Wings, Wine & Wigs

I Did It. I Actually Did It.

For the first time, I wore the $4,000 wig.

The wig that has been sitting there, staring at me, daring me to put it on. The wig that costs more than some people’s mortgage. The wig I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to wear without feeling like I was playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

I wore it. I drove to Gloucester, met Charlotte at the Beauport for a quick lunch before my bone density scan at Addison Gilbert and I continued to wear it right into the hospital!  And for a brief moment, I caught my reflection and thought, Okay. I see her.

Was it a perfect moment of reclaiming my identity? No.
But it was something. And right now, something is enough.

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A Self Reflection Moment: IT’S NOT ABOUT THE HAIR

Let me start by saying I’m fine.

Being bald, watching my baby birdie comb-over vanish, and dealing with the scalp pain that comes with each chemo session—it all passes.

But losing my hair? That was a top ten moment.  One of the lowest parts of this entire shit show.

I can’t even describe it. It wasn’t just about the hair. It never was.

For 53 years, my hair was part of me—my body, my personality, my image.  I had never cut it shorter than my shoulders.

If you know me, I’m not a crier. Not for any one specific reason. It just takes a lot to make me truly cry because, let’s face it—I’m a fighter.  (I was going to say an “angry person,” but fighter sounds better, right?!)  Besides, it’s just easier to get mad and go after whatever’s making me cry.  But this? This got me.

For a solid week, the shower became my personal meltdown zone.  Not just crying—gut-wrenching, full-body sobbing, the kind that steals your breath and leaves you hollow.

Screaming into the water as my hair was falling out uncontrollably—just like my tears.
And when it finally matted into two giant dreadlocks, frozen in place by my own grief, I just couldn’t.

I stood there, water pouring down, willing it to drown out the grief, the helplessness, the sheer unfairness of it all.

Because it wasn’t just about hair.  It represented so much loss.

Physically, it hurt. No one tells you that. But beyond the pain, it’s the shock of having a part of your body fall away so suddenly. I don’t care what part it is—you don’t choose to lose it, and that’s hard.

But more than anything, it was what the hair represented.

• Control— losing the ability to choose. This wasn’t a bold, empowering decision. It was taken from me, strand by strand, until I barely recognized myself. They say, take control, shave it off before it starts falling out—it’ll make you feel empowered! Bullshit. There’s nothing empowering about standing in front of a mirror, buzzing away the one thing that’s leaving you whether you like it or not. It’s not control—it’s surrender in disguise.
• Identity—my hair framed my face, softened my features, made me feel like me. Watching it go felt like losing a version of myself I’d known forever.
• Normalcy—the nausea, the exhaustion, the awful taste of metal in my mouth—I could fight through those. But hair? That’s the billboard that screams cancer. The thing that strips you of the ability to blend in, to feel like yourself, to pretend, even for a moment, that life is normal.
• Loss—not just hair, but everything that has come with this diagnosis—control over my body, trust in my health, the life I had before all of this. It’s another reminder that no matter how much I fight, this is still happening.

So no, it’s not about the hair.  I T   N E V E R   W A S !

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Happy Saturday!

As we head into the weekend, I can finally say it—I’m starting to feel better.

The nausea and stomach issues are more manageable.

The chemo burn has made its way to the tip of my tongue and lips, but now it’s creeping along my forehead, nose, back, and neck. It hasn’t hit in full force yet, but I know it’s coming.

Still, I’m definitely feeling better. And I cannot wait for the end of next week when I really feel better.

But the following week?  That I can wait for—because we head back into chemo.

But, I wore the wig. I took one small step back toward myself.

And whether I wear it again tomorrow or leave it sitting on its stand for another week, it doesn’t matter. Because I did it.

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Pilates People: My Sanity & My Reality Check

First off, let’s be clear—it’s you, not me. Period.

Nobody makes me feel more like myself than my Pilates people.

The laughs, the energy, the absolute nonsense that gets me through—especially you, Jennifer, this morning. Keep that up. Every day. Forever. Thanks.

I try to make it to the studio when I can, but I’ll keep working out of the house because, well, I know I’m safe here.

(Safe as in: if things suddenly go sideways, I can make a quick exit without traumatizing an entire class. You’re welcome.)

That said, if I can get in my car and drive to the studio for my Tuesday & Friday classes, I’ll be there.

• Tuesday crew, I promise—I’ll see you.
• The next couple of Fridays? TBD. We’ll see how things shake out.

