“I’ll be there soon. Thanks, Mom.”
* * *
When I arrive home, Mom is reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. She’s waiting for me with a big pot of tea.
“Hi, dear,” she says while filling my cup.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Did you speak to Jur?”
“Left him a message.”
She looks at me tenderly.
“You don’t disapprove of me moving up the scan?” It’s the last scan and the most important one: everything needs to be gone now.
“Darling, of course not. The uncertainty can be worse than the cancer. I know breaking up with Rob has been tough on you. A few days more or less won’t change the diagnosis. Otherwise your doctors wouldn’t have agreed to reschedule it. If it gives you peace of mind, it’s worth it.”
“Thanks for understanding.” I look at her, trying to suss out what she’s thinking. “Are you scared that the cancer will come back?”
“My cancer?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I’m still scared sometimes. You’ve done a good job of helping me forget about my own worries this past year, but so many women don’t make it. I try to stay positive.”
“That’s not always easy,” I say. I look up at her, suddenly realizing that she has been here for me all that time without asking for anything in return. I completely forgot about her cancer.
“It’s bloody difficult.” Mom looks at me warmly. Her eyes are moist. She’s doing her best to keep her tears from me. Now that I look at her, I realize she’s been keeping her tears from all of us since the beginning. Just as I did so many times last year when our roles were reversed. I couldn’t imagine being any closer to her than I am, but we still hide our tears. We act stronger than we are. Maybe by fooling the outside world, we fool ourselves.
“Mom, when this is all over, let’s promise to go to all our future checkups together.”
“I’d love that, Sophie.”
“Me too.”
Finally we both cry. Our hands reaching for one another across the kitchen table.
That evening Mom, Sis, and I curl up on the sofa watching Pride and Prejudice. Three different women who, when watching Jane Austen, are one and the same. They all want Mister Darcy.
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 25
THANKS TO JAN, I’VE BEEN invited to the offices of the Amsterdam-based urban magazine NL20, a hip cultural publication that knows everything worth doing in the city. Jan sent them some of my writing, and the editors at NL20 invited me for an interview. The young man sitting opposite me nods his head, making his dreadlocks swing in front of his face.
“I like your writing samples. The wigs give you a unique approach. If you can turn your wig-wearing adventures into journalism, I think it could really be something. We’ll try it out for the next two months, and if it goes well, we can talk about something more permanent.”
On the outside Uma plays it cool, but inside I’m jumping up and down. I never imagined cancer as an asset.
A gay guy in a multicolored Adidas tracksuit walks by.
“Oh my God, I loooove your hair!” he exclaims, accompanied by theatrical hand gestures. After a few months and several nights out Uma is starting to get frizzy and looks more and more hippie. I kind of like it.
I smile in response, without really knowing what to say. I’m still a bit dumbstruck.
“This is Louis. He does the agenda and a few other bits and pieces, such as The Fitting Room.”
“The Fitting Room?”
“He picks people from the street and asks them about their personal style.”
“Not just anyone,” Louis clarifies, “only the stylish. Last week it was an Afghani girl in a flower-print burka.”
“Ah. Burka fashion. Very stylish.”
“As you can probably tell, the atmosphere here is pretty relaxed,” Dreadlocks continues. I look around. He’s not exaggerating. Dreadlocks is barefoot and wearing a Hawaiian floral-print shirt. Louis is holding a Ping-Pong paddle in his hand. It’s silly. I love silly.
“You’ll have my first column next week.” I’m so excited; I start writing as soon as I get home.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28
THE WOMAN SITTING OPPOSITE ME keeps silent. She listens, takes notes, sighs. Occasionally she interrupts me, but only when I get lost in my own words. On her advice I bought two books: The Healing Journey and Getting Well Again, both written by Dr. O. Carl Simonton. The idea is to visualize your cancer cells and then visualize a shark or whatever you like swimming around and have him eat them.
I guess cancer can make you kind of desperate.
