Had I Known

by Joan Lunden

  There was a lot written about how I was balancing work and mothering, but I will always remember one particular morning on the program. As I usually did, I breast-fed two-month-old Jamie and put her in her crib for her morning nap while I was on the air. That morning I was interviewing some senator about President Ronald Reagan’s “trickle-down” economics. You may remember that economic theory, but what I remember about it is that all of a sudden I experienced inflation and “trickle-down” firsthand. It was time for baby Jamie to feed, and my boobs knew it. Fortunately, I was wearing a silk blouse, so the cameras didn’t see it, and I was able to scurry off and find a blow dryer so that, as the saying goes, the show could go on.

  Those were wonderful memories.

  Elise and I were ever grateful for the baby swing we kept in my office. We would wind that swing up so we could get twenty minutes of a quiet swinging baby and work on the script for the next day’s show. We changed diapers while I did interviews with major magazines about balancing work and motherhood, and we always found a way to make things work.

  And now my middle daughter, Lindsay, was in the same position. She would learn to juggle being a new mom while running my production company with me. I had so many hopes for her. She would be so natural at being a great, loving mom—and today very much represented the circle of life. Here we were, making plans to celebrate baby Lindsay having a baby of her own. I had to remember that life was good, even in the midst of a temporary crisis.

  Before I got too far into my chemotherapy and perhaps didn’t feel up to running around like Speedy Gonzalez for the big event on July 20. I was eager to get all of the shower arrangements handled while I still had great energy; I wanted to make all of the decisions and have every plan in place so the party would come off without a hitch. I wanted everything to be just right for the July 20 baby shower.

  It was getting close to the time for my tanning appointment. I turned and asked Elise if she wanted to continue on with me for the rest of the afternoon, but she needed to get back home.

  I drove over and parked my car in front of the Allura Salon. I was half an hour early for my scheduled spray tan. As I entered the salon, I spoke with a few of the ladies I knew at the front desk about whether I could shave my head before I went upstairs for my spray tan with Lana. The ladies all looked at me like I was from Mars.

  Was I joking with them?

  Had I gone crazy?

  Was I about to pull a Britney Spears?

  I could see that the desk manager was a little visibly shocked by my request. She fumbled over her words, saying she wasn’t sure any of her stylists could buzz all of my hair off.

  “But you don’t understand,” I said in a quiet calm voice. “My hair is all going to fall out in a week or so anyway. Isn’t there someone here who can just shave it off before I go up for my tanning? This way I’ll be able to get a real head-to-toe tan.” I said that with a Cheshire-cat grin, doing my best to charm my way into a yes.

  That was when a tall dark hairdresser named Juan emerged from the back and whispered that he would be happy to shave my head. When he said he’d do it, I turned and looked at him with utter gratitude and relief.

  To be certain, there were several moments during my five-minute exchange with the women behind the counter when I internally vacillated about my intentions. But now that Juan was in front of me with such kindness and compassion, I knew I could do this.

  His understanding eyes drew me to the rear of the salon. We walked to a station in the back where I calmly sat and let out a long, deep sigh. Certain no one would see us, I let him turn on his electric razor. Juan wasted no time and aimed it toward my head.

  “STOP!”

  I held up my hand. “Wait.”

  I took a deep breath and said . . .

  “We need this on video, and we need some pictures.”

  Yeah, this was a moment I knew I wanted on camera.

  I handed my iPhone to Lana, the woman who’d done my spray tans for years. I figured if I could stand in front of her naked, I shouldn’t care if she saw the top of my bald head.

  “Okay, Juan. Go ahead—do this before I change my mind.”

  I liked the sound of that. I was making the decision for myself. This wasn’t being done “to me.”

  I’d come here by myself.

  I’d asked for it by myself.

  No one was holding my hand or spiriting me on.

  I was in control, and in the process, I felt like I was becoming a true warrior in my battle.

