The Girl With Nine Wigs

by Sophie van der Stap

  Relieved to be out of there, I arrive at the day-treatment outpatient clinic. Pauke is rushing around. “Cyclone Pauke,” as her colleagues call her. I say hello to everyone, take a seat near the window, and stick a cookie in my mouth as I press PLAY on my iPod. Bring on the chemo.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 30

  ROB AND I SIT ON the waterfront in a small town on the Amstel river. We drink, eat, and talk, but mostly we are waiting for a phone call. When I look down at my plate, I see that I’ve hardly touched my food. I’ve been listlessly pushing my salad around on my plate for the past twenty minutes. Rob, as usual, is eating something red and meaty; I, as usual these days, am eating something green and healthy.

  My phone rings. My fork misses my plate and I stick it into some meaty substance on Rob’s.

  It’s Dr. L.

  “I’ve spoken with my colleagues and everyone agrees that an operation is not an option. We’re moving straight on to radiation.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s still too dangerous to operate that close to your lungs. We’ll cause more damage than good.”

  “So, what now?”

  “I’ve made an appointment for you next week with the radiologist. He’ll explain everything.”

  “What about my MRI?” I ask.

  “The MRI looked good, exactly like they told you. There’s nothing in your brain.”

  Deep sigh. It took a paranoia-induced MRI to realize I trust Dr. L more and more.

  “No other complaints?”

  “No.”

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yes, just a bit more washed out than usual.”

  “That’s probably due to your low blood count. Perhaps we should get you another blood transfusion. When is your next blood test?”

  “Monday.”

  “All right. Stop by my office and see me then. Have a good weekend.”

  I don’t know if I’m relieved or scared. I wouldn’t have been too happy about hard-core surgery and a twenty-centimeter-long scar like Jur’s stretching across my stomach, but losing one of my three treatment options doesn’t feel great either. Jur explained to me that even though chemo kills a lot of the cancer, a local treatment such as surgery or radiation is necessary to get rid of every last cell. Now I understand what my doctor meant when he said that it’s even more of a challenge to keep my illness at bay once we get rid of the tumors. The toughest part is hunting down the very last cancer cells in my body.

  Rob’s arm finds its way around me. And there it is, in between the arm squeezes, hugs, and friendly kisses: a long look, followed by a long kiss. Rob kisses away my fear.

  It must be a combination of the way he looks at me, his firm hugs, and—let’s not forget—the vintage Jaguar that made the butterflies in my stomach fly around in a frenzy.

  “Rob?”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve got butterflies.”

  “Butterflies?”

  “Yes, you give me butterflies. These past few days.”

  “Oh, dear.” Rob always calls me “hon,” “cutie,” or “sweetie.” He gives me another kiss and squeezes my leg. Rob always likes to grab me—arm, leg, or butt.

  “Come on, let’s go, cutie.” He gets up, pays the bill, and takes me by the hand. “The Sopranos at my place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to stay over?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I’m far too old for you.”

  “Twice as old, to be exact.” We laugh.

  “This isn’t right. You can stay over and we’ll sleep, that’s it.”

  FRIDAY, JULY 1

  I OPEN MY EYES. Someone is lying next to me in bed. I blink, and for a minute he’s gone. Open, closed, open, closed.

  Open.

  Deeply tanned shoulders, back, and arms. Brown hair speckled with gray, and that oh-so-handsome face. He looks as if he just stepped out of a Marlboro campaign. He has his arms crossed and his eyes closed. I sigh with relief; he hasn’t seen me naked—wigless, that is. Without making a sound I turn and hunt around for Uma, who must have fallen off while I was sleeping and turning. I touch my scalp, which has stretched—without any trace of my hairline and eyebrows—into the shape of an egg: my face has lost not only its features but also its humanity.

  I sit up straight in bed. It’s still dark outside. Carefully, I slide Uma onto my head, seeking some comfort beneath her soft, dark strands. I crawl back under the sheets, close against Rob’s warm body. Last night I made love and fell asleep as Uma. This morning I woke up as myself, not capable of anything I did last night. Careful not to lose my wig, I give him a kiss on his nose.

