BEAUTY FACES BEAST
While cancer may not be a choice, both style and attitude are
Karl Lagerfeld, the tart-tongued creative director of Chanel, Fendi and his own eponymous label, famously said, “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life, so you bought some sweatpants.” That quote crossed my mind when, in March of 2017, at 39, I learned I had breast cancer. At the clinic, meeting a team of doctors who handed down the diagnosis, I did not wear sweatpants. I wore Manolo Blahniks.
When I walked out of the appointment and into the elevator, a gaggle of nurses snapped me out of my shell-shocked state. “Cute shoes!” they cooed. As a fashion writer and editor for more than 15 years, I’m used to strangers commenting on my clothes, so I mustered a polite thank you and a smile. It was a moment of levity after the traumatic news I’d just received. But it was also a reminder of the strong, stylish and self-possessed woman I was before being diagnosed with this crappy disease — and who I was going to be after I was done kicking its ass. Preferably in killer heels.
A flurry of medical appointments followed over the next six weeks, and I put my best foot forward for each of them. Valentino’s Rockstud kitten pumps brought the bad-assery to my MRI-led double biopsy, oxbloodhued block-heeled boots by Céline (a brand that has always embodied effortlessness and singular female strength) offered just the right level of support for the first meeting with my surgeon, and Christian Louboutin’s scarlet soles saw me through an excruciatingly long and uncomfortable CT-scan.
And after an egg-sized chunk was removed from my chest and I lay in a hospital bed, sick to my stomach from the general anesthetic and pumped full of blue nuclear dye that made me pee green (for days!), I still brought the glam. The surgical ban on cosmetics, nail polish and jewelry compounded the humiliation of the partial-mastectomy, but my silver and gold jacquard backless Gucci loafers and my grandmother’s mink scarf made up for it. While cancer may not be a choice, both style and attitude are.
By the time radiation treatment rolled around that summer — which meant lugging myself to the basement of Toronto’s Odette Cancer Centre every single weekday for six long weeks to get zapped — my entire world centred on my sartorial game.
With work temporarily on hold, I filled my off-treatment time with stop-ins at Sephora and curating my closet. I carefully pulled together pretty sundresses, luxe tailoring, statement earrings and flashy footwear — always accented with a glossy blowout, swirl of blush and slick of nude polish. Hospital wear — but make it fashion.
I know what you’re thinking: “I can’t believe you did all of this. I can’t believe you cared so much about how you looked when you were battling for your life.”
Well, breast cancer is a takeno-prisoners stylist. It has the ability to take not just your boobs, but your hair, your ovaries (and any hope of reproduction), your estrogen, your metabolism, your finances, your family life, your energy, your libido (buhbye, sex and self-lubrication!) and, ultimately, your self-esteem and self-worth. All that remains are the scars, the hot flashes, the mood swings, the ongoing physical pain, the extra pounds — and a constant reign of terror that the cancer will return.
My body had betrayed me and, surrounded by so much uncertainty, I was determined to take back creative control of my life and my look. When I was almost too sore, too sick, too damn tired and it would have been easier to resign myself to sweats, I knew that was simply not who I was. Cloaking myself in ostentatious finery — even something as simple as silk pyjamas or a swipe of lipstick — was a way of refuting anyone’s doubts about my worth, especially my own. It wasn’t vanity, it was an affirmation of my existence. Clothing isn’t just what I use to cover my body. It is a proclamation of who I am at my core. It is truth.
Fashion, I learned, also creates connection. Women leaving chemo appointments would stop me to admire my sundresses. A few elderly gentlemen undergoing prostrate treatment would playfully pat my heavily bejewelled hands, and another took notice of my grandmother’s vintage fur, telling me how much it reminded him of his recently lost love.
The clicking of my stilettos commanded the attention of knitting family members (knitting, if you didn’t know, is kind of the thing to do in waiting rooms), sparking wide smiles. Even my two radiotherapy technicians (shout-out to Unit 10!), who were relegated to Crocs and scrubs, often made shoe contact before eye contact.
People in the cancer ward yearned for beauty. A cheerful frock, a bit of red lipstick and paillette-embellished sandals were links to a life that seemed to be slipping away. I like to think that my attention to appearance was an acknowledgement that living entails more than breathing, eating and sleeping. The basics sustain life — the extras allow us to live fully.
After being sliced, diced and pumped with poison, I am now cancer-free. I still have ongoing oncology appointments, semiannual scans and, for the next 10 years, am forced to take a hormone-inhibiting treatment that causes countless side effects. It sucks. Badly. But I still plan on dressing up for every hospital visit. I even have a new pair of velvet Rochas pumps with crystalline heels at the ready.