What is the first thing you do when you meet someone? What are the first things you take in when you are getting to know them? Is it appearance? Is that why we put so much effort into it? Should we focus on these appearances? What’s beneath those appearances?

 

“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched – they must be felt with the heart.” – Helen Keller

I was seventeen. I was beautiful. I was blessed. I knew nothing else. I had been this way all my life. I took it for granted. When I received my diagnosis, I knew I’d lose my hair. I figured I’d get a seemingly realistic wig and no one would be any the wiser. Or at the very least, I envisioned myself with scarves elaborately tied around my head while my thin figure modeled them like those tragic movies where the dying teen still seems sort of chic when she finally balds. It sounds silly in retrospect. Maybe that was just me avoiding the harsh realities, or maybe I actually thought I wouldn’t experience what I did.

Reality is much grittier. It’s not as glamorous. When I finally lost my hair, I wasn’t prepared. It was delayed. I kept my hair for a cycle or two of chemotherapy. I was sitting in my shower running through my short inch or two of hair, washing it as I had for the last month or two when I started pulling more and more hair out. It wasn’t just those little strands that come loose in the shower, it was full tufts of hair. I was mortified. The time I had forgotten would come, had arrived. I kept pulling, fascinated as my hair just fell out. Finally, I stopped. I finished my shower.

My hair was always so thick that you couldn’t tell I’d pulled any out when I looked in the mirror after my shower. I told my mom. We rallied the troops – my dad came as well. We set me up in a makeshift barber set up in the bathroom so we could shave my remaining pixie cut of hair away. That was the end of my long locks. It was one of the pivotal moments of my treatment. Losing my hair made it more real than the incessant ache to my bones, the gurgle in my gut, and the throbbing in my head. It let the world know. It labeled me.

Fast-forward another two to three months. It’s summer of 2009. I’ve gained 30 lbs. or so at this point. It’s due to the therapeutic steroid treatment. Not only have I gained all this weight. I’ve gained it fast. It’s all in my gut and my face; thank you steroids. I feel like a pregnant chipmunk. And I’m bald. Remember that wig I wanted to wear? As it turns out, it was so uncomfortable, I could not even bring myself to wear it for a full one hour outing. I’ve switched to these soft caps. They’re cute enough, not terribly glamorous. Oh, and I’ve lost my eyebrows, my eyelashes. I have cancer. And I look the part.

While I was enduring chemotherapy I was taught the power of empathy and acceptance. Here is what I make of what manifested from all those little lessons almost a decade later:

1. Inner Beauty. We may be innately programmed to first judge a person first on their appearance, but if you try each day to push past those notions, I promise you will be pleasantly surprised by what you find.
2. Their Story. Everyone has one. Maybe some are more open about it than others, but giving a person a chance to be who they are, beyond their social media image in an age that judges on appearances, will allow you to know people in a way you may not have known was possible.
3. Look and Listen. You won’t find any of these things out about others unless you seek them out. Everyone has a story. Everyone is beautiful. You can only know that if you truly look for their inner beauty. and listen to their story.

signed
safa