I chat a little with my neighbor about hair loss and hair growth, and we end our conversation by saying we hope never to see each other again. That’s probably the nicest and most common sentence uttered at the outpatient clinic.
Dr. L accepts my chocolates with a warm smile. Not only is his desk a mess, but the floor is covered in exploding dossiers, piled high into crooked towers. He apologizes for the chaos and gives me, as always, a firm handshake. We discuss my blood values and my next appointment. The atmosphere is different. I’m not here because I hope he will cure me. I’m here because I hope I am cured and will never have to come back here again. My blood values are on the rise, my next appointments purely routine. I happily tell him how much better I’m feeling. That I’ve gained some weight and can feel my energy coming back. That I know for sure that the cancer is gone.
“So my port-a-cath can be taken out already? Shouldn’t I leave it in for a while just to be sure?”
Dr. L shakes his head. “You’re better now, aren’t you? You’re done.”
We’re quiet for a minute but then raise our heads to speak at the exact same time. His eyes are flashing with thoughts, as are mine. So many moments of uncertainties and awkwardness behind us. So many consults and handshakes to get us to this point.
He says what I’m afraid to say: “I’ll miss you.”
I leave the room with a lump in my throat. I actually think I’ve come to really like him.
* * *
After being unhooked from the IV, I feel fine. Outside I take the tram instead of a taxi. On the way home I stop for some books and a coffee. I’ve wanted to read Ray Kluun’s book, Love Life, ever since Chantal assured me it’s more drama than sensation. Kluun has written the best cancer book ever, about losing his wife to cancer and how he loses himself in affairs and partying as a way to cope. It doesn’t sound very loving but it actually is a beautiful love story. There are two shoes on the book cover. Women’s sneakers. I don’t know why, but I’m sure I’ll find out. With Kluun under my arm I walk into Finch. It’s almost five, the Noordermarkt is filling up, and I happily observe the hustle and bustle around me. It all looks and sounds so different to me now that my last chemo is over.
Sitting in the café until closing time, clothes smelling of smoke and beer. Getting dragged out of bed in the morning to go to Pilates with Annabel. Partying till late. Gossiping about guys.
I’m back.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 13
NOW THAT MY fifty-fourth week is over and the last hand has been shaken with Dr. L, I’m no longer a patient. Today I am a “writer.” It sounds kind of poshy and I’d say it suits me better than studying economics on a blackboard anyway.
I’m starting to fit the writing picture. My laptop and I are adjusting quite nicely. I get up in the morning and write a little. I have breakfast and come up with some ideas. Go to bed and write some more. The words just keep on coming. I write all day long. It somehow seems meant to be.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16
IT’S SNOWING; THE SNOWFLAKES shimmer past my large windows a thousand at a time. Dressed in a black dress and very sheer pantyhose, which will be more laddered than solid black after one wear, I climb into an unfamiliar car. Disco glitter and party wigs. The occasion is the launch of a new party boat in an industrial part of Amsterdam—a good reason to go reporting. And it’s a wig-themed party, an even better reason for me to write about it. My date, Tie Boy, is wearing a velvet pinstripe suit for the occasion. My long blond hair hardly makes an impression tonight; all the crazy hairstyle creations surrounding me are an inspiration, and wigs are handed around laughingly. Pink curls, white flowing locks, a black Afro.
Onstage, among all the sweating partygoers, Tie Boy comes and stands close behind me. My body is covered in the dress’s thin elastic material, pulled tightly over my hips. Bebé’s hair is dancing wildly around my head and my lips sing to the music. I feel free, especially knowing Rob doesn’t make up any part of Bebé’s existence. Tie Boy’s hand slowly slides down my back and then pulls away again. This happens a few times, until I turn around and look him straight in his big, blue eyes. This is our moment. He tightens his grip; his hand is low around my middle and moves playfully toward my belly button. One touch and I have goose bumps all over. One more touch and I’m filled with irresistible desire. We look at each other and want one thing. His warm hand slips into mine and we disappear. Away from the stage, away from the sweating partygoers. I started the evening as Bebé, but I finish the night as Cicciolina, a white-blond wig with more sex than style, given to me as a souvenir.
