There are people who ask me whether I have changed. It sounds like a simple question to answer, but how am I supposed to know really? I still hang out with my friends. I still spend unhappy hours in the cramped fitting rooms at Zara. I still read my books, watch lame television, and flip through Vogue. These activities are still part of me. Some people’s eyes tell me they shouldn’t, that magazines are not bringing me anything, that the way I look is not important on the verge of dying. Well, to me it is. What some people call unimportant really isn’t at all. When I transform myself into a femme fatale, I feel like one. When I do my makeup and put on high heels and a wig, I feel stronger, bigger, and less afraid. My wigs don’t only make me anonymous; they give me a chance on another, parallel life where cancer doesn’t exist.
FRIDAY, JUNE 10
“JOINING US FOR DINNER TONIGHT? We’re ordering takeout.” Nurse Esther pops her head around the curtain. She’s come to rescue me from the shared room. I’m fed up with the sour faces of my neighbors, and a single room became available down the hall. Good news for me, but not for the family of the empty bed. An ugly thought comes to mind: “One person’s dead is someone else’s bread.”
Esther isn’t like the other nurses. All the nurses are nice, but Esther is nice and beautiful, and most important, young. I can talk to Esther about everything I’m interested in outside the hospital. Things like favorite nightspots, music, and romances. Her life is more than just working in a hospital. She usually only works on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, but this week she’s working Friday as well. On the weekends she spins in clubs all around Amsterdam, her wild hair blazing in the spotlights. Just like me, she watches Desperate Housewives on Tuesday evenings, which means we can enjoy our shared TV passion together. I wish that all the other hospital residents were fans of the show too. Maybe then they would stop ringing for the nurses and interrupting the sound on the telly when it’s on. Unfortunately, it’s always rush hour during the show, and Esther has to run around juggling chemo bags.
Esther takes a seat on my bed. She tells me about last weekend’s party at Paradiso; I tell her about dancing and kissing Tie Boy.
“Got a picture?”
“No.”
“Shame. Which wig were you wearing?”
“Sue. He didn’t notice a thing.”
“You think you’re going to see him again?”
“No. Can’t have him asking me too many questions.”
“Why not?”
“Who wants to date a girl with cancer?”
“Sophie, you shouldn’t think like that.”
“Besides, I might feel more like Uma or Daisy when I see him, and then what do I tell him?”
Esther gives me a smile. “So are you having dinner or not?”
“Yes, I’d love to. Are you ordering now?”
“No, not until five.” She puts down the menu on my bed and unplugs me from the wall socket. In hospitals people eat at six P.M. In the end we are in a home for the elderly.
We’re off to room 2. Nurse Betty is taking care of the rest of the move, bringing my slippers and books and other things. It’s a quarter to four, a strange time of day in the hospital. Esther has only just started her shift, but I already have the longest part of my day behind me. Most of my visitors come in the evenings. Tonight my parents and Oma are coming, and then Annabel and Rob. Until then it’s just me, my IV pole, and the clock tower through the window. Until then I’ll be on my island. As I don’t like being on my island, I don’t write about it. Nothing happens here anyway, except for drowning in dreadful thoughts.
* * *
“So tell me about this boy.” Rob sits next to my bed, his legs stretched. It’s after dinner time, but the evening still has to start.
“He wore a tie, cool sneakers, and he was a good kisser.”
“And?”
“And that’s it. I told you, that’s as far as I go. He didn’t even know I was wearing a wig.”
Rob laughs.
“He kept running his hands through my hair while he was kissing me. I can’t believe he didn’t notice anything.”
Rob laughs even louder and grabs ahold of me. He likes to squeeze people, so much so that he’ll squeeze the air out of you if you aren’t careful.
“What are you up to this weekend?” I ask.
“I’ll pop by Finch later, I think. To celebrate your birthday at midnight.”
“That’s sweet. I’m allowed out tomorrow. I’ll probably feel awful, but I’d like to see you all.”
