* * *
•
After just one week of radiation, I was exhausted. I’d fall asleep on the ride back from Duarte, napping as Mom drove me to school. By the end of the second week, I was misspelling words, or incorrectly substituting one for another, or leaving them out altogether. Sometimes, in class, I’d ask the same question twice. My Spanish teacher, Mrs. Pendorf, was understanding. So was Mr. Stelter, in chemistry, where I got just about every term wrong. But after I misused “their” for “there” in Mrs. McKendrick’s class, she suggested I take a remedial spelling course. And then, when I got confused about which pages we had to read from All the King’s Men and raised my hand to ask, she snapped at me. “Whining again, Jeff?” she asked. The whole class went silent. I felt like screaming at her, but I didn’t have the energy.
* * *
•
The first couple of days of my radiation-imposed school break were absolutely necessary. I slept tons—ten hours each night, along with a few naps during the day. But soon, it was boring. I had to go to radiation each morning and study and do homework when I got back, but that went much faster when not having to listen to self-centered twats like Mrs. McKendrick drone on for an eternity. After accounting for the radiation trips, extra sleep, study time, and meals, I had five free hours a day with nothing to do, and Mom definitely didn’t have five hours to hang out.
One Saturday, after my fourth round of radiation, Mom came home from running some errands. Ted and Dad were out independently. I was lying on the couch, in front of the TV.
“Guess who I ran into?” Mom asked.
“Darth Vader?”
Mom frowned.
“Okay, tell me.”
“Joni Ashworth.” Not only was Mrs. Ashworth my favorite teacher in elementary school, she was the mother of the first girl I’d ever kissed. I pressed mute on the remote and sat up. “She asked about you. I mentioned you were taking a break from school and had some free time, and she said she could really use your help.”
“Me? What could I do for her?”
“She needs a teaching assistant. I told her you volunteered at Head Start last year.”
“Was this her idea or yours?”
“I’m not sure who came up with it. Here’s her number, though. She’d love to hear from you.” Mom handed it over. “I’ve got to put the groceries away.”
I ended up speaking with Mrs. Ashworth for nearly an hour that afternoon, talking about her daughter and her fifth graders and the ways I could be helpful. On Monday, after a morning dose of radiation and a nap, Mom dropped me off at my old elementary school.
“Pencils and paper down, everyone,” Mrs. Ashworth said. Her students, ten and eleven years old, instantly complied. “Let’s welcome my new teaching assistant. This is Jeff, who happens to have once been a student here, just like you. Shall we?”
The kids nodded, and Mrs. Ashworth cued them up. “Good morning, Jeff,” they said in classic elementary school monotone.
The kids got back to their U.S. history projects, and I walked from table to table. They were putting together posters of famous historical figures, like George Washington and Eleanor Roosevelt.
“What’s your name?” I said to one girl.
“Linda.”
“Well, Linda, that’s a lovely picture of Thomas Jefferson you’ve drawn.”
She frowned. “That’s not Thomas Jefferson. That’s Zachary Taylor.”
“Thank you for correcting me,” I said, smiling. Linda smiled back.
With each new day of radiation, my fatigue increased, and each day away from Poly, my friends felt more distant. Paul called whenever he could, but he was super busy and could never talk long. Without being around those little kids, I would’ve felt isolated and alone.
One afternoon in Mrs. Ashworth’s classroom, five weeks into my radiation, I was helping the kids with the questions they had to write for their U.S. history game show. It was just like Jeopardy!
“Jeff, what should my Eleanor Roosevelt question be?” a girl named Edna asked.
I knelt next to her. “Did you have anything in mind?”
There was a poke on my shoulder. I turned around to see Robert, who was sitting at the table behind Edna’s. He had a quizzical look on his face. “Why do you have a blue dot on your head?” he asked.
It couldn’t be tempera paint. We’d used that a few days before, but I’d definitely showered since then. Plus, none of the bottles was sitting out. I wiped my face and looked at my hand, just to make sure. “No, not there,” Robert said loudly. The students around him looked up. He extended his index finger and pointed at the side of my head, touching a spot behind my left ear. “There!” he proclaimed.
The radiologist’s team had tattooed a point behind my ear, but the dot was hidden by my hair. How could this kid see that? I ran my fingers through the area. Small patches of my own hair fell like snowflakes.
“That’s your hair!” Edna said.
Robert followed. “Ooh, your hair is falling out!” The children quickly assembled around me as I stood there, dumbfounded. Some were pointing at me. Others were picking up strands of my hair that had fallen on the table and floor. They started laughing, and that got Mrs. Ashworth’s attention on the other side of the room. She walked over quickly and found me frozen in place.
“Back to your work!” she barked at the kids. She tugged on my arm. “Come on, Jeff,” she said, and led me out of the room.
