Jill Kleiss

” mood, I was one self-assured survivor. Breast cancer was in my rearview mirror. I had answers. I had all the answers. I could tell anyone facing the cancer bump in the road what to do, how to strap in and how to go for the cancer ride. I taught others how to maneuver around the side effects. I knew workarounds for safeguarding the brain from chemo and ways to preserve balance. I had the confidence to say, “I do not have cancer until someone tells me I have cancer.” This is all fine and good, until someone says, “You do.” Then someone told me I did.

But on this fifth day of September—my lucky number five—I was entering my fifth cancerversary.I had given little thought to my yearly mammogram scheduled for later thatafternoon. Before that appointment on this celebratory occasion, a special treat was on my calendar; my friend offered to be my chauffeur for a mini-spa day, where I was going to get my eyebrows plucked.

As we passed the outskirts of town, I glanced over my friend’s shoulder and viewed a ribbon of ocean rimming the sand’s edge. To no one, I said for the millionth time “

.” To me, this destination travel spot is home. A drive out of town brought with it the certainty that I would be returned to my sweet, craftsman cottage where my two cats and I live.

I looked out the window. Edging the landscaped highway, were newly created COVID tent cities sheltering the homeless. I turned my head, sipped a little hot coffee from the to-go cup and chose to look somewhere else—anywhere but there.

We got to my plucker ahead of schedule. Her warm, soothing voice invited me to lie down. Her leather chaise felt soft against my skin. I slipped my hands over the fabric and drank in an overdue dose of TLC for myself. As a first step, my plucker dyed my gray eyebrows and returned them to their former, youthful brown. Then I was plucked and shaped and, when I looked in the mirror, she handed me, I was at my beauty best.

My plucker and I made plans to come back more regularly. In post cancer treatment “

mood I was making all kinds of long-range plans. In hindsight, and during those planning-ahead moments, I heard the echo of inaudible laughter from above.

On our way out of town, we missed the freeway on-ramp. So, after disregarding a GPS suggestion to turn right at the next intersection, I mislead us through the surface streets of Oakland.

“We need gas anyway,” my friend said.

Several miles and turnarounds later, we found the cheapest gas. When my chauffeur went in to pay, I saw a young man with scruffy hair and a mustache, squatting on the sidewalk by the store front. He had a metal can in front of him, asking for change. Even though I didn’t want them to, our eyes locked. I still remember the sadness in his eyes; the I-don’t-know-why-I’m-here-but-I-am look. I didn’t leave him any money.

We got our gas and headed out in search of the freeway home.

I hate getting lost. I need to know where I’m going. If I don’t know my way, I feel I’m spinning around, not knowing which way is up, down, or sideways, like in the Hitchcock movie 

. Anxious, not in control, like an unexpected cancer diagnosis: what to do; where to go; whom to trust? Five years ago, when I first got cancer, I made a plan. Fast. I quickly assembled my team and put my plan in place. Step One: Chemo. Step Two: Lumpectomy. Step Three: Radiation. Step 4? Hit the gas and go. “

But being lost brought back that anxious, not-in-control feeling. In my head, I sounded harsher than the words that came out: “Get us out of here.”

My friend nodded in unspoken understanding. How odd, I thought, that we willingly turn our destinies over to technology—to emotionless voices you need to hear and follow, to be 

—while I want to do everything on my own. I want to be my own compass. I don’t want to be told what to do. I want to decide for myself what to do, where to go, and how and when I’ll get there instead of on this damned cancer journey where you are not in control and even when following the best practitioners citing 

 treatment direction, you ultimately discover there is no 

But in that car, the emotionless voice did lead us back to the freeway.

Moment by moment, we move toward life. We feel what needs to be felt. We can even feel through the numb parts—the broken pieces. Instead of looking somewhere else, we look straight on— at ourselves and others. We see what’s really there. Who is there? Who is there for us? Who is not? We choose to be with those we love, and those who love us back—like the person in the mirror, the new friend.

I no longer have any answers, only harder questions. And I still want – don’t want – to hear the answer; but I listen anyway. And then I go home—to myself.

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Moment by moment, we move toward life. We feel what needs to be felt. We can even feel through the numb parts—the broken pieces. Instead of looking somewhere else, we look straight on— at ourselves and others. We see what’s really there. Who is there for us? Who is not? We choose to be with those we love, and those who love us back—like the person in the mirror, the new friend.