So I opened up Google and went looking for a therapist specializing in Simonton methodology. I’ve never seen one before.
It was Mom who advised me to see someone. Even though she sent away the hospital psychologist after one session when she was ill—my mom is kind of picky—the experience did encourage her to talk to a friend who has her own practice. Since we cried together that day at the kitchen table, I feel closer to her than ever.
The woman asks me to visualize my fear with my eyes closed and then draw it on a sheet of paper. I draw a cloud using blue and green, with another cloud above it that I try with all my might to push away, but it beats me and merges into my first cloud.
She asks me to close my eyes again and to describe my drawing. “What happens next?”
“I’m hanging it, in a frame above my bed.”
“And?”
“I walk over, lift it off the nail, and go back to bed, holding the frame close to me like a stuffed animal.”
“What do you think that means?”
“That I’m a sadomasochist cuddling my fear?”
“Sophie, there is more than one Sophie in you: a happy Sophie, a strong Sophie, but also a frightened and insecure Sophie. You need to accept that before you can move on.”
“So maybe it’s trying to say I don’t need to push away my fear?”
“Maybe.”
The key concepts I take away from our sessions are “cleaning up” and “clearing out.”
“Can I come back tomorrow?”
“Yes, Sophie, you can.”
I feel like hugging her on my way out. After all, we shared so much. But that’s not what therapists do. Instead, I give her a formal hand shake.
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 29
I WANT TO RIP ROB to shreds. I sift through my phone contacts looking for old flings, potential crushes. Anything to avoid sitting alone on my couch.
Maybe a new hairstyle will help. A new identity that doesn’t belong to him in any way. Maybe being a new me will help me forget the old me who’s in love with Rob. Or maybe he’ll fall madly in love with me again when he sees me looking newly beautiful and intriguing. At the theater shop I go for daring, platinum-blond locks that go down to my waist. A little bit exotic, a lot sexy: perfect for my new single status. I call her Bebé as a tribute to Bebé in Andalusia. Then I buy some new makeup to match my new hair: black eyeliner and purple eye shadow. Let the feast begin.
Is he having sex with her right now? Asshole. I hope he falls out of bed and hurts himself.
On my way to the grocery store I pass Café Finch, where we both like to go. And there behind the window I see him sitting with a girl with very long legs. They’re laughing. I watch them for a long second, take a deep breath, then hide behind Bebé and walk on.
One more day until the final scan.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 30
I’M SITTING IN THE SAME chair I was the day I got my bad news. Beside me is Jur. I asked him to come today because he’s the only one who can look me in the eye and convince me that anything is possible. Even when the doctors say it isn’t.
Across the desk is Dr. L. He smiles. “What have you got on your head this time? Pretty, that long hair.”
It’s the first time that I have done the scan and get results the same day. My heart lifts as the fear in the pit of my stomach slowly lessens. His friendliness is a g
ood sign. I nod and tug at Bebé’s hair nervously. I’ve done my makeup and am wearing my prettiest blouse, which Otto and Bebé gave me, all aimed at turning my hope into conviction.
“Well, Sophie, I have good news for you.”
I see pride and happiness in my doctor’s eyes. My hand jerks up in an automatic spasm of joy, looking for Jur’s hand. His hand does the same. I thought I would jump up and hug Dr. L—that’s what happens in the scene I’ve played out a hundred times in my mind. But I just bend over his desk and kiss him on the cheek as a tear rolls down my own.
“The scans look good. Great, actually. Nothing left to see. You are what we call ‘X-ray clean.’”
“How clean is that?”
“Well, we can’t be completely sure. Although there are no visible abnormalities, we can never guarantee that you are one hundred percent clean. Time will tell.”
Outside of the office, Jur interrupts my questions with a big kiss and a long, comforting embrace. “What a load of rubbish,” he says as we leave the hospital. “You’re clean! Forget all that crap about ‘time will tell.’”
I’m so glad Jur is here. He would know.
