely overly-sensitive) ears, he might as well have said, "Well, you don't look bad... yet.

And I have started noticing - now that I'm out of the daze I was in the first few times I visited the chemo ward - that some patients definitely look sicker than others...that some are clearly further along in their treatment and it has taken its toll. I know that it will likely get worse before it gets better. I just can't think about it too much....this treatment is a constant exercise in staying in the present and not "what-iffing". The what-iffing could send me to a very dark place, as I've found on the few occasions when I've allowed myself to mentally meander down that path. Keeping my bald head in the same place as my feet may be one of my biggest challenges during this process.

In the meantime, I've begun looking at this cancer as another big hurdle in the internal clearing out process I began five years ago...just another toxin to cleanse or more baggage to lose. And chemotherapy is the ultimate cleanse. Some may disagree, believing that this course of treatment is radical and even unnecessary, but I'm not taking any chances. I intend to do everything I can possibly do to beat this the first go-round, once and for all.

This disease has also forced me to look at what I put into my body and how I take care of myself. There are hundreds of schools of thought on ways to attack cancer, and I've been bombarded with all kinds of contradictory advice. However, the one thing on which everyone seems to agree across the board...from the American Cancer Society to the most fringe-y of new age healers...is that the meaty, sugary, starchy Standard American Diet (SAD) isn't good for anyone; and that a largely organic, largely raw, plant-based diet is the healthiest possible way to eat. Apparently, it's hard for cancer (or diabetes or any other disease for that matter) to thrive in the body of someone who takes this sort of thing seriously. So I'm taking it seriously...a step at a time, because I want it to stick. We're talking about a permanent lifestyle change here, not a quick fix.

So that's where I am today. Trying to make healthy changes and choices while gearing up for my next round of treatment, which will include three sessions of chemotherapy on February 16, February 17 and February 23, respectively. My biggest concern - and that of my oncologist - is the re-introduction of IP chemo directly into my abdomen starting on the 17th. The last time this was attempted my body could not handle it, so my oncologist recommended a break in the IP chemo to allow me to better heal and recover from the surgery I underwent right before chemo started. The hope is that enough time will have passed by then that I'll be able to withstand the IP chemo, as this is my best chance for beating the type of cancer remaining inside me. I will be on pins and needles on the 17th, hoping it will "take". For anyone wanting to direct vibes of strength or prayers my way....I'll need an extra batch that day and in the hours and days to follow.

So, yes, the reality is that I currently have cancer. And as each day goes by - until it's no longer true - it will become as much a part of my identity as being a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, paralegal or any other label. Eventually, when I dream, it'll be the bald version of me I see in my dreams. And soon I'll no longer be surprised when I look in the mirror. For now, though, I'm just going to continue to try to live in the present and enjoy every single moment. Because these are amazing times here in the Montgomery household. And I wouldn't trade it, any of it, for anything.

(Magnolia Grace Montgomery at two months of age.)

Love and gratitude,
Joanna

 

 

 

 

Alternate title: Getting naked.

Warning: This is going to be a pretty girly post, for any of you guys who might be following along.

Okay, so I wrote in my last post that my scalp had been increasingly sore and tender, which was an indicator that my hair follicles were about to "release". They said that this (the hair releasing) typically happened on the 14th day after the first chemo treatment. Well, by Day 16, I still had a full head of hair and hadn't lost any. I was starting to wonder if maybe I would be the exception ...maybe I wouldn't lose my hair. (See...there I go again with those unrealistic expectations....). But on Sunday morning, Day 17, as I was washing my hair in the shower, my hair started coming out by the handful.

It was on.

In anticipating this, I thought that it would likely be traumatic. A woman losing her hair? It's such a part of who we are. Even the term "bad hair day" is a commonly understood part of the vernacular of our culture. We all know what it means. It means that if you think your hair looks shitty, you're likely to feel shitty and unattractive the rest of the day.

But when it happened, the hair fallout... it really wasn't traumatic. I had known that I would likely lose my hair. My oncologist had told me that with the cocktail of chemo I was being given, there was no chance that I wouldn't lose my hair. So I knew it was going to happen; and my scalp had been warning me all week via Morse code that the exodus was eminent.

When I looked at the palm full of hair and shampoo bubbles that Sunday morning, I thought, "okay...here we go". And that was about it. After nearly six weeks of anticipation, I was ready to get the show on the road. My husband and I had already decided that at the first sign of hair loss, we would take control and, as my husband said, "shave the fucker". So that's what we did, later that night when our baby was asleep and the house was quiet.

I have to say that it was a very intimate experience, unlike anything else I can describe.

I asked Mark where we should do it, and he said wherever I would be most comfortable. He asked me what music I'd like playing (we have music playing in our house around the clock), and I immediately said George Winston. George Winston is part of the soundtrack of our life as a family. We sleep to a mix of songs that has George in heavy rotation (along with our great pal Joe Ebel and some others). Our animals immediately know it's bedtime (or naptime) when George comes through the sound system. And now our daughter also sleeps to George Winston...it was her lullaby in utero, and she has listened to it every night of her life in the outside world, including the nights spent in the hospital.

So we cued up George, set up a dining room chair in the bathroom, and I sat down. We didn't talk. Mark just began shaving my head with electric clippers, set at the lowest guard, which was about an eighth of an inch. He didn't hesitate (like I would have), he just got right to it (which is very much how he approaches any task). I couldn't see myself in the mirror, because the chair was too low. And this was a good thing. I just closed my eyes and let myself feel the hair falling on my neck, chest and lap. It was almost soothing, and extraordinarily intimate. I felt like my last veil or shield was being removed. And I was okay with that. I felt safe.