Looking At Yourself Differently After Cancer

Now two years post cancer, I have begrudgingly accepted the new normal that arrives in tandem with the gift of cancer survival.

In my old normal, at my 10-hours-a-day sales job, women decades younger dubbed me the Energizer Bunny. Sure, I spent a little extra time in front of the makeup mirror and an equal amount of time choosing the perfect outfit — the worse I felt, the better I planned to look. It’s a psychological trick I employ: Fake it to make it.

Old Normal barely registered everyday senses like balance and smell. It took for granted the fragrance of lavender growing outside my home and the scent of salted sea air that greeted me each day. Old Normal gave no thought to endurance or stamina, either. It loved bike rides flanked by the ocean and considered the ability to cascade down a hill or effortlessly climb a flight of stairs as life entitlements, not feats to be treasured. Every day, Old Normal would watch as I brushed and styled my long brown hair, giving no thought to its presence. Worst of all, Old Normal would quickly glance at those supported by wheelchairs and canes and, after a blip of sympathy shorter than a blink, continue to be Old Normal.

Enter the diagnosis — cancer &mdash; and the life cycle of Chemo Normal. Its balance issues required me to place a hand on a supportive shoulder. Chemo Normal’s lack of endurance meant keeping an ever-vigilant eye for the available empty chair. Chemo Normal balked at climbing stairs and gave an adamant “No!” when it came to riding bicycles &mdash; that ability was gone, completely gone. 

The saying “Once you learn how to ride a bike, you never forget”? Not true.

Chemo Normal’s response to “Wake up and smell the roses”: “Forget about it.” Forget, too, the sweet-scented floral spectrum. Instead, Chemo Normal with its sense of humor, retained for me the odor of pungent, stinky perfume but not the burning odor of pots and pans, thus making timers mandatory cooking equipment.

On the outside, New Normal, albeit with a few changes like missing eyebrows and a receding hairline, looks like Old Normal. If you, like me, practice the trick of looking your best on your worst day, the compliments you receive can backfire: “You look great” comes with the expectation that Old Normal still exists when you, on the inside, know only New Normal — the you that has to be home in bed by 9 p.m., the you that has barely learned to walk again because of balance issues, the you that turns on timers so the house doesn’t burn down, the you that relies on movie subtitles because of hearing loss from chemotherapy &mdash; all while the stranger or a friend tells you what you want/don’t want to hear: “You look great.”

To these compliments, I smile and say “Thank you” while looking around for that chair.

Our longing for what was the old us is akin to a child who is emotionally attached to Mama’s skirt — a skirt imbued with magical powers, a skirt that must be captured in a tightly clenched fist to maintain security and status quo. Once that child’s tiny fingers capture that fabric, life’s disruptions seem surmountable. I want any remnant of my old normal self that I can recapture, and I will do whatever it takes to get back any piece of fabric from my old life.

Our team helps us recapture those pieces of fabric from Old Normal and supports us in our recovery. Teams for us vary but can include a physical therapist, essential for regaining balance and strength; an acupuncturist to help ease neuropathy or issues with sleep or energy; an oncologist who props our psyches and our immune systems to keep cancer at bay; and specialty doctors for any other maladies that chemo might have brought on — related to vision or cardio or osteoporosis. Accessory items complement the team: Fitbit trackers for sleep and exercise, herbal supple&shy;ments, and on and on. No one but us knows about the adjustments made to accommodate New Normal.

Thanks to my physical therapist, New Normal has learned to ride again and climb stairs and regained balance. Thanks to my acupuncturist and supplements, New Normal can smell lavender again but still requires a cooking timer. Thanks to my oncologist, New Normal is in touch with support services, and the writer in me is back. Thanks to my hairdresser, New Normal’s shorter, sassier style, grown out from Chemo Normal’s baldness, gives me the confidence to walk tall and stand on my own two feet — 20 minutes at a time. New Normal still wants me in bed by 9 p.m., although those “You look great” friends think I can stay out until midnight.