I feel a rush of love not only for this amazing boy in front of me, but also for Annabel and Jan and even Rob. For my neighbors. For my family. Clean, clean, clean. This is better than a triple orgasm! My God, what a joy it is to be cured. I just can’t believe it; I’m scared that the joy is too good to be true. When it comes to life, I’ve become a bit mistrusting. But that doesn’t take the feeling away. I immediately call home, hear Mom sob for the very last time, and walk with Jur into a café to celebrate.
Three glasses of wine and a few tapas later, I walk down the street to a restaurant on the Prinsengracht to meet up with Annabel and continue the celebration. The wine and the good news have gone straight to my head. Annabel is outside waiting for me and I fall into her arms. I can’t believe it. Am I really clean? Cured? Is this it? I look at the people around me with jobs and schedules and plans. Am I one of them again?
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 1
AT MIDNIGHT I WALK into Sugar Factory, a new club. I’m going out dancing, this time to remember and not to forget. Although my heart is still beating as fast as it was in Dr. L’s office, I’ve managed to stick on my enormous fake eyelashes and to draw a smooth line around my eyelids. I’m wearing super-high-heeled boots, Bebé’s long blond hair, and a sexy caftan that barely covers my butt. Annabel is wearing jeans and a tight jacket, and her dark hair is in a long ponytail. Jur is dressed in a green T-shirt, chunky black Nikes, and baggy jeans. He looks even cuter than he did yesterday. We drink red wine, just like yesterday. And like tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.
But he doesn’t look. Not in the direction of my lips, at least. He talks, listens, answers, makes jokes, and speaks of his ex-girlfriend, his lovers. All while being terribly attractive.
What about me? As I look at him, I think about my lips and his lips. My hips and his hips. My legs wrapped around his legs, and my eggs on toast next to his eggs on toast on Sunday morning. I fantasize that we’ll spend my post-chemo year on white beaches and in unknown cities, but mostly under my sheets and his.
In the ladies’ room I apply some extra gloss to my lips. I pull my blond hair into place and undo an extra button.
But he doesn’t look. He’s caught up in his own busy love life and doesn’t seem to notice that I’m waiting in line as well.
“Jur?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve told you how much I like you, right?” He’s walked me home and now we’re standing outside of my house. The perfect setting for a Hollywood kiss.
Jur looks a little confused. “Yes?”
“Well, I’ve been a little in love with you from the first day we met. I mean, not all day every day because I don’t see you as much as I would like, but I can’t help it, I really like you.”
“Oh, uh, wow. That’s really honest of you.” Not the response I was looking for.
“And?” I bat my XXL lashes for added effect.
“Sophie, you know I have a girlfriend.”
“Yes I do. But I had to tell you anyway.”
“Sophie, I think you’re amazing, and we do have something special, but I think we’re better as friends.”
“Oh.”
“Come here, you.” Jur grabs ahold of me and gives me a big hug.
Great, just what I wanted. Another friend.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2
IT’S PARTY TIME. The ecstatic feeling from the good news is still raging through my body. I can’t sleep. I’m lying in bed with my eyes wide-open. It’s time to start getting ready anyway. Off to Club NL to celebrate.
Sis is joining the party too. Even Rob is here, and he greets me with a long kiss. Seeing him again, I instantly realize I want to stay friends with him no matter what, so I do my best not to think about Lady Long Legs. Much easier with her away on vacation.
Rob and I are together all night. We talk and talk. How much we care about each other. How sorry he is. How we’ll be friends forever. Etc.
So now we’re friends. Lucky me with all these great friends.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3
NOW THAT I HAVE A future again, things are looking up. Although the relief is immense, I’m still adjusting to the “ex” part of “ex–cancer patient.” I open NL20 and go in search of my column. It’s my first piece, and therefore longer than usual: just introducing me needs nine pictures alone. The boys are by my side and they are as excited as I am. It’s the first time that Rob and I are sharing the same terrace again. After two weeks without each other’s company, it feels more than good to have him next to me, holding my hand. All we need to do is forget the existence of Lady Long Legs.