  His eyes slowly open. A smile. “Hey, gorgeous. Did you sleep well?”

  I nod.

  “What’s the time?”

  I shrug.

  We stare at each other and stare some more. Strange how a face changes when you get closer. We both smile but can’t take our eyes off each other. His hand strokes my arm. I snuggle up closer. And then we kiss. Beneath the sheets our legs find one another. I feel my wig gliding over my head and fear takes over. Does he notice? Am I repellant? I carefully try to get my wig back in shape. I want to feel feminine. Sexy, desirable, irresistible. But I feel everything but. Maybe this is why I fear my scalp so much: being pretty and attractive is apparently not so much about seducing men as it is about seducing life. Representing death, it’s like life is slipping away from me. The life that was always there. All I had to do was get up and smile. Now every time I put on a wig, it’s like I’m picking up the pieces she left for me.

  “Sweetie, why don’t you just take it off?”

  “No.”

  “You’re beautiful without it.”

  “I can’t.”

  Rob remembers me from my days of messy buns, political ambitions, and wine drinking on the terraces of Amsterdam. But he also recognizes me as a lost little girl who doesn’t know where to turn.

  “Rob, I’m so scared sometimes.”

  “Oh, honey, of course you’re scared. I’m scared too. But they’re going to make you better. I’m sure of that.”

  “How do you know that for sure?”

  “They’re doctors. It’s their job.”

  * * *

  Snuggling and The Sopranos turned into passion and sex. Therefore I keep two of my wigs at my bed table. I can’t make love without.

  “Honey, are you coming?” Rob has gotten up; the bath is full. We stay in for ages, until our fingers shrivel up and the warm water cools off. Then back to bed. Tomorrow I’ll pass by my wig store to get some tape.

  SATURDAY, JULY 2

  THE SUMMER SALES ARE ON, and after a morning of shopping, I met up with Jochem for some lunch. He polishes off his beer and orders another. I want to head back to the shops, but Jochem’s just settling in.

  As I listen to Jochem’s story with one ear, I inspect my new purchases. Behind him, a man in a suit is passing by. A well-cut suit. I pay less and less attention to Jochem’s story and peek over his shoulder as the suit walks by. Is he a lawyer? A consultant? In IT? Married? On a business trip? Kids? A mistress? Daisy’s type?

  I cross my legs and wiggle my foot up and down. I look at the high heels peeking out from under my jeans and smooth my hair. I take a sip from my sparkling water and leave a set of glossy lip prints on the edge of my glass. My lips are my biggest asset. Full, thick lips. Perfect for a flirt like me.

  I was fourteen when I met my first love. His name was Emiliano, and he was the paperboy on our street. I gave up my teen heartthrobs for him in a heartbeat. Even Steven Tyler and Mick Jagger were no match. Young and naive, I didn’t think I would ever be parted from Emiliano and his Vespa. It didn’t occur to me that there might be more Vespas zooming around town. Those evenings spent on the back of his white scooter awakened my desires, and a new world opened up to me. It was cheap-romance-novel stuff, but I thought we would be together forever.

  “Which name can I put the tab on?” the waitress asks. I
look up in surprise, without pulling my head out of the clouds.

  “Daisy.”

  Jochem smiles and then chatters on uninterrupted. About his acting career, the waitress’s backside, and his belly—a very cute but not-so-sexy belly. Problematic because Jochem likes to wear trendy, tight T-shirts. He says that his belly only shows up when he drinks beer. Unfortunately, that’s pretty much every day, sporadically substituted for health shakes. That’s why I call him “Bunny” instead of “Honey.”

  Jochem is a model on the side. With his stomach held in, he regularly attends castings that land him jobs in front of a camera, washing his hair with L’Oréal or cooking Bertolli pasta with very happy girls in a kitchen. With his handsome face, heavenly blue eyes, and endless charm, he always manages to talk his way out of parking tickets and other annoying situations. He’s a dreamer like me, but sometimes he finds it difficult to separate his dreams from his parking tickets. For Jochem, Amsterdam is like his own little Hollywood, where vain dreams become reality. Starstruck by a few modeling jobs and some luck at the casino, he has a hard time with regular things like taking out the trash, making his own sandwiches, or having an office job. Great for me because he always has time to go shopping with Daisy.

