I ask her if she ever thinks of me when she disappears into her own world after she leaves the hospital at the end of her shift.
“Yes,” she says, “but when I think about you I think of figs and dates, not IVs or sterile needles.” She thinks of delicious, sweet figs and soft, creamy dates. Just because I once read the nutritional values of these fruits out loud while she was taking my blood pressure. That’s another way of looking at things.
So when I think of Pauke outside of the hospital, I think of her three teenagers at home waiting for her to finish her shift; of Cap Ferrat, because she has the most beautiful stories about it; and of Miss Clavel.
And when the moment comes that she disappears into her world I change wigs in order to not disappear in mine. I take off Daisy and put on Blondie. Her magic is at its most powerful in the moment of transformation. Then I fall asleep with my short blond bob glued to my skull, dancing the night away to the sounds of my tall friend standing next to me and with Mr. Gatsby himself, in his royal back garden and lifted by his royal heart, into a different life, leaving mine behind.
FRIDAY, APRIL 8
IN THE MORNING I’M WOKEN up by a nasty lady with an even nastier-looking needle in her hand. She’s lugging around a plastic bin with all her equipment. It’s not even eight o’clock; my face is still stuck to my pillow, and I refuse to open my eyes. I’m so nauseous. Resistance is futile, so I meekly stick out my arm. I keep one eye open and focus hard on her needle in the hope that she gets it right in one go. No such luck. Jerk.
She draws aside the curtain and I’m served my breakfast.
“Morning!” the coffee lady calls out so that anyone still asleep is now definitely awake. Just like every other morning, she brings me a thermos of boiling water so that I can make my own green medicinal tea. I realize I need to pee when I see a new bag of salt solution being pumped into my drip, but that means messing around with my tubes. I wish I could just go back to bed, but the constant stream of coffee ladies, needles, nurses, and doctors makes it impossible for me to close my eyes and pretend that I’m somewhere else.
I get up and ready myself to go see the dental hygienist. I have to see him pretty regularly to make sure my teeth don’t fall out from all the medicines running through me. So far they’re holding up pretty well. According to him I have strong teeth. “Just like your mother.”
To get to his office I have to venture down to where the normal people are. Normal people who might have minor ailments but aren’t rotting away upstairs. Normal people who are just here for appointments, not to stay. Downstairs everything is still innocent.
Chained to my IV stand, I take the elevator to the ground floor. In an attempt to blend in, I’ve put on my normal, everyday clothes: jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, Blondie on my head. Too bad I can’t hide my bright red puffy cheeks. It feels as if everyone is looking at me. Their looks tell me that they know I haven’t come from just any ward, but from the oncology department, where the people with cancer are kept. These confrontations are maybe the worst part of the whole disease. For them it’s unreal and for me it’s reality. It’s in their eyes, in their way of looking at me; I see I’m not one of them anymore.
When my visit to the dentist is done, I go back upstairs as quickly as possible.
* * *
My IV is like a guardian, always by my side: when the lights go out and I wash my face, brush my teeth, fall asleep, and dream of Dr. K. But also when the lights come back on and I wake up, wash my face, brush my teeth, and eat my breakfast. We are connected by a thin and softly pulsing tube that carries a gentle stream of fluids between us. He never leaves me to sleep or eat and he never needs to rest from carrying my medicines around. Most of the time we don’t speak, but when he senses danger he makes himself heard and brings the nurses running to my side.
Although I can’t avoid loneliness when evening sets in, these are the most precious moments of my day. I’m finally left alone to lose myself in my thoughts, to stare out the window, or to watch Desperate Housewives, occasionally joined by the nurses who stop by to catch a minute of easy amusement. Every night before closing my eyes, I look at the clock tower next to the hospital. From Dr. K’s office in the pulmonary ward I saw the same clock from a different angle. It’s been a strange journey from that ward to this one. Time is unfamiliar to me now, but the clock keeps ticking just the same.