“Doll, of course we’ll stop by, with flowers and all for the birthday girl. A ridiculously huge bunch.”
Rob leaves and I hear his cowboy boots stomping off down the empty corridor.
I can see Esther running around through my door. Energetic and caring Esther—so vibrant next to the white and sterile surroundings. I look up and see that the bag of yellow chemo fluid is almost empty. In a few minutes’ time my IV will start beeping and Esther will come in to refresh my supply. And when she comes, I’ll be at my baldest. No wig, no smile, no cover-up to pretend I’m doing just fine.
“My friend Jochem is coming in the morning. Remember, I told you about him? You have to meet him,” I tell Esther when she comes in.
“Oh, why?”
“Well, he just called and said that he once hooked up with you. I told him no way. He’s always making up wild stories.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever hooked up with a Jochem,” Esther says, laughing.
“Well, we’ll see about that tomorrow.”
* * *
We accidentally run into each other in an unfamiliar city. He’s on a business trip; I’m on the prowl. A combination of unexpected circumstances has brought me to the lobby of his hotel. It’s one of those hotels where you could stay for months without ever longing for your own soap, bathrobe, or toothbrush. He’s sitting in the lobby with a group of other gray suits, at the bar. Probably here for a conference. They’re drinking, smoking cigars, and laughing with whiskey on their breath. They’re relaxed, aware of their temporary escape, looking for adventure.
I walk into the hotel in search of the address of a dinner party that I haven’t been able to find for the past ten blocks. I can feel my toes burning after barely an hour in my new heels, and my tight skirt is creeping up to great heights. I feel the attention of the group of men at the bar shift in my direction. I carefully and seductively return their gaze. His gaze. Sitting right there amid the men is Dr. K.
Heading toward him, I slow my step, bend my head, and toss back my long brown hair. For some men I feel pure lust. Dr. K is one of them. Uma is just perfect for expressing that desire. I smile, aware of all my feminine wiles, as I walk toward him. Foreplay is unnecessary. This one’s in the bag.
We escape upstairs to his room. Playfully, but with the utmost concentration, he unbuttons my blouse without ever losing my gaze, uncovering my black lace bra. One hand moves toward my breast while the other unhooks my bra. My nipples harden between his fingers. He kisses them, kisses my neck, kisses me. Faster and more intensely now. He picks me up and carefully lays me down in the middle of the bed. We disappear beneath his sheets and stay there all night, until we fall asleep exhausted, curled up and twisted around each other. We don’t wake up until the afternoon noises of the unfamiliar city come closer.
Five days in the hospital, five days to let my mind wander. Five mornings, afternoons, and evenings in which we enjoy each other’s company in the seductive anonymity of a hotel. I fantasize about breakfast, visiting museums, and lengthy dinners. But especially about night, when nothing exists beyond us and his sheets.
A good thing that my tumors didn’t reach my dreams.
SATURDAY, JUNE 11
IN FRONT OF ME ARE twenty-two yellow roses! I don’t like yellow roses, but I’m still grinning from ear to ear as I count them. Twenty-two exactly. With a card: Sorry I couldn’t bring them myself. No name, but there’s no need. I know who they’re from. I have only one friend who would buy me
yellow roses: Jan. We talk matching colors as much as matching boyfriends; he’s the only one who knows how much I dislike the color yellow.
Birthdays are much more fun when you’re sick and you realize you’re still around to grow another year older than they are when you’re healthy and you have to think about how you’re aging. The nurses come into my room singing “Happy Birthday,” with Pauke leading the pack. She doesn’t waste any time adjusting my IV.
I don’t like to waste time either and have already packed my things. Nurse Betty was on night duty last night and he made sure my pump worked a little faster than usual, so my chemo bag is already empty. Luckily, my blood count is on the high side today, so I can skip the blood transfusion.
