The twenty minutes I was on live television are a complete blank to me. I don’t remember how I walked up there. I don’t even remember the questions they asked me. Or what I said. I do remember someone coming up to me just before I had to climb on stage saying another guest had bailed and I had to sit out the show—until the end. All of a sudden there were bright lights and the handsome host whose face I knew all too well sitting next to me. Then I started talking nonstop. And then, just as suddenly, it was over. When I turned around, Rob was all smiles and everyone else was congratulating me. An editor even handed me his card and told me he wants to turn my story into a book.
It’s unreal. My wigs have become a media sensation. All I have to do is show people that you can live with cancer, that you can still laugh and enjoy yourself. That I still shop, dress up, and go on dates. That those things are still just as much fun as they were before I got cancer, maybe even more so. That life with cancer doesn’t have to be just an emaciated body, pain, and endless vomiting. And that wigs can be fun, and not just for me, but for anyone with cancer.
How’s that for a business card? SOPHIE VAN DER STAP, THE GIRL WITH NINE WIGS.
When I get home from the studio, my inbox is full of e-mails. Ninety percent of the names are unknown to me, but from the subject lines I can see they are responses to the show. It makes me feel warm inside. My head doesn’t hit the pillow until three thirty A.M.
One e-mail stands out:
Date: Tue, 6 Dec 20:39
From: Chantal
To: Sophie
Subject: hi Sophie
Just saw you on De Wereld Draait Door, a friend of mine called me to tell me to turn on the television. I’m a cancer patient like you, only a little older. Spread breast cancer. Not the best one to have either. It made me laugh to see the similarities between your attitude and mine. Especially when you talked about that guy in the club. I had a similar experience. You used your wig to hide the effects of chemo, and I always wear scarves to cover up the radiation marks on my chest. I told one guy they were road maps to find my G-spot.… A true desperate single, ha ha.
I never wore wigs. I only ever found one that I liked but it was too uncomfortable. I go through life with a baseball cap. People stare and whisper, and usually I just say, “This is what someone with cancer looks like.” Not everyone appreciates my cynical humor, but I think you might.
Maybe you’re thinking, hey, I want to get to know this girl or maybe the exact opposite, but I wanted to e-mail you because I think we have a lot in common. I bet you’ve received a thousand e-mails so I’ll forgive you if you don’t write back.
Love,
Chantal
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 7
“ARE YOU THERE? Can you see me?” I ask.
“I can see you! Ready for the grand tour?”
“Hell yeah!”
I’m Skyping with Sis and she’s about to show me her apartment in Hong Kong. The view is unbelievable. Absolutely everything looks high tech. And here I thought that Europe was the center of the universe. Not anymore, it seems.
“What do you think, will you be strong enough to come visit us soon?”
“Well, I still have two months of maintenance chemo. Maybe after, but I find it a bit scary to travel so far from Dr. L. I’d rather have him in arm’s reach, you know?”
“I understand. Hong Kong isn’t for the faint of heart—it’s like a million people in one square meter and nobody looks where they’re going. It makes me miss you even more.”
“That’s your fault for moving!” I reply. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. Didn’t mean to say that.”
“Yes you did.”
“True.” We both start laughing uncomfortably. “Well, the good thing is that I don’t miss you yet, but it’s only been two days.”
Traveling has always been number one on my agenda, but now all I want to do is sit in the kitchen with the scent of soup simmering through the house. With Sis sitting next to me, Mom at the stove, and Dad reading his newspaper.
Hong Kong, Schmong Kong.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9
I LEAN BACK INTO ONE of the insanely uncomfortable seats for my day treatment at the hospital. A few hours ago the nurses welcomed me with cries of “Celebrity!” Sitting in the television studio, I’d forgotten about the IV drips and doctors. I’d forgotten my fears of the cancer coming back. I guess telly had its effect on me too. But now I have the headache from hell; it’s as if a helicopter is zooming around in my head. Whenever my body suffers, fear lurks just around the corner. Oma, who’s sitting next to me, doesn’t seem to hear anything. I can tell by her eyes. She is smart, though, and sneaky so she confirms my remark about the noise of the propeller anyway, to make me feel better. The nurses look at me quizzically when I ask if they hear it. Some hospitals have helipads to receive medevac patients, but not this one.
