When my youngest son was four years old he lost all his hair
to an autoimmune disorder called Alopecia Areata. Over the course of a month all
of his beautiful red curls fell out, then his eye lashes and eye brows. My
heart broke on a daily basis. But he was four, and hair to a four-year-old is
not necessarily a concern. When a classmate at the snack table in preschool
asked if he’d gotten a haircut, he looked confused until another classmate
spoke up and said, “Nah, Ian’s hair fell out.” Everyone went back to their
juice and animal crackers unalarmed.
As a parent you begin imagining your child’s life when you
first see those two pink lines, perhaps even earlier if you’re a true romantic.
I couldn’t imagine what elementary school would be like for my newly bald
child. Or maybe the problem was that I could imagine it – teasing, bullying, heartbreak.
For a few months we stayed in, but then it became obvious that the hair would
not be re-growing so we resumed our life with our three kids, but I hovered
close to my youngest ready to defend him at the slightest provocation.
While my husband was traveling, the kids and I ventured out
for dinner one night at the local pizza shop. We snuggled into a booth and I
tried not to notice the obvious stares of the other patrons. The kids were
oblivious to anything odd and happy to be out to dinner for the first time
since Ian’s diagnosis. When it was time to pay, I left the kids in the booth
and went to the cashier. She told me not to worry, our check was already paid.
I didn’t understand, but she assured me another patron had taken care of our check
and wished my little boy well. I stumbled back to collect my children and made
for the exit. Driving home it finally dawned on me that the kind person who
paid our check must have thought Ian had cancer.