And for my privates & duets that come to the house—don’t worry, I’m here.
Even if I’m on the floor, I’m still here.

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Winning & Grateful (As Always)

As I head into my better days, I’m winning—and so incredibly grateful for my people, who literally do not have to do anything for me.  But when they do?  I love it. I appreciate it. I eat it.

• Tuesday Night: Laurie Pascucci (California MVP) sent dinner from Not Your Average Joe’s—Zoe’s favorite.
• Thursday Night: Jen came through with Super Sub and a gift bag packed with everything I’ll need in the coming months. But honestly? Her support means even more.
• Zoe, who also brought me flowers, because let’s be real: sorry, future significant others of my kids, but we love flowers in this family.
• Friday: Powerball Joanne delivered Joe’s Bakery goodies from Gloucester. 
• Then, Pam Bradley surprised me with a box of treats from Kim’s Pure Pastries—which I now have to hide because Zoe and Chip are already attacking it.

The continued stream of cards, texts, messages?
I hear them all. If I don’t respond, it’s not because I don’t appreciate them.

And to top it off—Kelly, Noah, Shelby, and her boyfriend tried to sneak in to do a favor for Chip without “bothering” me.

Are you kidding me?!

I ran outside like, What are you doing?!
Their response? We didn’t want to bother you.

And their second response: We know you have so many people supporting you. (Just know we are here for you if you need us).

Wait what??  Did I miss a memo?

Let’s get this straight:
None of you are ever a bother. EVER.  AND, I need all the support I can get, especially from family and friends!

I see you, I appreciate you, and I am so damn lucky to have you.

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Wings, Wine & Wigs

📅 Wednesday, March 19 | 4:00 – 6:00 PM

Over the next year, I’m hoping to have many occasions to celebrate “the wig”—the infamous $4,000 wig that Mass General Brigham’s insurance has denied twice so far. Those who know me know I will continue to appeal—because at this point, it’s about the principle.

There are a number of issues I’ve become extremely passionate about, things I will be advocating for this year and beyond—but more on that later.

For now, this damn wig needs its grand debut.

So, I’m inviting you to stop by Hale Street for Wednesday Wings, Wine & Wig Night.

No pressure, no RSVP, no commitment—just a casual, come-and-go-as-you-please kind of thing.

I’ll be there, I’ll be eating dinner, and if you want join, grab a seat, have a drink, or just swing by for a few minutes to say hi and admire the wig in all its overpriced glory, you’re more than welcome.

If you have a wig—bring it. If you don’t, pick one up, borrow one, or let Amazon send you something ridiculous. Put it on, show up, and let’s make this happen.

If you think you might stop by, let me know so I can gauge whether we need a long bar table or just a couple of seats. (Otherwise, it’ll just be me and my usual suspects, trying to pretend this is totally normal.)

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Challenge Question: Wine + Wigs Night

A chaotic, hilarious, and absolutely necessary kind of gathering.

If you were throwing your own Chemo + Chaos Wig Party, what’s your strategy?

A) Go full identity crisis with a wig that makes people question your secret life.
B) Pick the worst wig possible and make it fashion.
C) Channel your inner diva—new wig, new personality.
D) Ditch the wig halfway through and declare yourself the final boss.

E) Choose your own.  Share in the Comments or Text me to make me laugh!

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Side Note of Truth

Please know—I am human.

I write this blog to pour my heart and soul into it and to be really raw. If you want to see me, I’m here. I use humor as a defense mechanism (shock, I know).

But let me tell you something—writing this blog is hard. Truly hard.

This one? Yeah, this one’s packed with humor—but I actually wrote it while bawling my eyes out.

And you know what finally made me stop crying?  Besides Fenway trying to sit on my keyboard like an illiterate, attention-starved menace?

The fact that I no longer have nostril hairs.

That’s right. I was in full ugly cry mode, but without any nasal filtration system in place, I quickly realized that I had absolutely no way of stopping the snot from free-falling out of my nose like a faucet with zero regard for dignity.

And let me tell you—that is a quick way to snap out of a breakdown.

So, yes. Humor gets me through. You all get me through.

But by no means is this easy to write.

So when I say, "read the blog", know that I wrote it feeling everything—
Crying along the way, screaming into the void, frustrated, sad, and hurt.

But I’m doing it for me.
And I’m doing it for you.

Love you, my people.