To Wig or Not To Wig?

A couple of weeks ago, my Dad and I made the long 5 hour car journey back up to Aberystwyth where I was at uni (and will be returning to in September for my final year) so that I could spend several days seeing my lovely friends, some of whom I hadn't seen since before I was diagnosed last year in June 2013! Which was mainly down to me not wanting to see anybody when I wasn't well. It wasn't that they weren't my friends and couldn't be bothered to come and see me, it was simply because I didn't feel like seeing or talking to anyone. I shut myself off from my friends for a while. I didn't tell them when I was first diagnosed  in June, only a few people knew as my Mum had passed on a message I wasn't well, the majority of my friends found out a month later in July when I dropped it into conversation. This may sound strange. Why wouldn't I tell my friends straight away? Some of whom I've known for years and years. Honestly? I don't think I accepted the whole situation for a while. I was there in hospital, having blood and platelets being pumped into me quite intensively during the first several weeks and it was almost like I was looking down on myself watching all of this going on around me. It took me a while to actually register what was going on.

So when I went up to Aberystwyth, I took my trusty wig along which I got from Trendco in Hove, (you can read all about my lovely wig *here*) as I was very aware of the fact that when I last saw the majority of my friends, I had had lovely long hair that reached almost half way down my back.

I arrived at my friends house (where I should also have been living this year) in my wig and it was really lovely to see everybody again! I braved it the next couple of days and didn't wear my wig, as we mainly stayed in catching up, or wandered around town for a bit. Nothing major. Then came Friday night. Two of my friends were celebrating their birthday in town (which I did know about, as that was one of the reasons I had gone up to Aberystwyth in the first place.) The theme was to dress as something beginning with either a G or a T, so my friend and I went as two tigers. After I'd done makeup on a couple of my friends, I started getting ready, the panic had already set in, what was I so worried about? Should I wear my wig? Shouldn't I wear my wig? Some people won't be aware of what I've been through, what will they say? Will they shout abuse at me? Will they make a passing comment about the girl with really short hair? Why is it so short, did she do a Miley and shave it off and it's only just growing back? She had such nice hair before, what has she done to herself? The questions and the nasty comments that could potentially be said kept popping up in my head. I was panicking, it was the first time I was going out since June and I couldn't stop this chain of negative thoughts that I thought other people would be thinking too when they saw me.

I had to put on my wig.

I wanted a night of normality, I wanted a night where I could go out with my friends like I used to, like any 21 year old would want to and just have fun. The line 'I feel more comfortable with my wig on' came out of me as I was getting ready and they were fine with that. They didn't ask me any questions, or why, (which I was glad about because honestly, I think I would have started crying.) They simple said if that's what makes you comfortable then that's fine with us. I have the best bunch of friends.

Me, Courtney and Frankie, ready for our night out. ❤

So I went out and I had a lovely final night in Aber. Going back to Aberystwyth made me realise a few things. It made me realise that when you've been through so much and you've been told you're in remission and in the all clear you want life to snap back to normal, how it used to be. But you know what? It won't and it doesn't. Looking at myself each day in the mirror is a constant reminder, I see my short, boyish hair and remember how it all fell it. I can picture it very clearly. Clumps falling from my head to the floor. Masses of hair getting stuck in my hair brush... even my Dad scooping handfuls worth of hair up off the bathroom floor and telling me it'll grow back. He's right, it does grow back. But that doesn't mean it makes it any easier.

My life won't snap back to normal, physically yes, I'm doing so much better than I was and I am in remission and so far in the all clear. But mentally, it takes its toll. There will always be the memories, the little things you see or do on a daily basis that will trigger flashbacks to lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines. I'm sure one day in several years time, it will be back to it's lovely length, but for now I have my trusty wig for those days when I don't want to think about what's happened, or thinking about it becomes all too much. I'm incredibly thankful for the doctors and nurses who have helped me this far and will continue to help me and I am also thankful for my amazing bunch of wonderfully supportive friends.