Lipstick brings joy to my face. Foundation, a splash of Touché Éclat, a sheer eyeshadow, a bit of eyeliner, a tot of mascara and little something something on my checks, apparently brings the life to my face.
Making sure I wear lipstick has been a cardinal rule of mine since My Myeloma began. The only times it has been broken, if you exclude the morning run to the shop, has been during periods of hospital admittance, days of the steroid crash and during Transplant Number 1 The Second when I felt it would be inappropriate to whack on some matte lipstick for a 0.2 mile walk. I’m no Gwen Stefani. At that time, I also stopped wearing make up because I just found it became too cumbersome, when I was only leaving my bed for 30 minutes a day and lifting a blusher brush felt like I was bench pressing whatever is considered a heavy weight to bench press.
I do not know what I envisaged for my appearance during Transplant Number 2. Comfort would be key of course and the outfit would have to be put together to allow for easy access to my PICC line and the minimal bearing of the arse crack. Next to that, because I knew I would be sitting on a bed for much of the day needing comfort, on a cancer ward, I concluded that wearing a wig would be unnessary. I originally wrote ‘redundant’, but that is very unfair for all those people, who I once was, who wear their wigs for themselves. As for the rest, my vanity must not have as much hold of a over me as I once thought it did, because I really did not give my hospital appearance and attire any thoughts other than the practical ones I mentioned above.
Well… that was until people started telling me I looked ‘unwell’. Or ‘tired’. Or ‘tired AND unwell’. Or when they avoided all niceties at all and said I look ‘awful’.
Why I wondered? Why in a matter of days had I gone from looking non descript, I had a ‘great’ on 10 July, to an ‘awful’? The answer, I pondered, has something to do make up. I stopped wearing the stuff at some point over the weekend when I forgot what which one was my right hand. In truth, I should have stopped wearing it a few days before that when I dropped the Chanel Blusher in the dog’s bed.
It begs the question, did the chicken come before the egg? Did I look awful when I stopped having the energy to put my make up on, or did I look awful because I did not have the energy to put make up on? Do I look tired because my neutrophils have dropped from 3.3 to <0.1 in a week or do I look tired because I stopped wearing my make up?
I imagine it is a combination of the two, but I am certain that a man going through what I am, would not have experienced such a vocal change in perception about his appearance to the extent I did, just because I happened to stop wearing make up at the same time I started to go downhill. I asked Mamma Jones about this today and she cannot be objective as a mother and just said that I ‘looked like me.’
Two days ago, despite assuring a Medically Trained Person that I felt exactly how I had, for better or for worse, for the previous few days, I was referred to a Senior Medically Trained Person because I looked like I was ‘struggling’. I think this translates to I had some eye bags. Yesterday, a nurse who had not seen me for since Friday told me that I looked ‘worse’. Would I have looked better if my eyes were brightened by mascara? Was it worth me even asking?
Would I be in my own bed now if my physical appearance hadn’t ‘deteriorated’? I am still eating, drinking and temperature free. Would the need for this current precaution had been less pronounced if I had been able to put a bit of effort into my appearance?
Is wearing make up as a young female cancer outpatient and looking ‘normal’ an expected pre-requisitite to make the other patients’ and the staff’s day more palatable? I am certainly more comfortable when I can give my face the time it needs.
Are all the make brands and their advertisers correct? Do women look better with make up on? Do I look better with make up on? I have been financially unable to purchase a daily ointment from MAC since Christmas and my cheekbones have felt positively non-existence since. I am used to be being told that I ‘look good considering’ and there is the frequent surprise of ‘you don’t look ill’. Complements I would not have, if I were to lay my face bare with it’s menopausal skin and hair, blotches and wrinkles.
Has putting the brush down been too much of a shock? Inwardly, over the last week I have felt grey, sunken, like no part of me has any definition whatsoever and I am in dire need of fluids. Was my war paint shielding others from this struggle? No about of make up could beauty up my blood results, nor could it stop me from wanting to sleep in the Day Clinic. Using the term ‘decision’ loosely, but how much was my decision to stop wearing make up until I felt able to apply it better than my three year old niece the removal of a mask? And how much of that decision made me look worse than I feel?
Most importantly, I always considered myself something of a light make up abuser, but given recent comments, just how much have I been wearing?