Looks in Breast Cancer

Looks in Breast Cancer

Yes, at this point you might be thinking that some of the topics addressed in this book ( “F
Is for Fashion Accessories” and “H Is for Hair”) are superficial and would be at the bottom
of your list of concerns when facing a biggie like breast cancer. Well, there are many
surprises that come with a diagnosis of breast cancer, and thinking about your looks turns
out to be one of them.

We will stipulate for the record that you are careful about your looks, but not overly
concerned. You care in the I’m-a-woman-who-comports-herself-acceptably-to-societalexpectations-
and-am-thoroughly-presentable kind of way, not in the I- spend-two-hoursevery-
morning-primping-and-painting-myself-and-will-not-let-a-soul-see-me-withoutmakeup-
on kind of way. But the thing about breast cancer treatment is that it does things to
your looks, and not necessarily good things. So, whichever category you fall into—plain or
primped—you find yourself thinking: Why am I so worried about my looks right now? I’m
going through breast cancer for goodness’ sake. Well, because you are a woman, and it
matters more for women. There, I said it. I will spare me my own righteous indignation
(and yours) at this point and just accept that this is true (see “H Is for Hair” again).

I am not talking about buying into the whole “crazy sexy” cancer thing here, which is not
where my head was, and frankly you can get through cancer without embracing that
extreme. As my friend the humorist and fellow cancer traveler, the late David Rakoff, told
t h e New York Times, “It seems like the oncological chapter of the covert war on
women … often preached by women against women, which is often just a variant on the
pressure on women to not get epidurals during pregnancy and die in labor like in the
Victorian age. It sounds like, ‘You should go to chemo in sky-high Jimmy Choos!’ And if
you don’t you’re a lazy bitch who deserves to die of cancer.”

So no, I didn’t go to chemo wearing Jimmy Choos and lipstick. However, I found myself
introduced to a program called Look Good Feel Better, a collaboration between the
American Cancer Society and the cosmetics industry that provides skin care, makeup, and
grooming counseling (including wig wearing and tying a head scarf) to women who are
going through cancer treatment. At your first session, during which professionals teach you
how to make yourself up, you are handed a big free bag of makeup that suits your skin
tone, no doubt to help you look good and thus feel better.

I’m actually someone who has never worn much makeup. So I’m not one of those
people who ascribes her cancer to carcinogen-laced makeup. The last time I wore mascara
was probably at my wedding. But I have to say I learned a lot of useful things. Things like
the importance of applying sunscreen on my bald head—obvious, you say, but no, not
really, if you’ve never been bald. I learned that my nails, like so much else, would suffer.
In fact, they turned a blackish purple color, which was quite disturbing. I learned to apply
moisturizer with upward strokes and to contour my cheekbones with a powder blush. In all,
I was taught twelve steps to make myself up completely. I never did all twelve, maybe
eight or nine on some days.

Why was I doing this at all? I’ll tell you why. I looked awful during my treatment.
Really, it was not a pretty sight. My face bloated like a balloon from the steroids, the
chemotherapy made my skin blotchy, I was so sallow there was a ghostly pall about me.
And, of course, I was bald. To be completely frank, I felt like crap.

But did I need to look like crap? Like I said, I was going through breast cancer
treatment, so it would have been fine to leave well enough alone. Believe me, most days,
when just getting out of bed was an achievement, that is exactly what I did. But there were
other days when I did something about it. The days I went into work I put aside an extra
twenty to thirty minutes to apply my makeup and fit my wig or head covering just right. It
was almost like applying a shield, not letting the wider world know just exactly how sick I
was or how badly I was handling the treatment. Not because I was ashamed of it, but
because, you know, everybody doesn’t need to know all my business all the time. Going
through something like cancer treatment is hard, and it shows. Providing myself with a
mask (literally) protected me from the awkward gazes of the people around me who
couldn’t help but notice how awful I looked on the days I didn’t don that mask. It probably
helped them handle my disease better too. That may seem an odd thing to be concerned
about, but I was concerned about it because I didn’t want my handling of the disease to be
an awkward thing for anybody.

I have had male friends and colleagues who have gone through cancer treatment, and I
can assuredly say that everything I’ve just discussed was not in the slightest bit relevant to
them. I have tried to instill in my two teenage daughters the sense that looks aren’t
everything and form just a small and irrelevant part of who a person is. So how hypocritical
was I, being so concerned about my looks? Like I said, I could not have put on the “face”
every single day, or even have put on the full face ever. But there were days when donning
the mask really helped. That’s not self-centered or vain or egotistical, that’s just what
worked for me. If it works for you, great, because you and no one but you gets to decide
how you look.