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Angela in America: The C Words — Chemo, Cold Caps and Candy Corn
In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I’m sharing how humor, cold caps and candy corn helped me navigate chemotherapy, save my hair and keep my spirit intact.
Candy Corn and Cancer
Candy corn helped me get through cancer. That may not be the most scientific insight, but it’s true.
In light of October being Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I’m (thankfully) here to say: Do whatever it takes to get you through.
Sticking candy corn in my mouth as fake teeth on Halloween Day 2014 — the day of my first chemo treatment — was the only way I could make sense of the surreal, almost ghoulish reality I felt I’d been thrown into.
When Life Turns on Camera
For me, humor always carries the day — especially when you’re rocked to the core, as I was 11 years ago when I was diagnosed with early-stage, aggressive HER2-positive breast cancer which was treatable.
My breast cancer was detected with cameras rolling for a “buddy mammogram” segment with my former longtime boss, Meredith Vieira. (The segment saved my life. Thank you, Meredith. I owe you big time — blah blah. And much gratitude for radiologist Dr. Susan Drossman, who saw something suspicious on my sonogram and said, “Can we stop filming.” I chose to let the cameras continue recording — ever the producer. How else could the segment be authentic?)
After six chemo treatments, a lumpectomy, radiation and targeted gene therapy, I’m happy to be alive to write about the ordeal. I learned a lot — which I’ll share at the end of this column.
The Cold Cap Chronicles
I dug up this photo — taken 11 years ago — after reading the recent news that starting Jan. 1, 2026, New York state will be the first in the nation to require large-group private insurance plans that cover chemotherapy to also cover cooling caps to prevent hair loss.
The caps effectively freeze the hair follicles during chemo and, depending on the type of treatment, can allow patients to keep all or most of their hair.
The blue wraps on my head in the photo are Penguin Cold Caps — a type of manual “cold cap” you rent online (originally developed in England).
The caps — more like gel-infused wraps, really — are stored in a subzero freezer at the hospital. A skilled person applies them every half hour before, during and after chemo to ensure they’re at the right temperature and wrapped correctly.
At the time, focusing on my hair was a good distraction. Keeping my hair felt like a small victory for normalcy — the self I was ‘B.C.’ (before cancer).
The process doesn’t always work, depending on the type of chemo infusion, but it worked for me. I kept most of my hair, thanks to Claudia Falzarano, president of Right Arm, Inc., whom I hired to apply my caps.
I call her Cold Cap Claudia. She’s highly skilled — and anything but cold. Her humor and caring were an unexpected boost during that rough patch.
At the time, focusing on my hair was a good distraction. Plus, I was trying to maintain my work schedule as a supervising producer on The Meredith Vieira Show — television is always stressful, and launching a startup even more so.
Keeping my hair felt like a small victory for normalcy and a sense of self — the self I was B.C. (before cancer).
Saving Hair, Saving Face
If I had to lose my hair, so be it. Better to save your life than your hair.
I’m sure I would have made a mockery of hats, scarves and wigs to keep my Angela Is Silly reputation.
My dad stepped in and paid for the cold caps during my six treatments. He didn’t hesitate — he got the “why.” It was one way to keep some control and to feel like myself.
The new insurance bill is meant to reduce the psychological and emotional distress of hair loss — a deeply personal issue, especially for women. It also addresses the high cost of cold capping, which puts it out of reach for many. I applaud it.
Still, I’d love to see equal urgency around insurance coverage for sonograms for women with dense breasts, which often make diagnosing cancer more difficult.
Dense Breasts, Dense Thinking
The jury is still out on sonograms for dense breasts. Right now it’s a state-by-state issue, which I find frustrating — since my breast cancer was diagnosed not by mammogram but by sonogram (ultrasound).
Yes, I have dense breasts — and yes, I think the medical profession can be a little dense about recognizing the necessity of sonograms. How else could I look at it? An ultrasound helped save my life.
“How else could I look at it? An ultrasound helped save my life.”
To her credit, Katie Couric — who has talked about her breast cancer diagnosis and her need for additional screening due to her tendency to have dense breasts — has pushed for mandatory ultrasound coverage for women with dense breasts. The pushback: not enough evidence to mandate it, higher false positives and cost-benefit concerns.
It’s an evolving process. For now, doctors can recommend sonograms based on risk factors — but you have to advocate for yourself at every turn.