“A helicopter?” the nurse asks again. “No, not in this hospital.”
The yellow gunk has worked its way into my body; the empty bag is swinging back and forth uselessly from my IV pole.
“Yes, it sounds like a helicopter,” I answer. I close my eyes and lean back. The IV needle is sticking out of my fake boob. Suddenly, everything goes dark and I’m close to passing out. Last Tuesday seems like a faraway dream, an outtake from the life of someone else. Now it’s as if my body has remembered what’s going on. The helicopter in my head is getting ready for takeoff, and I’m back to thinking about those who didn’t make it.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10
Date: Sat, 10 Dec 12:32
From: Sophie
To: Chantal
Subject: Re: hi Sophie
Dear Chantal,
Thank you for your letter. I really enjoyed reading it.
Let’s meet!
When is your next chemo? Shall we set up a date just in between our sessions if our chemo’s match? (How nice to speak to a fellow cancer patient and not to have to explain why.)
In which neighborhood do you live?
Love,
Sophie
P.S. I very much appreciate your humor.
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13
JAN CONVINCED ME THAT HIS chaotic schedule and my hospital appointments are a great excuse to flee the Amsterdam winter. He hates December with all the family holidays, so he keeps coming up with reasons we should take a trip this month. I think a lot of bad things happened to him during this month in the past, so he always flees. But I don’t know the details. First, he was born in December, an event he’s always been ambivalent about. Then his mother died in December when he still was a little boy. His father died too, but I don’t know when. I do know he hates Christmas.
Because we usually think alike, we’re off to Barcelona for a few days. At first I was hesitant and didn’t feel like the journey at all. I’m still mostly homebound. But then I looked at Jan and saw us strolling on a sunny beach, getting lost in the small city lanes, and agreed. Although he’s sixty and I’m in my early twenties, we’re pretty much on the same level, and even when we’re not, it doesn’t matter. We can tell each other anything.
“Jan, put your pride aside. No one wants to read about a smelly, hairy old dog.” Jan is writing a book about his dog, assuming that the whole world will love him as much as he does.
“Hey, little hussy, how about you keep your opinions to yourself?”
Correction: Jan can tell me anything.
We’re at the gate getting ready to “pre-board.” Pre-boarding? What does that even mean? Standing very close together in a holding room instead of sitting in the waiting area? Mentally preparing ourselves for the transition to Spanish culture? What does one do before boarding a plane?
Pre-boarding is not standard. It is only done in exceptional circumstances. But with this low-cost airline, it happens on every flight. We’re packed in with all the other passengers. I begin to wonder why I’m doing this. Where is the fun? Packing, repacking, checking in, queues, boarding—but only after pre-boarding—customs, unp
acking … and I have no idea what I’ll be having for breakfast tomorrow. Or where I’ll have it. There was a time when I loved this game. Not so much anymore. I even worry a bit about all the germs around me.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 14
“JAN, WHO’S BETTER IN PURPLE, Bebé or Uma?”
“Depends. Do you want to bring home a young toreador, or a soccer-team owner in pinstripes?”
Jan and I adjust quickly to the Spanish rhythm and head out around ten in the evening for a glass of wine and a bite to eat. I remove Uma’s auburn locks from my head and switch them for Bebé’s long blond hair.
“Russian blond and shiny purple, I don’t know. It screams soccer exec to me,” says Jan teasingly.