  We stroll back alongside the shop windows. The grumpy faces of the bored saleswomen stare straight through me. Boredom—now that’s something I haven’t felt for a long time.

  TUESDAY, JULY 5

  TALKING TO DOCTORS has its complications. Until six months ago, I had a completely different idea of how hospitals worked. I saw sick people coming in through the entrance and leaving again through the exit, healed. Now I see blood samples getting lost, IV needles missing the vein three times in a row, files going missing, and multiple doctors prescribing something different for the same ailment. And it’s as if they’re speaking in tongues. Forget French, I need to take lessons in Doctor-Speak 101.

  Dr. L tells me, “Your right lung is responding well, and the pleural soft-tissue mass on the right side of the thorax has decreased. There was an issue with the nodular pleural structures, but rib six posterior shows figuration of the bone. Soft-tissue mass two in the lining of the lateral abdomen has also decreased. There is still a right anterobasal horizontal-shaped disfiguration in the lung.” I take a copy of the file with me and plug the information into my computer. My spell-check freaks out.

  * * *

  Today Dad and I have come to a different hospital, outside of Amsterdam, to discuss my chances for radiation. Now that radiation is on the agenda, it has taken over the royal seat of chemo. Suddenly it’s the radiation treatment that’s going to make the difference, not the chemo. Chemo was just a warm-up, new doctors say. While my father closely inspects the coffee vending machine, I watch every movement of the nurse behind the reception desk.

  A door opens and a doctor appears. He’s wearing glasses and has hair that falls wildly over his ears. He calls out a name and a geriatric man in front of me gets up. His wife shuffles after him.

  Another door opens and a younger doctor appears. I think midthirties. Will he be my radiologist? He walks to the reception desk and leaves the file he has in his hands. Then he walks back into his office without calling out any name.

  “Van der Stap?”

  I turn around. I get up and offer the third candidate my hand. He looks at me very briefly as if to underline that I’m just another patient. So this is my radiologist: Dr. O.

  He sketches my lungs and draws two big arrows where the radiation will be aimed. He weighs me and examines my glands. The scale shows fifty-five kilos. That’s one less kilo than last month.

  His thoughts on my case are inconclusive, and therefore not very encouraging. “A number of things are still unclear to me. It won’t be straightforward, that we know for certain. I’ll be in touch with my colleagues in Rotterdam and Utrecht before I come to a conclusion. I want to hear what they think of your condition. Dr. N in Rotterdam is renowned.”

  I leave the office, feeling anything but reassured. Why can’t they stand to be a bit more cheerful? On our way home I tell Dad that I feel glad being under Dr. L’s care. That he’s actually a very nice man.

  * * *

  Dear Jan pops by to say hello just as I am coming back from the hospital. He brought along the sweetest chocolates. “Have some. We can’t have you too healthy. That’s dangerous.”

  I give him a kiss and a hug. “I want to go out. Do you feel like trying on some wigs?”

  “Wigs? Yes, baby, let’s go. I can use one too. But first serve this old man some tea and chocolates.”

  I spin in circles in a now-familiar chair. Jan happily wanders up and down the aisles and comes back wearing the most hideous wigs, making a complete fool out of himself, but he eventually brings back a sophisticated blonde as well.

  “Jan, hand it over. I’m sure she looks better on me.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  Well, she does. So much for modesty. Meet Pam. Pam, the girl next door. Pam, Jennifer Aniston’s younger sister. Look-how-my-hair-blows-naturally-in-the-wind Pam. And the best part: She doesn’t even look like a wig. Pam is the hair I always wished for: pretty without looking pretentious. I take another look in the mirror. I’m beginning to recognize the face that I see there. It makes me wonder if maybe I could actually be like Pam.

  We stroll back together and it’s nice, really nice, strolling with these beautiful blond streaks that blow in the soft wind and with my dear friend over the quiet, sunny canals. We talk, we laugh, we say nothing. This is the part of cancer that leaves me clueless: I never felt as happy in my life as I have at certain moments in the last couple of months, strolling with Jan through town, getting together around the kitchen table with my family, gluing myself into my sister’s arms.