When Mark finished, he asked if I was ready to look at it. I told him I thought that I wanted to be alone when I looked at myself for the first time. He respectfully stepped out of the room and slid close the door.

I waited a few seconds, took a deep breath, and stood to view myself in the mirror. I once again looked myself in the eyes, and then took in my new appearance. I teared up a bit, but didn't cry. I just looked, turning my head this way and that. After a minute or two, I got in the shower to wash off all of the loose hair.

When Mark asked me afterward what I thought, I told him that it wasn't as bad as I had feared, but that it did look a bit militant with my 1/8th of an inch buzz cut. Plus, it felt a bit like a cop out to have left any hair at all. If it was all going to come out, why not take it all off now. I didn't want to leave any hair for the chemo to take. I didn't want to find any hairs on my pillow (no matter how short) or clogging our shower drain. So we decided to take off the rest in the morning. And we did, with shaving cream and a straight razor and no fanfare. I was ready for it.

I had three primary fears about having no hair.

1. That I would have a jacked up head shape with weird lumps or dents.

You've all seen them. Some people have good head shapes for baldness. Others don't, bless them. Fortunately, my head shape wasn't too bad. I could live with it. One fear down.

2. That my husband would no longer find me desirable.

When we first met, he was a new client coming in to the law firm where I worked (and still work). I was the paralegal assigned to his case. I later saw that when he had entered my contact information into his computer, he had identified me as "Joanna Stanfield, hot haired paralegal". (In fact, it still says that in his Contacts.) Back then, I had my hair cut into a modified mohawk/fauxhawk....a look that definitely stood out, especially in a corporate law firm environment. So I knew that he had been attracted to my hair, and that my hairstyle was part of how I expressed myself historically, as do most of us.

Well, after the head shave, my husband made it clear that he still found me attractive. I think he just likes edgy looking women, and with the bald head, I think I still look a bit edgy. At any rate, I don't think he's just blowing smoke...he's not really the type to do that anyway. I don't think he's turned off by the baldness. Another fear down.

3. That I'll look like a sick person...that I won't be able to hide that I have cancer.

This one isn't as cut and dried. Something happened with the head shave. I may look sick to some with my shaved head. Others may just think I shaved my head by choice. The point is that, for some reason, I no longer care. Granted, I've only been rocking the dome for less than 48 hours now, but I've been out in public with the head more than once and didn't feel nearly as self conscious as I thought I would. Rather, I felt somewhat defiant. As in, "if you don't like my bald head...fuck you." That kind of defiant. And also actually a little bit proud, like a fighter who is winning. Because, after all, if the chemo is killing my hair follicles, it's killing other things as well. In other words...it's working.

When I texted my brother that my hair was coming out, he responded, "Good. You don't want any weak-ass chemo." And that's the truth. I don't.

So, third fear, down. At least so far. I know there will be times that I feel self-conscious about the bald head and worry about standing out in a crowd. But I hope I'll be able to hold my head high, knowing I'm doing everything I can to beat this disease.

To anyone going through chemotherapy, on the topic of hair loss, I would recommend taking control and shaving the head....not waiting for the hair to fall out. It was an empowering experience to lose the hair on my terms, not the cancer's terms. To not see hair on my pillow. To not see thinning places on my head or bald patches. To shave the fucker.

And the other empowering thing I did? Documented the process. My husband took photos along the way, and we also scheduled a photo shoot with our friend and photographer, Brooke Kelly...the same talented woman who photographed us during the pregnancy, and took the newborn shots of baby Magnolia. Brooke made the experience not only safe, but fun. We laughed a lot, just as we always do. The vibe was not one of sadness, but one of victory and empowerment. It felt great. Again, it was about taking control where I could. And this was one thing that I could do on my terms.

Here are a few of my favorite shots

And, finally, the coolest thing happened during the photo shoot....another one of those unexplainable cosmic things that lets me know this is all part of a bigger plan set out by the universe.

During a break in the shoot, there was a knock at the studio door. Brooke answered, and accepted a box being delivered by the postal carrier. The box was addressed to "The Montgomery 3, c/o Brooke Kelly". This was strange, as no one knew we were going to be at the studio that day....we didn't know it ourselves until the afternoon before.

We opened the box to find a beautiful note, written by a woman named Darla who had learned of us through the blog. This was a woman neither Mark nor I nor Brooke had met. She said that she had received an item recently, imprinted with the number 3. She asked the person who had given it to her what the number meant, why the person had chosen it for her, and the person replied that she didn't know...she just wanted her to have it. And then this woman read about our story and realized that the item was meant for our family. So, she boxed it up and mailed it to the photographer, hoping it would get to us. And it just happened to arrive while we were there, all three of us.

It was a goosebump kind of moment. And made the day, and the experience, all the more special, for all of us.

So, the transformation continues. And it's not about going from being a girl with hair to a girl without hair. It's way more about going from being a girl who cared a great deal about what others - total strangers - thought about her to being a girl who can walk around with a shiny bald head without caring if others talk about her, point to her or laugh at her. And about being a woman who feels more secure about the love of her husband, even though she looks very different from the woman he met.

For those of you who really know me, this is big. Really big. What a gift.

Love and gratitude,
The Montgomery 3