Oh, Dr. K. I still hope for an unexpected visit from him, or a kiss, or a card. At night my loneliness reaches fever pitch, and my longing for his strong shoulders is the worst. I truly believe it’s his arms I long for, not those of a nice, uncomplicated twentysomething. I hate the thought of dying without having known true love. If I die tomorrow, the church will be crowded with plenty of flings, but there’s none I would call right now.
Farther down the hall someone is dying, and it sounds like a rhino with a toothache. They might have warned me, so I could have ordered some earplugs. Will I sound like that? Or smell like that? What a nightmare. Please don’t let it be me. I push the red button and soon Bas arrives with some earplugs. Even at three A.M. it’s nice to see him approaching my bed. The earplugs are pink and moldable. As I warm them up between my fingers, I hear a low threatening whisper in the dark.
“Shut your face!” One of my ward companions has also reached the end of his rope. Sometimes this place really is a nuthouse.
When I fall asleep my cheeks are wet. At least I get to go home tomorrow and eat my favorite dish: Mam’s homemade soto ayam.
MONDAY, APRIL 11
IT IS WEEK ELEVEN of my chemo and week two of the new term at university. I’ve been enrolled throughout my treatment—the mention of the words “cancelation of enrollment” was just too much.
In the name of moving on I’ve picked up my books again. For obvious reasons I’ve fallen behind, all this time I have left my books untouched. When I enrolled in political science at the time, it wasn’t so much for the politics, or the sake of studying. I enrolled for the life I wanted to live after: roaming the planet with a degree in development studies. Roaming the planet has always been highest on my list.
In the summer after my high school graduation I bought a ticket to Tibet. My interest in that country began somewhere between the novels of Hermann Hesse and an intense crush on a guy named Ralph, whose house was covered with Tibetan prayer flags. Since the age of fourteen I had dreamed of wandering the world by myself, and I figured I would be most by myself in the Himalayan plateau of Tibet. Finally, at eighteen, graduated and free, the only way to get around there was if I went with an organized group trip. When I got to the airport, ready to start my grand adventure, I saw my travel companions were a bunch of retirees. That moment sort of killed my dream (and my self-image), but it turned out that the longer I traveled with them the more adventurous I felt. My older companions had been traveling the whole world for years and seen parts of it that I never would. They actually gave me a sense of home. During my teen years in school, my dream to leave home and wander around by myself in Tibet, had been a strange one. But now I was surrounded by fellow dreamers.
The trip began in Beijing and ended a month later in Kathmandu, where I decided to stick around a little longer. Suddenly I was really on my own. Although the first hours were great, prospering in my new freedom, it sucked big time when night came. I think this was the first time I experienced loneliness. Sitting on my bed, so far away from home, in a place I didn’t know, life seemed suddenly quiet simple. I understood I had two options: staying in and feeling lonely or going out and living my dream.
I found a room with only a bed and a small table in a small hostel for backpackers in the neighborhood. Everyday I walked the streets of Kathmandu and soon collected some travel buddies, including a German girl named Silvi with whom I completed the Annapurna Circuit. We spent three weeks hiking and talking while being amazed of the beauty of the Himalayas. We climbed up to 5,400 meters, sleeping in small guesthouses that hardly kept us warm. The frigid winds blew ri
ght through the wooden walls. It was so cold at night that we slept with our hats and gloves on. As two girls traveling alone, we had one rule: if one of us had to pee at night, the other had to go too. I remember realizing that it was just as cold inside as outside while squatting together in the middle of the night, awed by the icy summits surrounding us as we tried not to splash on our shoes and legs.
After two months in Nepal I said good-bye to Silvi and drifted on to India. It was India that stole my heart twice. First the country, then a man named Sanjay. We roamed the streets together, and I soaked in the dirt and beauty, marveling at the colors and contrasts. When I came home I decided to major in political science and development studies.