“It’s chic,” I mutter as I smooth down my top. Some combinations just don’t work, however hard I try. Like Platina’s electric-white bob with a black and white print. Or Bebé’s blond locks with the thin straps of my pink minidress. It would send the wrong message. I like flashing my bimbo side every once in a while, but I keep it tempered at all times. I focus more on each character’s best assets. Pam offers me all sorts of wardrobe possibilities, but now that I have nine characters to choose from, my options are endless. Which is why a green top for Uma and Sue is on my shopping list—to give their red locks a bit more oomph. Also on my list: a pink floral shirt to give Daisy a little extra sweetness, and a sexy black blouse to flaunt Bebé.
When I go out on the town, I always go for sexy and sultry—for obvious reasons: With a full mane of long, shiny hair, I’m halfway there. That’s why Bebé, Uma, and Pam have seen the most restaurants, clubs, and parties. Tonight is no exception: red wine on Las Ramblas. And because Bebé, Sue, Pam, and Uma are the only ladies who’ve traveled with me to Barcelona, my choice is limited to blond or red, purple or pink.
“Is it too much?” I ask.
“Too much for Bebé? I doubt it.”
“Then this is it.”
Roebelina Sletta Mongolia is my name tonight. Jan likes to rechristen me according to my outfit.
In the little restaurant where we end up, we order more plates than we can finish. Jan tells me about his life as he was growing up. About his first big love, going to Studio 54 in New York, meeting Andy Warhol, chasing Oprah in her own studio, the day that he became a millionaire (this lasted only a few days, until the next business transaction was done), and the early days of his TV show. He has had such a life. His big mouth brought him everywhere. And all I really know about his life is that he loves chocolates (preferably the ones from Forrest Gump), that he walks around with a little jar in the inside pocket of his jacket to spice up his coffee, and how he likes his eggs.
“You know, doll face, if you keep flirting on TV like you did last week…”
“Then what?”
“Nothing, nothing, I’m not saying anything. We’ll see.”
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 15
I WALK TO THE CORNER at the back of the church and pick out the three largest candles I can find. Next I find an empty spot to place the candles. This feels more respectful than jamming them between other prayers. Two saints watch over my candles, guarding them—I don’t have a clue which ones, but they look very pious and responsible. I glance around the church. The huge chandeliers hanging from the ceiling make the space appear even larger.
Sitting in the first pew, I’m alone, with a mass of empty pews behind me. Jan’s outside, with his face turned toward the sun. I’m tired, really tired. I can feel my head spinning. I don’t know how many churches I have visited in my life. When Sis and I were little, our parents dragged us to every church in town, and since we were always road tripping, we have seen quite a few of them. It didn’t convert any of us though. My father came to admire the architecture, my mom the shrine. And after visiting the churches, my sister and I were promised an afternoon of our choice.
But since my chemo I have started coming to churches myself. I embrace the silence, the calm, and the fact that I’m always welcome—no matter what I said or did the day before. Safe behind these friendly walls, away from where everything moves so fast. I get up, lighting the candles. The first is for Mom, whose illness sort of got buried under mine, and although she functions well, she is still fighting the fear that the cancer might come back. The second is for Jur, and the third is for my new friend, Chantal. For some reason, I’m very excited about meeting her. I leave it at that, otherwise I could carry on forever, so many angels around me.
Two wrinkly old Spanish women shuffle by. Their steps slow as they approach the altar to light their candles, and our gazes meet. One of them flashes me a smile with no more than three remaining teeth, while the other busies herself putting coins into the narrow slot of the large jar beneath the altar. They have their moment, and I have mine, before they disappear back through the heavy wooden doors.
I sit down in the first row again, leaning back and looking straight into the eyes of Jesus, my now-familiar friend. Two eyes gazing down on me from above, always and everywhere. For the first time, it strikes me as a very comforting thought. Always and everywhere. I decide to light a fourth candle, for him. It’s the least I can do.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16
THERE’S SOMETHING SPECIAL ABOUT THIS church. I’ve come back every day. Hundreds of candles crowd every corner of the otherwise empty space. The ceiling vaults are high, the stone floor bare, and the pews empty. There isn’t much grandeur, but it is a beautiful church.