“Want to come up for a nightcap?” he asks. It’s one A.M.
“Will you make me a cup of tea?” I ask him, happy that I don’t have to say good-bye to him just yet. We climb a long, steep stairway—me doing my best not to trip in my high heels—and pass a darkly painted bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen. I make a pit stop to adjust my unfamiliar hair.
“I only have rose hip.” Tie Boy is obviously not a tea drinker. As we wait for the water to boil, meaningful glances bounce back and forth through the kitchen. And then his lips are on my temple, my cheekbone, carefully moving down toward my mouth. After hours of built-up tension our lips have found each other and don’t let go. I want more—more of his lips, his hands, and especially his arms. We disappear into the room next door.
His lips slowly move lower. His fingers slip carefully inside. My mouth makes heaving noises, my back curls up. We’re making love and I want to completely let go but I can’t.
I see white coats, needles, Dr. L, then Rob. A tear runs down my cheek, down my arm. I think about Rob and what I saw in his eyes. I don’t see that right now.
I think about how I got here. I want to let go, leave it all behind me, and make room for new things and people, but I can’t. I feel trapped in my own story.
Crying softly I fall asleep, and crying softly I wake up. It’s dark, and I blink a few times before I can make out the contours of the room. A feeling of loneliness creeps up on me. I’m on my right side, with my back to the other body in the bed with me; only our feet are touching. I turn around and creep up against the warm, sleeping body, wanting to cuddle away the sudden emptiness in me. But the closer I try to get, the further away I feel from myself.
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17
IN THE MORNING I MEET Jan for a coffee. Can he see that I cried? That this morning, when the city was still dark and sleeping, I washed off my sadness in the shower?
Probably not. How can he possibly see all that, when even I forget it by the time I wake up? So much goes unnoticed. Not just by those around me, but also by myself.
Here they are again. The unexpected moods. The sudden tears. The spontaneous sobs. I slice an onion and start to cry, a few stinging tears growing into a waterfall. First they roll down my cheeks. I catch them with my lips and lick them clean with my tongue. Salty. I keep chopping away on the cutting board to the rhythm of my breathing, trying to calm myself down. No easy task. The path from prognosis and consultations in the hospital to carefree glasses of wine and wig-themed parties is a long one. I run away from my fearful tears into the night.
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 23
“I MEAN, OBVIOUSLY I’M WORRIED about your health. Are they absolutely sure you’ll get better? And all the chemo doesn’t do much for me physically. Slipping wigs, contraptions in your chest, all that stuff—they aren’t exactly my fetishes. Sorry, I just don’t think it’s going to work out.”
“Yeah, definitely not,” I say, hanging up the phone. It’s clear: dating is not for girls with wigs. I’m stunned. Is that really what he thinks? Did he really dump me because I wear a wig? So much for Tie Boy and Platina. Wow, this hurts.
“A girl with cancer has to work harder for a bit of attention than a girl without, that’s just the way it is!” These conversations are usually held in the pub, me holding a warm cup of tea and my friends exhaling their cigarette smoke and raising beers to their lips. It’s ridiculous. As if I have some sort of h
andicap.
Even though it’s not the same as it was, I still flirt. I still use all the same tricks: knees touching under the table, coy smiles. The only difference now is that I already know I won’t be going home with that person. Not tonight, or tomorrow night either. It just doesn’t feel right. A lot has to happen before the first drink turns into the first sleepover these days.
Nowadays when men look at me it means one of three things: Either they see something they like, they see a booger hanging from my nose, or they see that something is not quite right. I’m most afraid of that last one. It makes me feel so aware of my wig and the bare head hiding underneath. Or worried there might be some unexpected dark fuzz sticking out from under my blond curls.