SOPHIE’S WIGS, it says at the top of the page. Below the headline they selected four out of the nine photos of me: the one with my middle fingers raised, which Jan took in the very beginning, and one each with Platina, Uma, and Sue. Random pictures that friends made.
The column I wrote is about my night with Tie Boy, which I always thought would remain completely anonymous. I wonder if he’ll read it.
“Hey, look, I’m making my photography debut as well!” Rob points to the picture of Uma, which he took three months ago. I read the article out loud, and with every word, Rob’s smile grows. Our hands make a ball that we don’t let go.
“Rob, when are you going to get over this nonsense with Lady Long Legs? I can have her kidnapped, you know. Or, even better, attacked by a wild baboon. I have connections, you know.”
“You take her feet, I’ll take her by her head,” Jan says, joining in the conversation. Rob laughs. The electric tension doesn’t go away. We might have left each other, but it feels like our chemistry hasn’t left us. For whatever reason, tonight it isn’t hurting me as much as it has been. I feel great as I look at my journalistic debut on the coffee table. What a week: from cancer patient to feature article in a magazine.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 5
TODAY IS A NOSTALGIC DAY: Sinterklaas. Sinterklaas is a Dutch tradition that makes small kids very happy and their parents somewhat less so. It basically means that we get Christmas twice. Sinterklaas comes on the fifth of December. Just like Santa Claus, he’s an old man handing out toys, only he rides his boat through Amsterdam rather than a flying sleigh. It requires a lot of holiday spirit to celebrate both Sinterklaas and Santa, so most parents make sure only one of them comes down the chimney.
Since we live on the canal, there are always boats passing by. Small private boats, rental boats, big tourist canal boats, and paddleboats. There’s a number of houseboats tethered as well, most of them never moving. Fortunately, Sinterklaas’s boat arrives at the very start of wintertime, when the canals aren’t frozen yet. If we’re lucky, the temperature will drop enough to make the canals freeze. Only one of the canals, the Keizersgracht, can be used for ice skating. The others stay open for boats. But it’s magical when it happens. When we were kids, our winters were colder, a
nd even our canal, the Herengracht, froze enough that boats couldn’t get through.
This morning all the schoolkids from the other side of the canal have gathered to welcome their favorite holiday visitor. It’s such a sweet sight, with the music playing traditional Sinterklaas carols. Sis and I stand in front of the window, overlooking the canal and watching a part of our childhood passing by. It’s one of those moments that could be tearful, but we keep our eyes dry. It’s surprising considering in a few hours my sister will be on a plane to the other side of the world. It’s the downside to the tumors being gone.
She’s leaving me.
I’m sad, but there’s nothing we can do. She promised she’s going to come back and visit often. Luckily her boyfriend works for an airline, which should ease the pain of flying back and forth. I’d much rather her come see me here in Amsterdam than me go visit her in Hong Kong. After everything I’ve been through this year, my travel bug has left me. I just want to be at home.
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6
I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE who read last Saturday’s edition of NL20. The daily talk show De Wereld Draait Door did too. Now they’ve invited me to come on the show and talk about it. Fortunately, Lady Long Legs is still somewhere far away and I have Rob all to myself. I’m glad he’s with me; going on TV for the first time is scary, especially when wearing a wig.
In the makeup studio, all my various wigs are being passed around the room. I have brought matching outfits for all of them. Scarlet, followed by blond, followed by brunette; short, long, straight, and platinum. Who shall it be? The makeup lady asks me which one is the most “me.” The most me? Good question. They’re all me.
Uma, Daisy, Blondie, Sue, or Platina? Bebé or Pam? Lydia? Stella, even? Who will come with me to sit between the hosts, the ironed shirts and clean-shaven faces, in front of the cameras, the media, and all those smiles? It sure is glam to be me. Glam to be a cancer patient.
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