Raising Maine

Growing up, Christmas mornings found me eagerly digging under our twinkling tree for the biggest box with my name on it. Waiting impatiently for my family to drag in, I ran my hands over the shiny holiday paper, daydreaming about the treasure locked inside. I could hardly wait to tear it open.

Then there are life's lovely gifts that paper can't be wrapped around – a delivery of fragrant spring flowers in the dead of winter, an unforeseen visit from an old friend and little notes of endearment scribbled on construction paper with glitter, stickers and the magic words "I love you Mom."

Wrapped or naked, surprise or expected, one thing most gifts have in common is that they are obvious. You know when you've received one.

Most gifts, that is. But not all.

hey're downright hideous at first, but bear a beautiful surprise after a long, cold winter. Gifts like these require a bit of patience and receptivity to the unexpected – sometimes, even the unwanted.

I've recently learned a lot about these kinds of gifts.

"I don't want to wash my hair, Mommy. If I wash it, I'll have to brush it. And if I brush it, it will fall out!" Staring at my 7-year-old daughter in disbelief as she showered that night last March, I knew something was very, very wrong.

In March 2009, my daughter had long hair all the way down her back, just as she had insisted she would since she was 3 years old. "I want hair like Pocahontas, Mommy – all the way down my back" was her lifelong mantra. And until handful after handful came out in her brush this past spring, that's exactly what she had.

In the four months between March and July, my Abby lost all of her hair – even her eyebrows and eyelashes. Our initial weeks of doctor's appointments and blood work were wrought with fear, insane worry and my waking up in the night sobbing, certain that if only I had put more lotion on her as a baby this wouldn't be happening.

Until last March, I had never heard of the auto-immune disease alopecia areata. I had no idea that more than a million children in America endure this unexplained, unpredictable and untreatable hair loss everyday. And though this disease is not life threatening, it is life changing.

Given Abby's fast moving condition and the lack of clear medical information, we took the "shotgun approach" to treatment. We've spent countless hours researching and consulting with medical professionals from osteopathy, Chinese medicine and homeopathy to the head of pediatric dermatology at Children's Hospital in Boston. We will never know the cause, whether her hair will re-grow, and, if it does grow back, whether it will fall out again.

I have never felt as helpless as when my baby girl buried her bald head into my chest and wept, "I want my hair back, Mommy." It was an all-time low. She had no hair left and there were no signs of re-growth. She was sick of the hour-long nightly oil treatments, the gluten free diet and loads of supplements. And I had no answers for her.

My thoughts rage wildly between "It's just hair" and "Exactly – it's her hair!" I am flooded with the reality of just how intertwined our identities are with our physical appearance. I struggle to shoulder the grief of a little girl missing her long golden locks, while remembering how fortunate we really are. I try creating a truce between the voices in my head – one accuses me of being a vain, self-absorbed woman unconcerned about mothers in the world losing children to cancer, starvation and war. The other, like a lullaby, allows my hurt, panic and heartache without judgment, while nudging me to look up now and again at a rainbow, or salty crashing waves, or the radiant smile from Abby's otherwise healthy body.

But this story isn't about the clouds in our journey; it's about the silver linings.
If not for this loss, would I really appreciate the full measure of Abby's character? Would I enjoy the same irrevocable confidence in her internal power which I now see will carry her through any obstacle in life? Abby's bold, fearless nature really shined during this time. Though friends and family filled her closet with adorable hats, Abby often saunters out the door without one. It has never occurred to her to cover her head out of shame. Abby understands children's curiosity and is often overheard confidently explaining to an onlooker, "Well, you see, I have alopecia areata, my white cells attacked my hair follicles, so my hair fell out – my body is just confused."

Then there's the gift of my restored faith in people's inherent goodness. Friends and strangers have offered so much, from simple meals to a "Locks of Love" hair donation for a wig. Women in line at grocery stores have opened up to me: "I hope you don't mind my asking, but is she in chemo?" "Cancer, right?" or "My daughter is just finishing up three months of chemo, too." And each time one of these amazing women shares her heart wrenching story with me, little room is left for my self pity. Encircled by generosity and kindness, I am reminded often to count my blessings.

Above all, I have the unique reward of knowing first-hand that my daughter recognizes where her true value lies. Despite raising daughters in today's media-bombarded, skinny-obsessed, plastic-surgery-happy society, I'll never wonder again if a bad haircut or weight gain will diminish Abby's spirit beyond repair. Not even the teenage years will get the best of this young lady.

It is said when it is dark enough, you see the stars. Maybe that's true. Were the hidden jewels along our path worth the price of our pain and heartache? If given the choice, would I actually do this again?

I can't honestly say. But after the hardest months of my motherhood, I know one thing: We have to open all of life's gifts – even the ones in odd-shaped boxes with ugly paper. Otherwise, we'll never know what is hiding in the corners of an unwanted gift.

Read Courtney Durgin's blog at www.RaisingMaine.com/fromaway