  As Juan moved the electric clippers closer to my head, I looked into the lens of the iPhone camera that Lana was pointing straight at me. I think I said, “Okay, here we go, it’s all coming off,” and I think I may have also said, “Make me G.I. Joan,” because there was a part of me that needed to feel that right there and then.

  It was a little scary; I’m not going to lie.

  Actually, it was more weird than scary.

  I don’t know what I expected to see in the mirror in the moments after the final sweep of the clipper. I suppose I expected my head to be all pink with no hair, like most of the bald men I see, or maybe even a little newborn baby. But in reality, it was more like a really, really close buzz cut.

  When Juan took ALL of my blond hair off and only a little stubble remained, it looked like I was a buzzed brunette.

  I’ll be damned!

  My natural hair down at the roots is brown!

  Oh yes, I remember now.

  And let’s not forget those two tiny little gray patches up around the sides of my face.

  Sexy mama!

  How vain am I that my immediate thought was how badly I needed a bottle of bleach poured on my head in order to turn my new brown buzz cut platinum?

  Or would it be better to get some brown hair dye and cover those little gray patches up on the sides?

  Or maybe I should just let it go, because theoretically, it was all supposed to fall out next week anyway?

  I stared at the mirror for a minute or two and didn’t say a word.

  The more I looked, the more I kind of liked it.

  I felt tough—like G.I. Joan.

  There was something very empowering about this experience, and yet afterward, I slowly got out of the chair, reached down, and picked up all of my hair from the floor. I’m not exactly sure why I did it. Somehow I must have thought I was saving it for posterity. It sure wasn’t going in my baby book! I placed the hair in aluminum foil and hid it in the back of my closet. There are some things we all do in life that we can’t explain. For me, this is one of them.

  I thanked Juan for his kindheartedness, went upstairs with Lana, and got a full HEAD-to-TOE spray tan. The reality of what I had just done didn’t sink in until it was time to put my clothes back on. For a moment, I stood motionless—I barely recognized the face staring back at me in the mirror. And then I slipped my new wig on as if nothing unusual had happened and made my way downstairs to pay.

  Juan was waiting for me at the register. He refused to let me pay him; he said he was proud and honored to have been a part of my metamorphosis.

  Wow!

  I didn’t expect that kind of love or support.

  Way cool!

  No one could tell, but under my wig, I was now bald.

  Suddenly, I was feeling quite confident and cocky, like I had donned my warrior gear and wasn’t going to take it off anytime soon. I got in my car and nonchalantly went about the rest of my day, running errands. Not a single person I came into contact with had any idea what had just occurred. No one was any wiser that a bald head was lurking under that blond wig.

  It had been a while since I’d checked my phone for messages. I saw that Jeff had sent a group text to the family, informing us that he had taken Max to Walmart for a haircut. The text included a picture of Max standing in front of the salon inside the store. This was a joke and a reflection of Jeff’s off-the-cuff sense of humor. You see, several years back, he’d taken Max to that salon when the regular
barbershop was closed. They ended up cutting off all of his fabulous long locks. I was so upset that I made Jeff swear he’d never take Max back there again. I knew him well enough to get that it was a spoof text to me and my girls. However, I was in an especially playful mood. I responded to his news with a rather unexpected answer.

  I wrote back: Oh yeah? I can top that! I just shaved my head!

  I didn’t think it would cause such a commotion.

  While I went about the rest of my day, my family went into a tailspin. I was in the phone store, working on getting an upgrade to my cell phone, when Sarah called from Los Angeles. “Mom, what is going on? Did you really shave your head?”

  “Yup, and I have to go. I’m standing in the phone store. Love you!”

  She must have thought I’d gone crazy and completely lost my mind.

  Moments later, I received the same call from Lindsay.

  “Honey, I need to call you back,” I said.

