When you train for any long distance run you have to take two things into consideration. The physical stamina required, and the mental battle that will come about. You hear about it all the time. How runners hit the wall.

They start at a steady pace, and move along. They mark off each mile or kilometre as they pass, and slowly progress. But then something happens. They run out of steam. They let the remaining distance get the better of them. They crack.

This very wall exists with chemo. People start their treatment. They go to chemo. They deal with it as best they can. Then suddenly they just want it to be over. The side effects get too much. They want to give up.

I’d hit the wall a month ago, but recently hit that wall again. This time with full force.

It’s been nearly 5 months since my diagnosis.

It’s been 4 months since my mastectomy.

It’s been 3.5 months since my fertility treatment.

It’s been 3 months since I started chemo.

It’s been 4 weeks since I shaved my head.

The scars from surgery are fading. I’m nearly half way through the duration of chemo. A fair amount of time has passed since this all began, but the remaining time I have left for treatment still continues; and I couldn’t wish any harder for the finish line to come closer.

“I woke up early this morning because I couldn’t sleep.” Why, what’s wrong?

“I kept thinking about your hair. I think you should shave it.”

I sobbed and hugged my mum, because 12 hours before, I had cried. I cried because Mum had noticed my scalp at the back of my head. I cried because a few days earlier, I had told her that my hair was shedding so much, and I didn’t know what to do. I cried because Mum hadn’t expected my hair to thin as quickly as it had. Neither of us had expected it to thin as quickly as it had. I cried because despite using the cold cap, I could see through my hair to areas I’d never seen in my life.

My head was sore. It was itchy. And no amount of patting with the bottom of my palm would do me any good. It was worse than the first time, and it was just unbearable.

I’m going to shave my head Mum.

“Why are you patting your head?” It’s itchy.

Mum looked confused. I was watching TV, and every few seconds I would pat my head with the base of my palm. On the top, on the sides. I looked like a mad woman, but I didn’t want to scratch it.

I’d been told that a sensitive scalp was normal, and it would feel like each follicle would be crying for attention; or that my hair would feel like it had been pulled back tightly. It was driving me crazy. Every now and again I would scratch a part slightly, but quickly look to see if anything had come out.

Nothing. Phew!

That was the tail end of Christmas week. Five days ago I started shedding.