Now back at university, we discuss the schedule for the coming semester. Right away I’m given a date to present my paper—the same week that I’m supposed to be admitted to the hospital for my next chemo session. I look around me as I listen to the professor go over the syllabus. It’s confusing to be here. Not just because I don’t understand all the terms swimming around on the board in front of me, but also because, looking at the students around me, I can’t fool myself as I can sitting in a café with one of my wigs: it’s clear that I’m not like them anymore. They are here preparing themselves for tomorrow, while all I can think about is the day at hand. The biggest trouble of having cancer is not physical. It is not being allowed anymore to think of the life you’re going to be living after finishing your studies. And that kind of kills all my ambition to be here in the first place.
I tug at Blondie—she’s the only way I can reappear at school without having to answer too many questions. I’m here to ask the questions, not answer them. But wearing Blondie as an attempt to pass as the old me makes one thing cruelly clear: the old me, studying for a grand life, dating until I found the right one, carelessly getting drunk … she doesn’t exist anymore. In my new life, wearing a wig and being anonymous is liberating. Wearing a wig in class is the contrary, a painful reminder of who I can no longer be.
When class is finished I pack my books, with no plans to unpack them for a very long time. It hurts but it’s also freeing. Maybe I simply don’t have to anymore. Don’t have to contemplate my career, don’t have to become someone important, don’t have to learn things for later. I just have to get through the day. Why study for a future that might turn out completely different? Better to focus on the present, which I know is real. It’s time for some reflection. Time to get up close and personal. Starting with my very own scalp. I’m still hiding her.
TUESDAY, APRIL 12
ALTHOUGH EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT, some things really do never change. Like peeing in the shower. I love stepping into a warm shower in the morning and letting it all go. Yesterday I ate asparagus and was reminded of that in the shower this morning. Beyond that, though, a morning ritual is something I’ve never known. The secrets behind all those color tablets and the proper makeup techniques have always been a mystery to me. I can barely manage mascara on a regular basis. Let alone nail polish. I used to like to spend my mornings in a café with the newspaper and a coffee.
But that was then.
Now I’ve become one of those women who have exchanged the au naturel look for powders and brushes. I start with my eyebrows. I was born with full, bushy brows, but now they are completely gone. With my special brush—which cost me forty-two euros!—I carefully color in where I think my arches used to be. Next up is eyeliner. There are no eyelashes left to lengthen, but eyeliner helps create the illusion. When the painting and coloring is done I look to my wigs. Stella is not an option; she looks as cancerous as my bald head. Which leaves Daisy, Sue, or Blondie. But for some reason they won’t do today. I want to be someone else. Someone bold, someone from a faraway country, someone unknown.
I gulp down the last of my tea, take my bike, and park it ten minutes later in front of the door of my favorite store. I’m starting to enjoy this metamorphosis game. Shopping at the theater-supply store is not that different from shopping at H&M. I need a hairdo with a long fringe to cover the skin where my eyebrows once were. In a corner I see a Mia Wallace—Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction—look-alike. I try it on. The cut is exactly what I need. The black color is too severe for me, but luckily she comes in different colors. In an auburn tan she works wonders on my pale skin. The long strands fall over my shoulders, while the fringe covers part of my eyes.
“We can easily adjust that for you, just a little trim.”
“How much is this one?” I ask.
“Fifty-two fifty.”
I look up in surprise. This is by far the cheapest wig I have gotten so far. Who would have thought that Uma, aka Miss Mia Wallace, would be so affordable?
Beside me a dark-skinned woman is trying on wigs too, but for funnier reasons than cancer. I hear her talking about a fancy party. She tucks her Afro under a shiny white bob. The synthetic glow almost hurts my eyes, but the effect is amazing.
“Could I try that one as well?” I ask. Although the color works differently on my skin than it does on hers, I immediately love the wig. She makes me look like an outsider, something I’ve been fighting against ever since I got sick. But she also seems like someone who doesn’t care that she is. And on the spot, wearing her, I don’t either. I call her Platina.
“That’ll be fifty-two fifty plus sixty-six … one-eighteen fifty. The hair spray is on the house, for preferred customers.” The salesman winks at me.
