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I was diagnosed withcancerin 2021, when I was 30 years old.
Like Alice entering Wonderland, I entered a free fall.
I thumbed the soft cotton of my jeans and considered my reflection in the mirror.
I still looked and felt like me, and my unofficial uniform comforted me.
photo: courtesy Sue Williamson
Others post photos of feather boas and crowns, planning to wear them when they ring the end-of-treatment bell.
I resented the idea of dressing for a timeline, for I feared my own celebration would never come.
Fashion is armor to survive the reality of everyday life,Bill Cunninghamonce said.
Photo: courtesy Sue Williamson
My days were chaotic; my clothes helped balance the scales.
I made mood boards for hospital outfits the way people plan wedding looks.
I started wearing neutrals for stability on long appointment days.
The author on her last day
Soon, the line between clothing and costume blurred.
As I felt worse, I dressed better, brighter, and more dramatically.
It wasnt long before my doctors started commenting on my clothes.
Some noted the benefit of color; others simply did a double take.
My reconstructive plastic surgeon refused to pity me and, therefore, was always my favorite.
she screamed one day when I wore a fuzzy-sleeve coat from the brand.
They make us dress down, she lamented.
Otherwise, Id be wearing mine too.
As pandemic precautions lifted, fashion led me to community.
Through mutual friends, I met a girl named Lauren who was even more over-the-top than me.
One day, she bought us matching pink light-up cowboy hatsTo make cancer FUN!
But we knew it was more than vanity; it was identity.
Somewhere betweenAlly McBeal mini suitsandNancy Sinatracosplay, my treatment started to work.
It was no feather boa, but it was my version of a victory sash.
Three years later, Im grateful to remain NED.
I wrapped my faux fur armor a little tighter and confidently walked in.