I’m aware of the statement I make when I walk in with one of my wild wigs. But the attention also makes me uncomfortable. The TV host called my story “a life with a secret” when he interviewed me. He was intrigued by this girl who left her cancer behind as she stepped out into the city night in her best pumps. The girl who lets a stranger kiss her without revealing anything of her true reality.
But that same girl goes to the market in the morning. I see people looking at me; some even tell me they love my hair. From a distance it’s all great, but seeing the fright in the saleslady’s eyes when I come out of the fitting room and my wig is hanging down the back of my dress is less fun. It jerks me back to that nasty place where my disease scares people off. But that same disease has become such a huge part of who I am.
I see men looking at Bebé’s or Pam’s sexy blond locks, and I see them thinking about things I would rather not be a part of. I can’t help wondering if they would be thinking the same things if it were Sue or Stella sipping green tea here at the bar. Or just me, brown fuzz on display. They don’t know me bald. Bald in my bed, bald in the shower, bald in my white dressing gown, bald when my wig slips off as I pull my sweater over my head. What would they say to that? There’s so much they don’t know about me.
I live in a different world. That’s my secret. And I keep it that way, because I don’t like to talk about my reality. If I could just say “yeah I have cancer and you, what do you do?” I would but it doesn’t work that way. I better hide it. It saves me a lot of disbelieving and scared looks.
Let them think I’m a blond bimbo who paints her toenails scarlet red. That I’m a carefree redhead drinking mojitos. A studious political scientist, as I sit in the library amid books with my hair pulled back. Let them think that’s who I am. It’s all partly true, but really, I’m just a girl looking for love.
TUESDAY, MAY 2
“SOPHIE! SOPHIE!” AN ANNOYING nurse is shouting in my ear.
I open my eyes. Mom is sitting next to me. Wow, I was really out of it. Quite pleasant, that anesthetic. I hold my gaze on my mother until she comes back into focus. Suddenly I see her as she was two years ago. Her hair is gathered up into a messy bun, like it was then. She seems younger, less worried, and more herself. She’s beautiful.
“How are you feeling?” asks the nurse.
“Like I want to sleep some more.”
“That’s fine. No pain?”
“No.” I push myself upright and look for my bump. No more bump. Welcome to my body, strange dent. “Where did it go?”
The nurse brings out my port-a-cath. I’ve never seen it before. It looks different than I had imagined; plastic and white, not as sci-fi as I had imagined. I could have gotten it removed a little earlier but didn’t feel any rush. Too sentimental.
“Can I keep it?”
THURSDAY, MAY 4
“I’M SORRY, GIRLS, but this just won’t be enough. You need about a kilo per person; you lose quite a lot after peeling.”
Annabel looks at the twenty white asparagus in her hand. Well, that’s that. The scale shows exactly 1.3 kilos, and according to her mother, Eva, that’s 700 grams short.
The asparagus are in season again. And this year I can comb my hair. It’s dark and about two inches long, with a bit of a curl.
Annabel and I walk out, back to the vegetable grocer.
FRIDAY, MAY 5
SIS HAS COME TO SEE us for a few weeks. She strokes my arm with her soft fingertips, down to my wrist and then back up. She holds still at my scar. We’re lying so close together that our foreheads touch. So close that Hong Kong feels only a wink away.
She tells me about the beautiful islands of the city where she now lives, about how they house so many people in such little space, how she feels the skyscraper she lives in moving when the weather is stormy. She tells me about the job she found and her bitchy boss, about a friend who won a marathon in the Gobi Desert, about delicious fried eggplant swimming around in a big bowl at a Chinese restaurant, about a market called the wet market and the horrible way turtles are treated, about how the Chinese are so much smaller than she is but still always seem to block her way. About hiking in the New Territories, how I can’t imagine the beauty, hours of jungle and then a clear blue bay to dive into at the end of the trail. About a Chinese girl named Lucienne who she met at a dinner party and who I should meet.
She looks and sounds so grown-up. Living a grown-up life with her boyfriend in a faraway city, wearing elegant suits and heels. Her life sounds like a dream to me. And it confuses me. What am I doing here when the world is out there? But which world? Hadn’t I just decided that my world is here, in between my loved ones?