The gifts? When I pass the wheelchairs and canes, my eyes well up and my thoughts linger a little bit longer. I look for doors they need opened and offer my chair to someone who has it a little rougher than I do. As we age, we all meet New Normal. Those of us who’ve traveled down Cancer Road just get there a little sooner, and we choose to accept Chemo Normal or fight it with gusto. In this place of being old and new again, we are blessed with the gifts of cancer — a kind and empathetic presence, ours for a lifetime.

A survivor discusses the decision to either accept each stage of the cancer journey or fight it with gusto.

The Gifts of Cancer

JILL KLEISS feels confident in her new, short hairstyle. - PHOTO BY MICHELLE MAGDALENA

BARELY THREE MONTHS INTO my chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer, I flew to Texas to be with my dad. By then, my confidence had plummeted along with the number of hairs on my head. Fellow survivors in support groups tried to reassure me, but nothing helped.

I had had long hair since childhood, and, as predicted by my oncologist, after four chemotherapy treatments, my hair fell out at the slightest tug or stroke of a brush. I was self-conscious about being bald. I opted to have my head shaved, fast-forwarding to the inevitable.

As a naïve patient, I expected hair loss, but I didn’t realize that chemotherapy hits everything: eyelashes, eyebrows, nasal hair and all body hair. I never realized how protective lashes are or how important nasal hairs are for staving off sinus infections — until they were gone. At the time of my trip, I had reached the “all gone” stage. For the flight to visit Dad, I donned my wig, which I unaffectionately dubbed “Road Kill.” Worse yet, I wore the protective hygienic mask.

So, with Road Kill on my head and the mask across my face, I began my journey.

On board the plane, I tried cheering myself with “It could be worse” stories. They didn’t work. Regarding my fellow travelers, I opted for full disclosure. I told my seatmate, “I’m not contagious. I’m undergoing chemo.” He nodded at me but remained silent throughout the trip.

Patients undergoing chemotherapy know that it’s a risk to fly during treatment. The slightest infection could have landed me in the hospital because my immune system was so compromised. But there was no question that I would make the trip. CNN was interviewing my dad, N. Jack “Dusty” Kleiss, the last surviving dive-bomber (a pilot) from the Battle of Midway. He was 99. This would be his last interview, and it would provide me with our last picture together.

The cancer experience brings unexpected gifts, and one was coming my way. After landing, I hopped onto the handicap shuttle to get to my next gate. The wind didn’t sail through Road Kill, but the breeze made my mask whistle.

JILL KLEISS with her father, DUSTY, while she was undergoing chemotherapy. This is the last photo they took together. - PHOTO BY JILL KLEISS

Friendly fire, as I called it, shot out from commuting passersby. People tried not to stare but did anyway. Cancer is a unique battle. I’ve never been to war like my father, but with cancer, I feel that all my afflicted pals continue to be trench buddies. There is empathy, union and compassion with and for them that I previously could never have imagined.

Seated in the cart, I kept hoping to see a kindred cancer spirit but found none. Then, while walking to baggage claim, I spied a young, exotic-looking bald woman with thick, penciled eyebrows. Without hesitating, I approached her and asked timidly, “Are you one of us?” She saw my pink ribbon pin and said, “Yes, I have breast cancer, too.” We hugged and I started to cry. She was gorgeous, and I told her so. She let me take her picture before we traded names.

“I’m Corri,” she said. I learned that the mother of three was going back for more chemotherapy to shrink the tumor. She was stage 3B.

“I’m glad I met you,” I told her. “I needed to see one of us.”

As soon as I said goodbye to Corri my vision of myself changed. If Corri could be bald, so could I. After retrieving my suitcase from baggage claim, I stopped for a moment. With a clear intention, I lifted Road Kill from my head and dropped him in the trash. From then on, apart from the purpose of keeping my head warm, I wore bald proudly.

In the morning Dad had his interview. I watched as the cameras rolled. When they finished, I asked the cameraman if he would take a picture of us: my bald head next to his. My eyes misted. I somehow knew this would be our last picture together. There, holding him as I did, I felt beautiful for the first time in months. Dad accepted his age and impending death, and I, minus Road Kill, gained courage to be the true me headed for the “cured” state of health I am in today.

A breast cancer survivor remembers the trip that helped her regain confidence after hair loss.

Jill Kleiss

Looking At Yourself Differently After Cancer

The Gifts of Cancer

The Day I Ditched My 'Road Kill'

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