Costumes got her through Chemo
Why I wore a Wonder Woman outfit — then my wedding gown — to chemotherapy sessions
When breast cancer landed on my doorstep, so did mail. Daily, we were flooded with boxes and envelopes from friends, family and strangers. I was blogging about my experience, and people were very kind.
One of the packages came from a close friend, and I sat outside to open it. It was a picture-perfect fall day, and besides the fact that I knew I had cancer in my body, it was actually a pretty good one.
And then it became sort of magical.
In the package was a red Wonder Woman T-shirt. Complete with a cape. And a crown. It was my armour.
I put it on immediately. And was so in love with the joy it provided.
When my first round of chemo came at Nebraska Medicine in 2015, I was terrified. I was beyond scared that I was, at 33, going to be filled up with toxic juice. I was terrified that chemo might hurt. I was scared for the aftermath — nausea, bone aches, loss of hair, etc.
So I put on my armour. I walked into my first chemo, hair curled, makeup on and wearing my Wonder Woman outfit. I would do chemo my way. I would make this fun. And my boys — my three young sons and husband — and I, we would consider chemo days as gloriously beautiful because they would actually be attacking the cancer. In other words, we would party.
My first infusion nurse, Denise, could tell I was scared. And she brought in the pharmacists to assuage my fears a bit. I hugged them out of fear — and because as they explained the process, I knew that the actual act of getting the chemo wouldn’t hurt. I would be able to sit and relax over the course of the treatments.
I then began to look forward to my chemo days. Not simply because of the fighting. But also because I brought some joy to myself on those days. I often got to see some of my favourite people — my friends, my family, my pastor, and the doctors and nurses on whom I’d developed huge crushes as they avenged my disease.
And, yes, I wore costumes. The Wonder Woman get-up set in motion a trend. The second chemo round, I donned a hilariously witty shirt that says “FCancer.” It had also come in the mail. And my oldest son called it my Fix Cancer shirt because of a sideways cancer ribbon in place of the letters so it looked like “Fix Cancer” to a six-year-old’s eyes. And I wore stacks of bracelets sent by friends and family — my armour to remind me that I was strong and that they were all praying for me. I also wore earrings — big leather earrings sent by a former stranger. And a stocking hat.
And then the next round. It was the day after the U.S. Thanksgiving, so I wore Christmas leggings. A corn stocking cap in honour of my favourite team playing football that day. And again, the Wonder Woman gear.
The fourth round. It was Christmastime. I got an elf costume, complete with a red Love Your Melon stocking cap to cover my fully bald dome. I took pictures with my boys, and we celebrated the joy of the season. And the joy of mama getting past the halfway point in my 20 weeks of treatment. I posed with my oncologist as though I were an Elf on the Shelf — except I was really the Elf on the Exam Table. And the day was so darn wonderful.
The fifth round. I stepped up my game. I wore my high school cheerleading uniform. Well, actually, I had to borrow one from a friend because I had sold mine, BUT I wore my school colours. As a grown adult, I walked into chemo wearing WCHS letters (from Wilber-clatonia High School in southeast Nebraska). And my husband wore his letter jacket (he still had it, though it was from a different high school).
We were so thankful to all who had been cheering us on and supporting us.
I knew what I had to do for Round No. 6 — my final chemo session. I pulled out my wedding dress — the outfit I’d worn on what had been the luckiest day of my life. It seemed fitting.
My husband and I walked arm in arm. I wore my gown. He wore a top hat and a tuxedo tee. And so did the boys. And our nephews. And for our niece, I’d sent a fancy dress. A few of my besties showed up in bridesmaid dresses. One showed up with cookies. I had a village there that day as I rang the gong. I cried. I rejoiced. I hugged my village — my pastor, my nurses, my doctors, the staff, my parents, my in-laws, my boys, my friends and my hubby.
We partied after that chemo session. A reception of sorts. We toasted. We laughed. And, oh, I cried.
And it was one of the very best days. Though I was receiving toxic sludge, the beauty came in a different form of wonder. It came from the people, from the vibe. And, for me, the dress.
The costumes were my coping mechanism, a way to shift my focus from the fear to the festivities. It worked. (And I’ve been cancer-free for two years.)
For The Washington Post