We stood for several minutes in the afternoon sun. I wasn’t really with her. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was compulsively tugging at my head. She touched my shoulder and then my hand, slowly pulling it away. In it was a fistful of hair. “Can I take you home?” she asked.
“Your students need you,” I said after a long pause.
In a daze, I walked home. I never, ever went back.
My favorite thing to do as a kid, other than launching rockets, was to see the Dodgers play. Their stadium was pretty close to Dad’s office. The reason I liked it so much wasn’t just because Dad, as a senior partner, had access to such excellent seats behind home plate. It was also because going to games was one of the few things we did together as a family. Nothing—not a toothache or homework or the worst cold imaginable—ever kept me from going.
We had tickets for an evening game just a week after the absolute humiliation I experienced in Mrs. Ashworth’s class when my hair fell out. I now had a large bald spot on the side of my head, along with patches missing from the front and back. I’d been getting something called stereotactic radiation, where twin beams were sent in on the left side of my head at ninety-degree angles, meeting a few inches inside my head where the tumor had been growing, and exiting far apart, through my forehead and the base of my skull. In all those locations, I’d lost hair. The beams had also torched the skin on the tip of my left ear, leaving it covered with bloody scabs. I looked like a freak show.
Mom had been downstairs twice that day to see if I would join the rest of the family for the game. She was stunned to hear me say no. After the second time, she called in the cavalry: Dad.
I heard his plodding footsteps on the staircase. He knocked on the door and I told him to come in. He skipped saying hello. “Do I understand correctly from Mother that you’re not joining us to see the Dodgers this evening?”
“I’ll join you on television. I’m definitely not leaving this house.”
“I thought Fernando Valenzuela was your favorite pitcher.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to see him in person.”
“But we have tickets. You can see him in person.”
“Fernando could personally invite me and I still wouldn’t go.”
Dad shook his head. “I don’t see the point of your staying home.”
“Well, you’re not bald, Dad.”
“Neither are you, Jeff.�
�
I lifted my hat and rotated my head. “What do you call these three massive hairless patches?”
“Then wear the baseball cap you’ve just removed.”
I jumped off the couch, fuming, and turned, pointing to the back of my head. “What, so the open space in the rear of my baseball cap can highlight my freakishness? I don’t think so.”
“You’re missing out—and over something of no importance.” He shook his head in disgust. I wanted to kick him. I mean, he was sixty-one, and he had more hair than I did. When he finally walked out, I grabbed a pillow, pressed it hard against my face, and screamed.
* * *
•
Skipping the Dodgers game made it clear to my mom that something serious needed to happen. She called around, ultimately finding a wigmaker in Hollywood, and in no time at all I ended up with three hairpieces I could clip over the exposed spots in just a couple of minutes. They made me look normal, and I felt like celebrating.
I wore my wigs to City of Hope during my last week of radiation. It made everything take longer, but man, was it satisfying when Friday rolled around. The technician locked me in place, gave me my last dose, and set me free with a high five. When I came out of the dressing room with my wigs back in place, Mom smiled and hugged me. “Congratulations, sweetie,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.” I was pretty proud of myself.
I wanted to leave right away, but Mom said we had to see the radiologist. We ended up waiting fifteen minutes, which felt more like three hours.
“Congratulations, Jeff,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
I let out a long yawn. “Happy to be done with this place.”
“Well, you’re definitely finished with brain radiation.”
That sounded great. It was like he was certain my cancer wasn’t coming back. I just wondered why he wasn’t smiling.
“Um, just to be clear, what do you mean, exactly?”
“Yes, well, you’ve had the maximum dose of radiation your brain can take.”
“You mean for this six-week treatment protocol?”
“I mean permanently.”
“So what if I get a recurrence?”
“Radiation, in that case, would no longer be an option.” I sank into my chair. What felt at first like a triumph ended up being a major letdown.
Mom had a few questions for him and then we said our goodbyes.
“Good luck,” he said as we walked out. Those two words only made me feel more insecure.
I was exhausted—like I always was after getting my brain zapped. But this time, I was angry, too. I had no idea there was a lifetime maximum radiation dose for my brain, and I was pissed the doctors had never bothered to mention that. Mom went off to get the car, and I sat by the hospital entrance. I usually struggled to keep my eyes open as I waited, but that day my anger kept me fully awake. When Mom pulled up, it was pulsing through me.
Mom knew something was up. “Is everything okay?” she asked as I got in.
“Everything is fine,” I said robotically. The anger wasn’t going anywhere. I had to do something about it.
My eyes scanned the interior of the car, looking for something to crush or throw, but I didn’t see anything. I did notice the button for the sunroof. As we approached the hospital parking lot exit, I turned to my mom and said, “Don’t freak out now.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked as I opened the sunroof. Her eyebrows were squished together.
I popped my seat belt. “Jeff, what are you doing?” Mom asked, sounding anxious.
I climbed onto my seat, stood through the sunroof, and turned my body toward the hospital entrance.