Whatever it is, I can’t wait to go and see it all myself.
FRIDAY, MAY 12
PINK RIBBON IT SAYS on the bracelet I’ve just slipped over my wrist. In the bookstore we pass a pile of books on the way to the thrillers and bestsellers. Help, My Wife Is Pregnant! I read.
“That’s supposed to be good, too, but I don’t particularly want to read it.” Chantal walks straight on to another pile of books, one without pregnancies, ovarian tubes, or bibs. She must feel so lonely in a room like this with so many stories. Stories about falling in love, getting married, having babies, growing old. For her this is all past tense.
We have a drink on the terrace of the Café Pilsvogel. As I pluck at my pink bracelet I realize I’m missing my yellow one. Lost yet another. Yellow stands for a lot: Marco, Salvatore, and Lance. Pink is for Chantal, trapped in a body full of cancer. I won’t lose this one; I made sure to get the smallest size.
Chan is drinking wine; I’m having tea. Chan has a great tan and beside her I look almost see-through. But she’s riddled with cancer and I’m clean. As I work through the foodplatter in front of us, Chantal tells me she’s been having a hard time seeing the point lately. Her cynical tone permeates everything she says, whether it’s about foodplatters, doctors, or love.
“Nothing is fun anymore. I don’t know what’s wrong, but when I wake up all I want to do is go right back to sleep. Everyone thinks I’m having a great time because I spend every day sitting in bars laughing and joking around, but I’m only there because, really, I’m all alone.”
I take another bite.
“In ten years’ time—if I make it that far—I won’t be able to use my arm, the doctors told me. From the radiation.”
“Oh, well, luckily you won’t be around by then,” I say.
“Sure you won’t have a glass of wine?” she asks.
“No, thanks.”
“You know, I’ve been having the worst headaches lately. Sometimes they keep me up at night.”
“Are you worried?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. A few weird things happened this week.”
“Like what?”
“My friend Ellen came around last night, and when I went to open the door to let her in, I forgot how to turn the key. The same thing happened on the toilet. I forgot how to flush.”
“That could get dirty.”
Chantal doesn’t laugh. Neither do I. “Have you gone to see your doctor yet?”
“She’s on vacation.”
“So what, she has colleagues, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she does. But I’m see
ing her on Thursday, I’ll just ask her then.”
“Chan, that’s a week from now, why don’t you go before then?”
“I’ll see how it goes.”
SATURDAY, MAY 13
IT’S EVENING AND MY PHONE rings. Chantal.
“Hey, honey, how is your headache doing?” I ask.
“Not good. It got really bad last night and I’ve been in the hospital all day. I rang Ellen and we drove over here straightaway. Waiting, waiting, you know how it is.”
“And?”
“Nothing. They don’t do any scans on Saturday, so I have to wait until Monday.”
“They won’t do an MRI?”
“I guess not.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No, thanks, I’m completely exhausted. I’m going to take a shot of morphine and go to bed.”
“All right. I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep well.”
SUNDAY, MAY 14
I CALL CHANTAL IN THE afternoon. No answer. I call again. Still no answer. An hour later I call again and Ellen picks up. Something’s wrong.
“Hi, Ellen, this is Sophie. How’s Chan?”
Silence, hesitation. “Sophie, Chan isn’t feeling so great, she’ll call you back later on this week. Okay?”
That’s a bad sign. “Shit. Can I come by?”
“Well, we’re just leaving.”
“To go to the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Shall I meet you there?”
“There’s not much point. All she can do is vomit. She feels really bad.”
“Shit.”
“Why don’t you take my number? You can always call me.”
As I take down her digits I feel my first tears for Chan fall onto the piece of paper. For Chan, who is dying. Right now? In a few weeks? Months? Years? Complete helplessness. I’ve never felt that so strongly before. Now I’m the one sitting next to the bed. So much has changed again so fast. I decide to go to the hospital right away.
The Girl With Nine Wigs Page 17