Refuge

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I found an ad in the newspaper for a yoga class for breast cancer survivors. It was what I’d been looking for — a specialized class for the lymphedema risk and other issues caused by cancer treatment. At Circle Yoga in Washington, D.C., I found my support group.

Two instructors, Jill and Karen, alternated teaching Yoga for Breast Cancer. I was the last to join the class and started between surgery and chemo. The other women were way ahead of me in treatment. All were mothers of young children, and between 38 and 41 years old. Jill and Karen began each class with a thoughtful meditation. They allowed us to take a moment to say what was on our minds. They asked what we needed from the yoga practice. And what we needed to let go, if only for a little while.

At one class, I shared that, to friends, family, and co-workers, I appeared strong, independent and capable. But, I was starting to have meltdowns. I was tired. I was tired of focusing on that outward appearance. I knew I needed a break of some sort, but didn’t know who to ask or what I needed. I just wanted a break. The other women said they hit that wall, too — around the sixth chemo session.

Circle Yoga was my refuge. This yoga class was as important to me as any medical appointment. I relaxed and let the meditation transport me. I was with other survivors getting my warrior poses on. Jill and Karen continued the class faithfully each week, even when I was the only student left.

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4 Acts of Kindness

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I wasn’t prepared for the physical pain of losing my hair. My scalp felt like it was being stabbed by thousands of tiny needles. On my way home from work, I stopped by the shop in Wheaton, Maryland, where I’d bought my wig. My head was on fire. I was crying when I went in and asked a woman there for help. I didn’t know what she could do for me. She knew. She took me to a sink and gently washed my head. It was soothing, both physically and emotionally. A lot of my hair was washed off and went down the drain. My head looked patchy, but I felt relief.

The remaining hair still hurt my head. I asked my sister, Cheryl, for help because I couldn’t deal with it. She came over and carefully washed my head. She brought an old pair of pantyhose to catch the hair that came out in the kitchen sink. Most of the hair vacated my scalp, except for one little patch in the back. The process and pain of losing my hair was almost over. She made me laugh when she looked at me and recited, “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?” Only my sister….

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A close friend, Donna, and her husband, Nilante, came over to visit. I took off my little bandana scarf to show them my head. When Nilante saw that last stubborn patch of hair, he said, “Oh no, that’s got to go.” He came back the next day and gently and expertly shaved it off.  I was so grateful for that simple act. The transition was over and my head was no longer crazy-patchy. I was transformed.

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I told Donna it was too hot to wear the wig, and I didn’t know what else to do. She and Nilante had an African seamstress make five colorful scarves and they showed me how to tie them. I experimented with different looks. The scarves made me a stylish survivor.

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