In my pre-myeloma days, I didn't think much about hair or hats. I was surprised to find out how much this changed in the months during and after my stem cell transplant.

My previously bushy hair had become pretty thin before the transplant due to the treatment with cyclophosphamide (Cytoxan), which I was given to ‘encourage’ the stem cells to leave the marrow so they could be collected from my blood.

Perhaps, given this hair thinning, I ought to have been prepared for the next phase. However, I don't think I had really worked out what it would be like to have no hair.

At the time leading up to the transplant, I think I felt that, in the big scheme of things, losing my hair was not particularly important. There were so many other medically scary things ahead that I was busy trying to find the strength to cope with.

So the transplant procedures began, and lots of fairly unpleasant things happened. The melphalan (Alkeran) did its work, and like so many of the Myeloma Beacon's readers and writers, I felt pretty sick all the time – so much so that simple things such as having a drink of water became a major task.

And my hair fell out. First in handfuls, then in chunks. It was horrible. I didn't tell anyone or talk about what was happening. I just tried not to let anyone see my hairless head! At times this was a bit difficult to achieve, as hospitals, I discovered, don't really go in for privacy. To be fair, I was very wobbly on my feet, and the nurses didn't want me to shower or go to the bathroom by myself.

I had prepared for this time physically if not mentally. I had bought various sorts of headgear that I started to wear. I had found small, very simple pull-on cotton hats of different colors, and I wore these at night. In the morning, I changed to colorful batik scarves that had a tie at the back. I tried to color coordinate these with my pyjamas! Just writing about this makes me feel pretty crazy.

I remember very carefully switching between my nighttime and daytime hats when there was nobody about. I never let the doctor, day nurses, or indeed my husband see me in the nighttime hats. I hadn't planned to behave in this way, it just sort of evolved. The nurses in the ward often commented on my headgear, just saying things such as, “Oh, you suit that green color!”

Once I was able to get out of bed, wear regular clothes, and walk about a bit, I changed my headgear to caps, again of different colors and designs. Once I was well enough to leave the hospital, I wore one of these caps to travel home. I changed back to the scarves inside our apartment. I kept the nighttime hats under my pillow, changing into them only once I was in bed.

The final stage in the hat story were proper, regular hats, which I wore when I went to the hospital for check ups and when I finally started going out and about a little.

I am not a psychologist, so I don’t really know why I behaved in this way. I think I was aiming to preserve my dignity and simply just trying to look as normal as possible in the somewhat odd circumstances.

Once I started to recover more from the transplant, other ‘hair and hat’ issues emerged. A friend from the UK had come over to Singapore to visit me for a while. Before she went home, she wanted to buy some pashminas. We went to a shop together, but I stayed outside as I was still very frightened of being near people who might harbor infections.

I was standing outside the shop wearing a hat and feeling that I looked okay. A complete stranger came up to me, however, and said, “Do you have very short hair or do you have cancer?” I was totally shocked by this question and, as far as I can remember, I mumbled an answer, saying that I had cancer. The stranger then told me about a support group for cancer sufferers in Singapore and advised me strongly to join the group. I shuffled off desperately trying to get away from the person.

Looking back, I still find the incident very strange, and I think it made me even more determined to try to hide my hairless state. I had bought a wig as well as the hats before my transplant, so I started to wear the wig in public, even though it was extremely uncomfortable in the heat and humidity of Singapore.

I found going into the hospital clinic was the easiest place to cope with hair and hat issues. I chatted about hats with some of the other ladies, and we exchanged compliments on our appearances. The nurses in the clinic didn’t make a lot of comments, but they obviously took note of some of the chat. One nurse presented me with a lovely box one day. Inside the box was a most beautiful hat that I wore with pride on many of my visits to the clinic.

Eventually my hair grew back, and the scarves and hats could be abandoned, but definitely not forgotten.

Exactly one year after my stem cell transplant, I returned to the hospital ward to share a birthday cake and a bit of a party with the nurses. It was a lovely event, and it revealed one final very memorable view on hair and hats. A few of the nurses were reflecting on my time in the ward, and they mentioned my scarves and hats.

It was very clear that they liked the fact that I had worn the various pieces of headgear. They said that I had remained ‘pretty,’ and that had made them feel nice.

It was as if they appreciated the effort I was making.