I remember standing in the hallway at work, which is the only place one can receive phone calls in that building. It was my ‘nurse navigator’ – a person assigned to me by… well I’m not quite sure – the hospital, the insurance company? who knows. At any rate, she was rattling off some cancer information, telling me I was going to have to have chemotherapy and that I was going to have to have a port put in my neck.

That wasn’t entirely correct but that’s what she said. A port put in my neck!?!?!? I cried in the parking lot – which was a theme central to this whole cancer experience. Crying in parking lots.

I hung up and left work early. I envisioned me walking around looking like Frankenstein, but bald. A bald Frankenstein with those things poking out of my neck.

(I do like that hair though and I almost have enough to make that style work!)

While the port was not in my neck and I’m told they’re a real game-changer as far as treatments go, I’ll be verrrrrry anxious to get it out.

The port is a medical device under one’s skin these days (I think they used to be on top of the skin which would be awful – having to keep it clean and such). You go in for a quick procedure, they knock you out, place this port just below the collarbone and it runs directly into your vein and straight into your heart – that beautiful pump then sends the chemo meds throughout your body.

Seems almost barbaric, doesn’t it? Sending all that right to the heart?

To be honest, I still had no idea what they were talking about and, as odd as it sounds, I didn’t really have time to Google much before my procedure (though I had figured out by that point that it wasn’t in my neck)

So here it was.

I woke up with this thing under my skin.

You can see the top part is where it goes into my vein, yes you can feel it. The bottom part is that port thing. I hated it immediately. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep, I worried about hugging people. And it iiiiiiiiiiitched! That first weekend maybe for a week I thought I was going to lose my mind. It just itched. All the time. All… the… time.

That part did calm down. I put my numbing cream on for my treatments as having them poke a needle into it is less than pleasant. And there I sat.

There’s the blessed port working for me I guess. I hated it. It made me feel like a cancer patient, which I know I was, but I hated it. Every single nurse tells me how lucky I am to have one. I guess getting chemo through your arms veins just ruins them and your veins can be difficult for nurses to find so that makes it even worse – more pokes.

As the summer dragged on, my annoyance with the port did too. Every single bra strap just rubbed and rubbed and rubbed on it. It was very uncomfortable. When I’d talk to the nurses they’d all shrug and say ‘Yea well you’re thin so it pokes out more.’ That was the answer- that was all anyone could give me. No one offered solutions, no one helped – they just told me how lucky I was to have one.

With desperation being the mother of invention, I found myself in the foot care aisle at the grocery store. I had to find something that could protect this damn port from my bra straps and a bandaid wasn’t enough.

Enter the callous cushion. Ridiculous, right? Also brilliant. I put one on the port, slapped a bandaid over the top and my bra strap sat over the top of that damn thing and I couldn’t feel it anymore. Of course, it added to the port bulge under my shirt and I was continually worried about my shirt gaping at any point and someone seeing a callous cushion stuck to my chest. But you can see here that bra seam, RIGHT on the port, was just unbearable otherwise.

As the year has worn on, I’ve gotten bras that do not have a seam there and that has helped tremendously. As any self-respecting woman knows, buying new bras is a pain and not cheap. For female port-sporters, I LOVE the Revolution bra from Knix – NO seams!

Here I am on a lovely summer patio enjoying a lovely glass of wine. And here’s what’s gong on under my shirt.

It’s miserable.

And it’s coming to an end! As my RN sister said, “The happiest patients I have are the ones coming in for port removal.”

I’m hoping that’ll happen this month.

It’s something I’ve never really thought much about – my hair. I have baby-fine, mostly straight with a mild frizz type of hair. I’ve never been particularly adept at styling it and if I can get through a day without anyone really noticing anything about my hair at all, it’s a win.

I wonder…. Do you think cancer was God’s way of teaching me to stop griping about my hair?

At any rate, I debuted my crew cut at work this week. It was every bit as awkward and uncomfortable as I knew it would be. My work place is a vast building with over 1,000 workers and it will likely take months before I see everyone. Meaning, I’ll relive this ‘first day sporting a crew cut’ day over and over and over for… could take three months before I run into everyone.

There will be several first-time walking into meetings with various people, several first-time ‘I didn’t recognize you’ moments and several ‘You cut your hair!’ It’s exhausting.

The whole hair journey has been exhausting – a year full of intense scrutiny over how I look.

‘How does she look?’ ‘Has she lost weight?’ ‘Is she looking energetic today?’ ‘Does she still have hair?’ ‘Has she shaved her head?’ ‘Man that’s a great wig’ ‘I’m going to take a much closer look so I can really see that hairline’ ”Does she have eyebrows?’ ‘She looks good today’ ‘She doesn’t look like a cancer patient’ ‘She still has eyelashes’ ‘Yikes, she looks like a cancer patient.’

That goes on and on all year, every time you interact with someone.

I know it’s out of care and concern for my well-being. But I hate it. I’d hate that kind of scrutiny on my best day, let alone during a time I feel so painfully unattractive and uncomfortable in my own body.

But I hated wearing that wig. I felt like I was wearing a costume. I felt ridiculous sitting in a room where people know I have cancer and don’t have hair but I’m sitting here in fake hair (real hair, actually. $2,700 worth of human hair – that insurance does not cover) But still.

It was itchy, and hot. And so itchy. Itchy, itchy, itchy. Alllll daaaaaay lonnnnnnng itchy. I hated it. The wig allowed me to blend in when I wanted or needed to which is a gift in those moments, but I hated it.

So, while it’ll be a long slog, I guess I may as well get it started, right?

Day 1, down.

So, I guess I’m officially a gal with a really, really short pixie-ish, crew cut type of hairdo. The type people look at and think ‘I wonder why she wants such a short haircut?’

From this ol’ wig (I took this the day before I went without the wig. I wanted to show how high the snow pile was) to that. No wonder people are shocked, right?

I’m Erica and I’m so glad that you’re here! This is a good catch-all place for all of my various projects, performances and ponderings.

I want to start by saying I’ve been sidelined this year after learning of my breast cancer diagnosis – talk about sucking the wind of one’s sails.

After COVID derailed all of us, last year finally felt like I was getting back to living again. I had a couple of performances that put a spring in my step and a song in my heart. I began 2022 with a couple of trips (Disneyland with the all the nieces and nephews and New York City for myself).

Then wham! Cancer. Not at all what I had in mind for my 2022.

But, as I tell people – it’s not been my best year but it’s also not been my worst (that was 2018 when my sweetheart husband died, shockingly, of blood clots).

All of that is to say, it’s been a hell of a year. I’m happy to say I’ve made it through chemo, my pathology results show zero cancer cells (hallelujah!) and I’m ready to start growing back some hair.

OH! And I’ve been working on a book (a dream of mine) and I’m gathering thoughts for a come back show.

I hope you’ll join me.