Cold Caps, Round Two
The new New York law, signed by Gov. Kathy Hochul after bipartisan support, covers automated hospital cooling systems like DigniCap and Paxman.
That cooling system is different from the manual Penguin Cold Caps I used. Under the new law, the rental cost for the caps i rented would be covered, but would insurance cover hiring someone like Cold Cap Claudia to apply them? Unclear.
Hiring a professional applicator actually costs more than renting the caps — but the new law is a helpful start. We shall see what it actually will cover.
Hair Rules (and No Blow-Drying!)
Saving your hair during chemo doesn’t mean glam hair. I couldn’t color, cut or blow-dry mine during chemo or for six months afterward.
(I know — what’s the point of keeping your hair if you can’t blow-dry it? When I told that to someone newly diagnosed, she said, “No cold caps for me. I’m getting a wig. I’m too vain not to blow-dry my hair.”)
I could only wash my hair once a week, pouring cool cups of water over my head instead of using the shower. I used PABA-free, sulfate-free shampoo and conditioner and slept on satin pillowcases so my hair wouldn’t mat.
No hats in winter. No ponytails. No clips.
A lot of rules — and a lot of extra hours to have the caps applied, but yes, I kept my hair.
The Two Questions Everyone Asks
Ironically, the first thing people ask about breast cancer is, “How did you save your hair?”
The second is, “How did you get through chemo?”
Answer: Candy corn.
Real answer: I ate whatever I craved as my taste for food changed. I’m probably one of the few people who gained weight during chemo. I drank a lot of water. I took one day at a time. I acted “as if” I was OK.
I took Claritin D 24 hours before chemo (a friend’s tip — it kinda worked; consult with your doctor). I took anti-nausea meds early. I played disco. I danced when I could.
I slowed down. Savored moments. Appreciated my medical team. Loved my family and friends — even when they made food I couldn’t eat. God bless them.
Singing Through Chemo
Doctors and modern medicine saved my life. Cold caps (and Cold Cap Claudia) saved my hair.
I tried to lighten the “cancer” cloud for myself and others. Once, on the infusion floor at Columbia Hospital, I choreographed a parody of Pharrell Williams’ hit Happy:
“Because I’m cappy… clap along if you feel like that’s what you wanna do…”
I danced in my cold cap, while my friends and the nurses sang backup and popped out from behind a curtain. It was a little whacky.
Did I really feel like laughing? No. But acting “as if” I was OK helped — and eased the fears of everyone around me.
On one chemo day, after hours of treatment and cold-capping, it came down to the “last cap” — so I sang Donna Summer’s Last Dance, changing the lyrics to:
“It’s my last cap, yes, it’s my last cap of the day …, yes it’s my last cap, last lap for me …”
After my final chemo, my friends Lenny and Karen and Cold Cap Claudia did a rousing version of All That Jazz, complete with jazz hands.
With our performing backgrounds — and with all due respect to the seriousness of cancer — we often turned chemo into a musical.
The best way for me to handle my treatments was to break into song. We all cope differently. Yes, alone at night I felt a lot of fear. But I put on a good game face.
The Lessons: What I Learned Through My Cancer Journey
- Take one day, one treatment at a time. Cancer is overwhelming. Write things down. Bring someone to appointments.
- Ask questions. Why this drug? What are the side effects? When should I call you?
- Put your helmet on. When you feel like hiding, go forward. You’re stronger than you think.
- Know that “cancer” is a big C word. Just the word sends people running — often the ones closest to you. Don’t expect. Be grateful when someone gets it.
- Get the best care possible. A smart, compassionate surgeon and a competent, caring oncologist are worth their weight in gold.
- Treasure your nurse. They’re your guide, your comfort, your constant.
- Use the cancer card. (When the Apple Store tells you on Monday that they don’t have a slot to fix your iPhone until Friday, say, “I have cancer. I’m getting chemo.” Voilà — they find a cancellation.)
- Pay it forward. Share what helped you when it’s someone else’s turn.
- Manage your thoughts. Learning to control your thoughts is invaluable, Stay positive. Try not to dwell on fear and worry (not easy). Be grateful for small things.
- Keep your humor. And if you can, your hair. If not, sing about it. Life is short. Seize the day, the hour, the minute. Grab the candy corn — not to eat all of it. Cancer likes sugar. But when you need it, candy corn makes a good, goofy prop on Halloween.