  I wasn’t trying to make light of the situation. I guess I was trying to just be “normal.” I didn’t feel like explaining my decision to anyone. I owned my choice and wasn’t about to apologize for it. Besides, what could they do about it now?

  Behind the scenes, Jamie, Lindsay, and Sarah were frantically trying to reach one another, trying to figure out what was going on and who was with me. They couldn’t figure out how this possibly could have happened.

  Well, it did.

  By eight-thirty that night, everyone had calmed down. I sent out a text to let them know I had made a decision that I was more than my hair, and I trusted they would not love me less because I had less hair.

  Jeff immediately texted back, Actually, I love you more.

  Crazy, isn’t it?

  Crazy, rockin’, friggin’, amazingly, powerfully cool!

  I had morphed into G.I. Joan.

  I hoped I still felt the same way tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 11

  Creating My Battle Plan

  One of the most important things you can do is remember the power of girlfriends . . . girlfriends saved my day.

  JACLYN SMITH

  Actress, diagnosed with breast cancer in 2002

  I was desperately in search of G.I. Joan when I went to my second chemo appointment. It was my last scheduled chemo treatment in New York City before I’d move up to Maine. Lindsay planned to meet me at Dr. Oratz’s office so I wouldn’t be alone for the treatment. The only thing on my mind that morning was the nurse trying to stick the needle in my arm again.

  Yikes!

  Unfortunately, my worst fears were met as we got off to a tough start again. The first not-so-perfect needle prick hurt really bad—so much that I began to weep. I had to pull myself together and stop crying like a little girl. I must press on. Be strong, I thought.

  Well, that’s sometimes easier said than done. Eventually, the nurse found a good vein and began administering Benadryl and anti-nausea meds before beginning the Taxol and, for the first time, a dose of carboplatin. I spent the next three hours trying not to cry.

  Where is G.I. Joan?

  Lindsay hugged me and made contact as often as I’d let her. She could see I was in pain, physical and emotional. This wasn’t the way I wanted my daughter to see me, especially my pregnant daughter. I didn’t want the stress of my situation negatively impacting her in any way. Oh, how the tables had turned. I sat in my comfy recliner as the chemo chemicals dripped into my arm, closed my eyes, and remembered Lindsay as a little girl, holding her hand at the pediatrician’s office, telling her everything would be okay when she had to get a shot. And now here we were. My daughter, grown up and expecting a child of her own, was now holding my hand and comforting me in the very same way.

  “Press on. Be strong.”

  C’mon, G.I. Joan. Where are you?

  When I awoke the following day, I looked in the mirror at the brown stubble atop my head and thought, Who are you?

  Even though I knew it was probably going to fall out in the next week or two, I wanted to make my light brown stubble blond stubble. Until it fell out, I just wanted to see a blonde looking back at me in the mirror. I had some hair color at home that my colorist always packed up for me for when I was on the road, so Emir could touch up the roots on the go.

  Perfect! I thought.

  I was headed to New York for a final wig fitting and an appearance on Dr. Sanjay Gupta’s show at CNN. When I walked into Bitz-n-Pieces, I announced, “Before we go any further, I need to tell you guys something! I shaved my head yesterday, and we need to make my brown stubble platinum. That will make me happy.”

  Emir jumped into action and got the hair color out and on my head lickety-split. Forty minutes later, I was a blonde again—well, sort of, kind of. I mean, whatever hair was on my head was blond— platinum eighties Madonna blond. When I turned and looked in the mirror, I saw . . . me.

  Now, even though I had initially set out to do only one interview about my diagnosis, when the request came in from Sanjay Gupta, I couldn’t say no. I really admire him: he is so smart, so reputable, so caring, and a terrific interviewer. During our interview, I made it a point to say that my course of treatment was what I decided to do with my doctors, but there are many ways for a patient to go down this path. No two cancers are alike, so you can’t compare yourself to your friend, your sister, or even me. Everyone’s cancer is unique. Each patient and her doctor(s) need to decide which tools are best to use for her cancer, her life, her history, and her pathology. It can be confusing to hear from people who have had different experiences, but it is because everyone is different that there are many “right” ways to treat breast cancer.