I walk out wearing Platina. It doesn’t get more obvious than this. With Platina, I’m not hiding, I’m showing off. I never thought I’d find wearing a wig fun, but it is. Six wigs, six names, six times as many friends and admirers. Six subcharacters, and behind each of them a little piece of Sophie. An insecure Sophie: Stella. A sensual Sophie: Uma. A headstrong Sophie: Sue. A thoughtful Sophie: Blondie. A fun-loving Sophie: Platina. A romantic Sophie: Daisy. All my wigs make me feel like more of a woman and less of a girl. Maybe that’s why I like them so much. Today, as Platina, I feel different than yesterday, when I was Blondie. Sue gets people’s attention, but she also makes me feel more headstrong, more confident even. Sue’s red hair makes people think I’m a sassy broad when I walk into the room. And suddenly the clumsiness that comes with being somewhere between a girl and a woman doesn’t exist. As Sophie I can feel insecure, but as Sue nobody can bring me down. I proudly examine my fake but fabulous new look in every window. I hop on my bike and head off to meet Jan and Rob at the pub. I can spot their grins a mile off. Nobody can see Platina and not smile. Jan loves crazy and kooky, and Rob loves me. As Platina, I’m a bit of both.
* * *
On the Gravenstraat, one of Amsterdam’s main drags, I wear Uma to meet up with the boys—Jan, Jochem, and Rob—for lunch. Jan and I have had the same routine since I got cancer. Although he gets up much earlier than I do, we always eat together. He has lunch while I have brunch. After a circuit of the farmers’ market to pick up some fresh asparagus, we split up. As a successful television presenter and a part-time active gay who enjoys his own company best, Jan disappears to his writing room. I do the same. The words keep on coming; my journal is starting to take on some serious heft. Rob, a freelance cameraman, has the same relaxed schedule as Jan and me—as long as he’s not called for a last-minute shoot or to fill in for someone. The least successful of the bunch is Jochem, who keeps himself so extraordinarily busy doing nothing that he seems to have a busier existence than my doctor. He’s constantly fixated on where he isn’t rather than where he is—worried that he’s going to miss out on something. Looking at him today, I realize I was just like him. Cancer did its spell.
I meet up with the boys nearly every day. Over wine, french fries, and cigarettes (for them), the first fun has come back into my life. I can never keep it dry when Jan does his impression of Rob at the gym.
Jan tells us he’s been writing about those first days after I got my diagnosis, when we walked, dazed and confused, around the city. Along with the rest of our gang, Rob and Jan abandoned their
other obligations for a few days. It helps to know that we were all consumed by confusion then—that I wasn’t alone even though it sometimes felt that way. Maybe that’s why it’s so good when we’re together. We share the same fear, the same powerlessness, and we cry the same tears.
These moments together have made me a different person. Someone who is present at the place she’s at. It’s new for me to abandon my rush to see everything, without losing my ability to discover new things. I no longer allow myself to look too far ahead at internships for my résumé, trips I want to take, books I have to read. I seize all I can. I seize not only the day, I seize my breakfasts, my cups of tea, the occasional glass of wine, my afternoons outside in the sun or snuggled up inside when it rains. I seize the evening sun and the thunderstorms; I seize and seize some more. My jam-packed agenda has made way for blank pages that are filled with all these seized moments. And I love it.
Rob interrupts my thoughts. “Hey, sexy, your hairdo is perfect just like that. You look gorgeous. Really.” A smile spreads from one side of my face all the way to the other. Rob and I may just be friends, but we’ve been crazy about each other from day one. I always reach out for his hand when we’re walking the streets together. We’re always laughing, with or without Jan. And we both get a little jealous when the other flirts with the next table over on the terrace. I’d say we belong to each other a little bit.
“Well, my dear, you certainly haven’t lost your wild streak, have you?” one of the older regulars calls out. Apparently Rob is not the only one who fancies Uma.
Cheekily, I join in the game and toss around my hair. Jan smiles at me while watching the scene vigilantly. Although I attract more attention as a blonde, the impression that Uma makes is incredible. It helps to know that it’s nothing more than an act, a break from being a cancer patient. I wonder what the guy at the bar would say if I paraded in with my bald scalp. Nothing much, surely.
The Girl With Nine Wigs Page 6