Today two more old people shuffle by me. This time it’s a couple, supporting each other with knees and elbows. They glance at me and greet me with a nod. Perhaps in the church my long blond hair is associated more with an angel than a bimbo. Not like on Las Ramblas. I nod back and watch their path through the church, until it’s quiet once again. I get up and walk to the exit, away from the burning candles. Away from the warmth of my friend. I look back one last time, to a space full of thoughts and prayers, and disappear through the large, imposing doors into the light where Jan’s lean posture is waiting for me. I take his hand and we run down the stairs, laughing.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 17
I WALK INTO THE CHURCH to check on my candles. They’ve burned out.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 21
I’M BACK IN AMSTERDAM and meeting Chantal at her favorite bar. It’s still early and quiet. We sit together at one of the empty tables set up with glasses, ashtrays, and lit candles.
Chantal lights her second cigarette. She laughs cheerfully and takes another sip of her white wine. Opposite me sits a winner. An optimist. An exception to the rule. A woman who looked her greatest fear in the eye and dared to face it. She’s still shining. She’s made me laugh, sigh, listen closely, and swallow my tears. She gives me goose bumps because I can’t let go of the thought that the chair opposite me could soon be empty.
Terminally ill. Enjoying life. Making jokes. Flirting. Shoe shopping. That was the first thing Chantal did when she was diagnosed: she bought new shoes, not caring how long she would have to walk in them, probably hoping they would lead her to a new life. Shivers run down my spine. I want to fold her in my arms. Not out of pity or sympathy, but to feel her strength.
Sitting here with her makes me sad. Sad about cancer. Sad about those jerks who can’t handle cancer but “want to be friends.” About assholes who choose young bodies without tumors or wigs over ours. Who would rather hold hands with a wrist not wearing a yellow rubber bracelet.
“Hate to break it to you, but these don’t work,” Chantal says with a wink as she shows me her bracelet.
She tells me the past tense is something she is afraid of. That her friends will talk about her in the past tense. That they will grow old and gray without her. I know what she means. Even though things are looking brighter for me now, I still don’t dare to believe that time is on my side.
Am I terminally ill as well? Chantal’s friend asks me this when she joins our party. The bar has grown crowded.
I shake my head, feeling relieved and slightly guilty.
“But I won’t make forty,” she says. Although we share the same sense of humor, my smile feels forced.
She says Sunday is the worst day of the week, because that’s the day you’re supposed to spend with your loved ones and she’s all alone. I imagine her standing behind a window looking down at the people on the streets, walking and living. I suddenly feel lucky to still live with my parents. I think about how I could cheer her up. Maybe we could spend our Sundays whining together. Or have fun buying shoes together without wondering how often we’ll get to wear them. The doctors have given her two years. She reckons more than that. So do I.
There’s a lot we’ve had to give up, but we have a lot left, too. We have every second, minute, and hour of the day for ourselves. We have every day of the week for ourselves. We live for ourselves and for those we love.
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 27
I CLIMB INTO MY HOT bath, no candles and no lover. I leaf through Elle and my eye falls on the horoscope, which I usually cut out for Annabel, but now—against my better judgment—decide to read. The mysteries of the stars and the solar system condensed into seven hundred words per astrological sign, divided into character analysis, career nonsense, and unrealistic love-life predictions.
As far as work goes, I’ll run into some bad luck in September. That’s too bad as I’m planning on launching my writing career just in that month. NL20 has offered me a permanent position, and the feedback of the editor who I met at the TV studio was super positive. He read the diary I kept all this time in the hospital and he wants to publish it as a book! Why not dream big, now that my ability to dream has been given back to me?
In terms of love, the road ahead is looking pretty bumpy. Great. I haven’t even gotten over the last one. Apparently I will meet two princes this year: The first will screw me over before the summer, leaving me to be someone else’s prince. All bets on the second, then, who will turn up at my doorstep in the fall. According to my horoscope, that one’s a keeper. Can I trust the stars? Can I finally stop thinking about Jur, then?
The Girl With Nine Wigs Page 15