I didn’t count the hats. It’s surprising because I counted so many other things during that year. THE year. That time I’ve started referring to as “back when I was sick.” But there were many hats. The hats had been foretold. Thanks to a fortune cookie consumed just before my hair started falling out. This was in a fortune cookie with dinner on March 24th , 2015. The day the first hair fell:
I thought for sure I’d been punk’d.
I was told my hair would start 2-3 weeks after the first treatment. It was 12 days. I had two days of random hairs falling in the daytime, and a pile of the short, dark hairs on the drain after a shower. When it stopped the water from draining, I found tissues. Tissues to pick up the wet hair, which I find disgusting. Then I wept. Tissues weren’t enough for that. Kathy had me at the stylist by lunch, my boss told me to give myself a break and take the afternoon to myself.
I had the buzz cut for about 2 weeks. The hair continued to fall out, but they were much smaller pieces. I learned that my head is shaped quite nicely; not an alien’s head at all. Still, I wanted the cover of a hat. For me, the hat was like privacy. Odd for something so obvious, but hats made me feel more invisible.
I’d had hats. I was no hat virgin for sure. Mostly, though, it was my old standby Google hat — my favorite for walks and the gym. I had just recently acquired my floppy red camping hat, too. These would not get me through a year. I needed to shop. My first chemo-hat purchase was a cap with studs all over the front. I could never decide if I liked it because of the spikes (did they make me look badass?) or was it really just so uncool it made it’s own special statement?
Before all the hairs had disappeared, I had a visit from a friend who had sewn for me a purple hat. Sewn! It is cap style with tiny red buttons as accessories. I love that hat so much it hangs in a place of honor in my closet. I think of it as my first official hat. I bought clothes specifically because they would match the hat!
Other hats – many hats – came along from other amazing friends: fedoras, doo-rags, pink hats, the blue vintage-style hat, knitted hats when the weather turned cold. A friend who is a breast cancer survivor gave me a bag of hats. Many I wore often, the deal was to pass them on to someone else who needed them later. There were so many hats around, I ran out of room on my door with all the hat hooks. I had them hanging everywhere, sorted into boxes, one box with bandanas, and a box with just headcovers. My mom made soft caps — soft like t-shirts — I could wear to bed to keep my head warm. They became my go-to wear for when I didn’t feel good. No seams against my skin. I imagine there were days someone who saw me often enough could estimate how well I was feeling based on my head covering.

• T-shirt bed cap: tired or not feeling good. Actual sick day.
• Pink hat: happy & wants to focus on happy, probably with reasonable energy
• Google hat: Thinks she’s going for a walk or going to exercise (read: walk across house)
• No hat: Tricky – either feeling confident or feeling so sick of it all I’m going to stick my bald head out there to piss off other people, too. Or, frankly, just HOT. I would get hot flashes and hot is hot.

Now, I’ve collected up most of the hats – keeping a selection for me – and brought them to MSTI. It was strange to feel sad about the hats going away. I didn’t want to need them and I was ready to be done with them, but I loved them, too. I stopped wearing them when chemo ended and the weather warmed up. I’d been mostly hatless at home, but not out & about. I was just so hot, one day I took off my hat at work. I was done. No more hats. I haven’t worn one in about 6 months. It was time to sort them and let someone else use them.
When I had an appointment last week, I brought in the hats. Not all, of course, but a lot. Other people need them. I kept the precious ones that were special because of who or why I got it. The rest I toted to the “Accessories Room” at MSTI.
I took some quiet time to hold each one, to remember it with prayers of thanks for it finding its way to me, and then I set it up nicely on a shelf with others. Soon, another patient will be in need of something from that room to make them feel special and safe. I hope their shopping experience will be like a trip to Nordstrom, but without the price tag.
I said good-bye to the hats. I thanked them for their protection — from the cold, from the uncomfortable hospital pillows, and from the looks that are hard to avoid from the gentle people who recognize you are one of the too many who actually know why there is an accessories room at MSTI.
It would be a kick to see one of those hats in action on a random day. And, it would be better if no one ever had to be introduced to that room ever again.