There’s a wheelchair waiting for me today. Must be a birthday privilege. I try to protest the wheelchair, but when I attempt to get up, a mix of colors and dots swim before my eyes. I roll from the ward to the elevator. Blagh. Just twenty-two and in a wheelchair.
MONDAY, JUNE 13
“I THINK I SCARED OFF Tie Boy yesterday.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yeah, yesterday, on the terrace at Café Winkel. He didn’t recognize me at first. I was wearing Blondie.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Experimental hairdresser. He either thinks I’m really trendy or completely insane. Anyway, it’ll be the last time. I didn’t feel like talking about my illness, and I’m not enough of an actress to continue seeing him.”
“Come here.” Rob plants a kiss on my forehead and envelops me in a bear hug so tight it hurts a little.
“Sweetie?” he says.
“Yes?” I look up at him, wondering what the suddenly serious tone in his voice means, but he’s just smiling at me.
“Never mind.”
TUESDAY, JUNE 14
PLATINA IS MADE TO IMPRESS, and that’s exactly what I feel like doing when I’m wearing her. I don’t just enjoy the freedom that comes with anonymity, but also the freedom that comes with saying: Yes indeed, I’m wearing a wig. She’s so confident and so careless about what other people think that I can only follow her: There’s no room for doubts and self-consciousness. There’s only room for amplifying, adding, exaggerating. Hence I choose my green feather eyelashes that enlarge my own by three times the size, a smooth black eyeliner and a dramatic evening dress to top things off. If I let chemo rule my world I would be upside down in bed right now. At this point there’s only a few good blood cells left in my body. Therefore I happily let Platina decide. I can’t fool my body for a whole night, but for a quick visit into nightlife it will do.
Now all I need is Annabel. She’s dining in a new restaurant in town and sends her boyfriend, Bart, to pick me up. I gratefully accept. The plan is to use the few happy blood cells that are still swimming around in my body for some fun, not for the road.
In the restaurant all eyes are on me. With Platina it’s never sure if it’s for wearing a wig (nobody can overlook that fact) or for wearing a wig that actually looks good on me.
“There’s my girl, not missing out on a single opportunity to being noticed. You look great. Hope you’re hungry, we ordered for masses.”
I look at the food, which looks delicious, but I’m not feeling hungry at all.
“Some wine?”
“Nah, I better have some juice.”
“So with whom do we have the pleasure of dining tonight?” Bart’s friend asks.
“Platina.”
“Well, you know what they say, it’s all in a name. I assume Platina has expensive taste?”
“She can have, indeed.”
“Does she like dancing?”
“She loves dancing.”
“So you will join us then. There’s a new club opening tonight.”
“Unfortunately not tonight.”
Annabel takes over the conversation. “You have to try this, just take a little bite. It’s too good.”
“How are the cocktails?”
“I’m not going to lie. They’re the best in town.”
“Haha bitch. Surely not as good as the juice.”
“Surely.”
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 15
I’M IN THE BACK OF the line at the organic food store on the Westerstraat armed with a recycled carrier bag. I refuse to go on a special cancer diet; there are too many to choose from and they all say something different. I do, however, believe in vitamins, antioxidants, and organic produce.
My basket is filled with beets, quinoa, pumpkin seeds, and goat’s milk. I’m still a beginner to this healthy-lifestyle thing. This morning I surprised myself when I managed to squeeze an entire fennel bulb through the juicer. I’ve always thought of myself as a reasonably healthy girl, avoiding junk food and too much booze and all that, but in front of these trays of millet, buckwheat, and quinoa I’m quite the amateur. How does one pronounce quinoa?
I inspect the contents of another customer’s basket as they are being scanned: seaweed, algae, and some packages I can’t identify. Behind the counter is an array of tablets and bottles: spirulina, chlorella, aloe vera, ginseng, and a lot of other mystery. I listen to the conversation between the other customer—who obviously speaks fluent health guru—and the girl behind the counter, wearing Birkenstocks. You have to be careful with people wearing Birkenstocks outside the hospital. Before you know it they’ll try to convert you to their entire lifestyle.
