Four months into chemotherapy, nothing could really shock me. I'd seen my hair fall out in one giant clump, my pee turn a freaky shade of pink (the side effect of a blood-red chemotherapy drug called doxorubicin), and my dad cry.

I'd seen it all—or thought I had, at least, until I glimpsed a photo of myself and realized I was missing an essential part of my face. My eyebrows had finally fallen out. I guess I was so used to looking in the mirror and seeing a confidence-crushing version of myself staring back at me—bald head, skin tinged green, knobby knees—that my fading brows hadn't even registered. But without them, I looked like Gollum. And in case you think I'm exaggerating for dramatic effect, I've included photos for proof. I mean, I looked like Gollum if Gollum managed to slap a smile on his face every once in a while, but even so: I looked like Gollum. Don't lie to me.

If you didn't happen to know that certain types of chemotherapy drugs cause hair loss, come on out from under your rock and join us! Jay-Z cheated on Beyoncé. Donald Trump is president. (Actually, is there room for two under that rock?) And, yes, chemotherapy often causes hair loss. That might make you think of wigs and soft caps and colorful scarves, and no one could blame you. After all, that's exactly what I imagined when my oncologist told me that my rare liver cancer had returned and that I'd need treatment, stat. I was so busy trying to wrap my head around it that I didn't even consider the hair I'd lose everywhere else—on my legs, under my arms, on my face.

Unlike my hair, which I lost in a single clump the size of an obese rat, my eyebrows didn't all fall out at once. It was a slow evacuation. Every night, after I washed my face and patted it dry, I found little hairs strewn all over my cheeks and forehead. There were only ever four or five at a time—not enough to freak me out, but enough to make a difference.

The thing about losing your brows is that it announces to the world that you're sick. With a wig or even a layer of fuzz on your head, you can more easily hide the fact that you're being subjected to the slow and steady dismantling of your own body, by both the chemotherapy and the cancer. But without eyebrows to frame your eyes and give structure to your face, there's no hiding that something's wrong. I felt like I looked subhuman, as though I'd just crawled into the sun after spending years and years in a cave. Like Gollum.