  Sanjay revealed that this was the first time I was being seen on camera wearing a wig.

  Okay, there it was. Reveal # 2.

  That cat was now out of the bag.

  I could breathe.

  Surprisingly, hearing him say that wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated. Amazingly, he thought I looked very much like myself. In fact, if Sanjay hadn’t said something, I doubt anyone would have noticed, since I hadn’t told anyone outside my husband and three oldest daughters that I’d shaved my head.

  After the interview, Lindsay and I walked across the street to the wig salon and finished up my fittings. Lindsay’s husband, Evan, arrived at the salon so we could all drive to Maine together.

  I hopped in the backseat of their Jeep Cherokee, and I couldn’t have been happier to be leaving the frenetic energy of Manhattan behind. It had been a whirlwind couple of weeks. I was exhausted from the schedule and mentally drained from the emotional toll of the experience so far. As Evan drove north, I snuggled up in the backseat and closed my eyes. We were leaving New York on a Friday afternoon, so we would have a long drive ahead of us. Frankly, I was pretty oblivious to all of the other weekend tourists hitting the road at the same time. I was in another world and delighted to be headed to our summer home. Within moments of curling up in the backseat, I was fast asleep.

  While there is never a good time to get cancer, at least I could spend my summer on an astoundingly beautiful lake in southern Maine, taking my treatments and getting ready for the women’s wellness camp that I run every August, Camp Reveille.

  After waking up at three-thirty A.M. for nearly two decades and raising seven kids, I understood the need for a little escape and play therapy. I’d spent many years living an energetic, healthy, and lively lifestyle; logging obligatory hours at the gym; and doing everything I could to stay fit. But when I met my husband, I discovered a fitness secret that trumped anything else I’d experienced.

  For ten years I’d been going to Maine to spend my summers at Camp Takajo. I’d swim, sail, hit the tennis courts, scale a climbing wall, and work out with a terrific fitness trainer. At the end of every summer, I always found myself in the best shape, my spirits lifted, highly energized, and truly inspired. It occurred to me that if I felt that way, I could give other women the same experience—at least for a weekend.

  Why couldn’t I
plan a weekend getaway where like-minded women could share that exhilarating environment?

  After reaping the benefits myself for ten summers, I got busy planning a fun-filled, joy-inducing, soul-nourishing experience for other multitasking women to spend some much-needed time concentrating on their well-being in one of the most serene, peaceful, and enjoyable havens imaginable.

  I wanted women to have the chance to take up archery or arts and crafts, scale a fifty-foot climbing wall, or take a dance class. I wanted inspirational speakers to share their knowledge on everything about relationships, fashion, health, and finances. And I wanted to plan fitness classes that ranged from yoga, Pilates, core training, strength, balance cardio, to self-defense, and even kickboxing. Since the camp is on Long Lake, there had to be activities on the water and, of course, hiking among the majestic pines to invigorate the mind, body, and soul. And no weekend getaway would be complete without relaxing spa services, right?

  When I started Camp Reveille nine years ago, my primary goal was to make sure everyone who came had the chance to check out for a few days in order to be their best in today’s busy world. It’s so important that we take care of ourselves. Not just when we are sick. “Me time” is good for the spirit, good for the soul, any time.

  I was anxious to settle into our summer home on Long Lake. Actually, it went a little beyond settling in, since I was still feeling the effects of the steroids I’d been given with the last chemotherapy treatment. As soon as I got there, I was cleaning every nook and cranny and closet in the house. I wanted everything to be perfect when the lousy side effects of chemo began to hit. I also knew that I would have a houseful of guests the following weekend, and I wasn’t sure how I would be feeling, so I wanted to be ahead of it—just in case.