A few jars disappear into her hemp bag. I sigh and decide to leave the Chinese herbs for the time being.
On my way home I pick up a class schedule from one of the many yoga studios in the neighborhood. “Yoga”: such a promising word. During each class I diligently try to stretch and bend my stiff body parts into increasingly difficult positions. That’s all there is to it, really: stretching, stretching, and more stretching, from your legs and arms to your toes and fingers.
After yoga is meditation. Pfft, meditation, what a mission. It’s way harder than it looks, especially when you forget what you’re doing it for. To be honest, I’ve never really gotten it—not in meditation class (which seems like an oxymoron to me), or when I was surrounded by it in Tibet and India. I’m still trying to master the contemplation and concentration phase and hoping I’ll stumble into meditation.
What a cliché I’ve become: getting sick, contemplating spirituality, trying to get healthy by squeezing fennel bulbs and broccoli stems. Seducing men wherever I go, to forget my loneliness. Truthfully, I’d rather have a boyfriend on the couch than all the rest of it. Then at least being flexible and lighting candles in the evening would serve some purpose.
FRIDAY, JUNE 24
“AND THAT’S WHY I NEED to have an MRI of my brain,” I tell him.
Dr. L sighs and says something like: “If it will make you feel better, but I’m not concerned.” He picks up the phone to make an appointment.
I’ve convinced myself there’s something growing in my brain. Something like a brain tumor. I’ve been suffering from constant headaches for a few weeks now. I feel stabbing pains and hear helicopters landing between my ears, and my nose is running like crazy. In the medical library I read that a runny nose can be an indicator of something wrong in your head. And there have been cases of my disease in which brain tumors have led to rhabdomyosarcomas like mine. After a few helicopter rides/panic attacks and afternoons researching in the medical library, I’ve presented my haphazard argument to Dr. L.
Dr. L hangs up the phone. “Wednesday, June twenty-ninth, at seven fifty A.M.,” he says. “Did you write that down?”
“Yes, this coming Wednesday at seven fifty.”
“Good, then I’ll see you afterward for your day treatment.”
“Fine. How many chemos are we at now?”
“That’s nine, ten, eleven—wait a minute, twelve—yes, the twelfth. Goes by fast, doesn’t it? Almost halfway.” Dr. L looks at me encouragingly.
“When will I get the results of the MRI?”
“As soon as possible. I hope the day after. Then I c
an tell you more about the rest of your treatment. I’m going to a team meeting in which we’ll discuss the possibilities of radiation and operating. But as I said before, an operation, in my opinion, is not an option.”
So, Dr. L is gossiping with his friends about my treatment plan. If they want to cut me open, now is the time. Every doctor I’ve confronted with my file shakes their head no, but I keep hoping for an operation. Better to have three treatments to cure me than two. Maybe my luck will turn. My tumors could look completely different after six months of chemotherapy.
“Oh, and this wig”—he nods at Platina—“does nothing for you. It makes you look old.”
I sigh. “I feel old.”
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 29
I AM ONE BIG BALL of nervous energy. For the past twenty minutes I’ve been lying with headphones on and a mask over my face, listening to a sound like a jackhammer.
The ruckus suddenly stops. Two faces appear above me. “We need to inject some extra contrast fluid for a better image.”
Shit, that means they see something. There’s something there. Shit, it’s in my head.
“Is it bad?” I ask.
The two unfamiliar heads look at each other and call over the radiologist. I’m freaking out. If they won’t give me an answer, it must be bad.
The radiologist looks down at me. “Everything looks normal so far, but we can’t confirm anything until Dr. L has taken a look. We’re just going to take one more image.”
I burst into tears of relief as the sound of the cement drill starts up again.
The Girl With Nine Wigs Page 10