  People say without our health we have nothing. I don’t have my health, but I have Jan and Rob and Annabel and my family. If I had to choose, the choice would be easy.

  I can’t wait to see Rob’s face. Today is the seventh time I can surprise him with a new look.

  * * *

  The day I found out I had cancer, I no longer had to play by the rules. I can do, say, and think whatever I like. Everyone pities me, everyone wants to lend a helping hand. I sometimes worry that this will make me forget what life is really like. I can get away with anything; the truth is that cancer just makes me more loved. Every time I turn up in a new wig, I hear, “Oh, wow, this one looks great as well. It’s just amazing the way you’re handling this.” Apparently cancer impresses people. People think they admire me for how well I handle it, but they don’t get that I’m not “handling” anything, I’m just going through it.

  My wigs help me hide what I want to hide and to emphasize what I want to show off. The wig I choose to put on my head creates the space I need for the mood I’m in. The cancer is always there. When I fall asleep, wake up, do the grocery shopping. But when I put on a wig, I am there as well. It’s as if I’m taking its part on stage. Wearing my illness on the outside makes the situation easier for others and for me. It can be hard to understand other people’s problems, and that’s where my wigs come in: I can’t think of a better way to show my vulnerability, and myself, than by wearing a different wig every day.

  Now my wigs make it easy to switch worlds. As Uma, my taste in men draws me to crumpled T-shirts pulled out from the bottom of the laundry basket and worn with a five-o’clock shadow. But I also love neatly ironed Armani suits and matching loafers, accessorized with a dazzling white smile—that’s Platina’s style. As Blondie, I love a rough-and-tumble Marlboro Man; smooth-talking jet-setters are perfect for Stella. Sue is all about the philosopher exhaling his big ideas with the smoke from his joint. And the jock with a heart of gold but no ideas at all? A perfect match for Daisy. My wigs are becoming more and more of a solution, rather than a problem.

  WEDNESDAY, JULY 6

  THE URGE TO PUT DOWN my words on paper keeps on chasing me. It wakes me up at night, it pulls me away
from underneath the warm blankets early in the morning, and it makes me a very bad listener: I’m constantly drifting away in new words waiting to be seized on paper. It helps me understand the incomprehensible, but that’s not why the words won’t stop. Truthfully, I’m scared shitless to cease to exist. To leave life behind and everybody in it.

  We sit at a corner table in Rob’s favorite Italian restaurant. On my way to the restroom I walk by the kitchen, where delicious food smells fill me with warmth as I pass. In the restroom, I touch up my fake eyebrows in the mirror and comb Platina. When I walk back, Rob is talking to the owner, Salvatore. They hug tightly. On the table there are two yellow Livestrong bracelets.

  “For you,” Salvatore says. “Rob told me about your illness. I’m sure you’re going to make it. Our son, Marco, didn’t. He passed away last year. Leukemia.”

  I swallow a big lump that has suddenly found its way to my throat. Salvatore looks me intensely in the eyes. He is wearing the bracelet himself. For a brief moment, his pain is my pain and my pain is his pain as we sit drinking wine together. When he’s gone, Rob and I slip on the bracelets. I want to be connected to him via a bond that’s impossible to break.

  A few hours later, I surf my new friend Lance’s Web site and buy one hundred yellow bracelets. Indirectly, I owe him a lot, too much to count. One hundred yellow dollars, to make the lives of all those other baldies a little better. It might be a bit much, but ten bracelets look so silly beside the recommended one hundred and optional thousand. I click CONFIRM, happy to contribute to my own destiny.

  I go to bed and snuggle up close to Rob. I’m feeling scared but keep it to myself. I don’t know what to say, anyway. And it always ends in a simple “Everything is going to be fine.”

  How many times did Marco have to listen to that crap?

  THURSDAY, JULY 21

  BEFORE THE RADIATION STARTS, it’s vacation time. Fourteen days of sunshine, good food, French wine, bikinis, sandals, and not a white coat to be seen. Two weeks of pure bliss in the South of France with Annabel!