Mia is M.I.A.—and that's a good thing

I don't think it would be too much of a stretch to say that just about everyone who gets a cancer diagnosis indulges in magical thinking of one sort or another. Atheists make deals with God. Scientists read causal connections in mere correlations. And many people become superstitious.

In my case, superstition took the form of clinging to my cancer paraphernalia—the mediport the surgeon had placed under the skin of my chest to facilitate the delivery of chemo drugs, the cotton scarves and hats I acquired to cover my head during my eight months of baldness, the "cranial prostheses" (wigs) I wore to work. I feared that the hubris of ridding myself of these cancer-treatment accoutrements would bring on a relapse. And indeed it has been my experience in life that as soon as you throw out a dowdy dress, an old proof-of-jury-service voucher, an ancient folder of tax documents, that style comes back into fashion and an untimely jury summons arrives in the mailbox—along with a notice of an impending IRS audit. So why should it be any different with cancer?

It isn't, but as in the rest of life, shit happens—sometimes for the best. Although I had planned to hold on to my mediport for, like, forever, it became defective after a year and had to be removed before I had finished my year-and-a-half-long treatment. I got the remaining infusions in the back of my left hand (it doesn't hurt as much as you might think), and my veins held up. I'm not sure what happened to all the cotton scarves and Rasta hats I accumulated. They used to drift from the hall shelf onto the floor, and at a certain point I must have crammed them into my closet or thrown them out. Too bad if I threw them out, because I still think wistfully about a certain oversized aqua scarf with "om" in Sanskrit calligraphy that I bought on eBay.

As for the cranial prostheses, I gave one wig away to a friend of a friend who needed it for an art project, but I clung to the remaining one as protection against ever needing it again. As long as I have it, I thought, I won't need it.

The wig—a model named Mia—came from a long line of authentic-looking synthetic wigs by Amore. Perusing the catalog at the wig boutique was like—I'm just guessing here—going to a brothel and picking a sex partner. There was Brandi, Jennifer and Tanya, Regan, Tatum and Tova. Insurance paid $400 each for dear little Mia and her identical twin, waifish bobs with nicely variegated caramel-and-ash-blond highlights, though a friend with alopecia later directed me to a Fundamentalist Christian (don't ask) website—joshua24—that sells Mia for $119 (not necessarily a bargain for the insured patient, however, since insurance companies don't always cover website purchases).

When it came time to replace the original Mia, I was tempted to go with the longer-tressed Jennifer, but in the end I stayed loyal to Mia. In the unlikely event that people had been duped into believing that Mia was the real me, I didn't want to blow the ruse by growing three inches of synthetic hair overnight. And there was something in me that craved a consistent physical identity, even one not as pretty as Jennifer. There had been much awkwardness in elevators over the transition from real hair to wig, with people seeming not to recognize me or complimenting me on my new hair style (it had not been possible to find a wig as frowzy and frizzy as my real hair, so sleek, well-groomed Mia was a startling improvement). And I wasn't eager to endure another round of second takes.

I hated Mia. She rubbed me the wrong way—literally. But I needed her in order to go out in public. One of the humiliations of cancer is that unless you camouflage your plight with a wig, strangers invade your privacy simply by looking at you. Sometimes that led to heartwarming overtures, but mostly it led to rude stares or embarrassed turnings-away. So I covered my head. Scarves and hats were reserved for home and gym. Otherwise, I wore Mia. She protected me from unwanted attention. I protected her too. Iggy was hungry for her, and when Mia sat on her stand, I kept my door closed to fend off an attack.

When I was brave enough to go out with my short gray mouse-fur hair and no longer needed Mia, I threw her into a drawer. Every so often, in search of something else, I'd come upon her and get a frisson. Off my head and off her stand, she looked like a gutted animal, like something Iggy might bring in from the garden.

I really didn't need Mia anymore. I kept her because I was afraid of letting her go—and letting the cancer back in. But when I learned my friend K had uterine cancer, I knew I would send her Mia. So, yesterday I packed up Mia, the wig stand, the brush and the instructions and Fedexed them off to K, and they're winging their way to her now.

I didn't get a relapse while I had Mia. I know there's no cause-and-effect relationship, but I'm ashamed to admit that there's a secret childish part of me that believes there is. I'm not scared anymore that without Mia, I will get cancer again. For the moment, I feel free and unencumbered. And I superstitiously hope that Mia will protect K as she did me—and not just from strangers' stares.