“What in God’s name…?” Mom said frantically. I ignored her.
I looked at the hospital, raised my middle finger, and shouted, “Fuck you!” at the top of my lungs. Some staff who were out smoking looked at me, startled. A doctor heading into the building spun around. Mom gasped.
I sank into my seat, put my belt on, and smiled to myself.
Mom’s jaw was hanging open. The car in front of us had just left the lot. Mom didn’t appear to be moving. I looked back and there was a car behind us, patiently waiting. “Um, Mom?”
“What?”
“We can leave anytime you’re ready.” My smile broadened.
Mom snapped to. She glanced in her rearview mirror. “Sorry,” she said, lifting a hand and waving as she took her foot off the brake.
As we rolled onto the street, Mom looked over at me and shook her head. Then she laughed. “You really are a nut sometimes, you know?”
I nodded.
* * *
•
With radiation out of the way and my energy slowly returning, my plan was to head back to school. I was definitely ready for it. Home felt lonely.
One Sunday, with the house empty and me deep into a book on the space race with the Soviets, the doorbell rang. I figured it was someone for my parents, so I lingered on the couch downstairs. But Amiga was barking and the bell kept ringing, so I scrambled into the bathroom to snap my wigs into place, then raced up to the entrance.
On the other side of the glass door, standing next to his bike, was Paul.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. I was honestly dumbfounded to see him.
He snickered. “A hello would be nice.”
“Oh, sorry. Hello. I just wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know. I’ve been a little distant. Which makes me a little bit of a shit.” He scratched his head. “That’s why I’m here, though. Do you wanna hang out?”
It was really good to see him. “Are you seriously asking?” I said. “Of course I want to hang out.”
After he raided the fridge upstairs, we went down to my room. He got me caught up on everything going on at Poly, like classes and the dating scene and whatnot. When he finished, he stiffened, shoving his hands into his pockets and biting his lower lip. “How’s the, uh…”
“Cancer?” I said.
Paul nodded. He was never into talking about heavy stuff.
“It’s fine. I’m done with radiation, thank God. I’ve got four more rounds of chemotherapy, and then it’ll just be keeping my fingers crossed.”
“Gotcha,” Paul said. He looked around the room, then down at the bag he’d brought with him. “Say, are your parents still heating the pool? I’ve got trunks with me.”
It wasn’t the slickest subject change, but I didn’t want to linger on cancer talk. “My dad put in solar last year,” I said. “The water’s always heated.”
Paul smiled.
A couple of minutes later, we were standing by the pool. We had a tradition of jumping in with a flip—something he usually screwed up. “Who’s first?” he said.
“I’ll do it.” I looked at the water, focused, and jumped. My rotation was perfect. I didn’t really have time to extend, so I entered more like a ball, with my head hitting first. The water was warm. It felt welcoming. I swam to the bottom, touched the floor, and came back up.
I looked up at Paul. “What did you think of that?” I said, wiping my eyes. He didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the water behind me. He raised one hand to cover his mouth, then pointed with the other.
I spun around in the water. Floating there, a foot away, was one of my wigs. I’d forgotten about them—swimming was so normal for us—and I suddenly wished I could disappear. I snatched it up, swam to the shallow end of the pool, and stepped out. I hurried toward the house. I couldn’t meet Paul’s eyes.
When I returned with my baseball cap on a few minutes later, Paul was standing by the pool. He hadn’t gone in.
“You can swim if you want,” I said, scratching my arm. He was quiet, which I couldn’t stand. I faked a yawn. “I’m just, you know, really tired.”
“Maybe I’ll just head back home,
then,” he said.
My chest suddenly tightened. “Um, Paul,” I started, with my eyebrows scrunched together. I was staring at my toes.
“What’s up?”
I looked at him. “Truth you won’t tell anyone about this?”
He looked back at me. “Truth.”
* * *
•
For hours after Paul went home, I replayed the pool scene in my head. It wasn’t far off from what had happened at Monterey Hills School, though I didn’t exactly feel humiliated, just embarrassed. The more difficult thing was that Paul was my best friend, and he just didn’t get my situation. He couldn’t.
That’s when it hit me. It wasn’t just Paul. It was all of my friends. My whole family. Not one of them really understood what I was going through. I could call every single person I knew and spill the gory details of surgery, chemo, and radiation, or describe how hard it was for my battered brain to stay focused for even a couple of minutes, let alone a whole day, or what it felt like to be bald at fifteen, and still, nobody would get me.
That realization was followed by something that was more like a revelation: there had to be people out there, guys and girls my age, who were going through the same nightmare.
If I was ever going to be understood, I had to find them.
* * *
•
The very first meeting of Teenline took place in the living room of our house in South Pasadena. When I shared my thinking with my mom, she found a social worker, Aura, who’d been helping teenagers with cancer at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles. Aura and I had a long conversation, and what came out of it was a solid plan.
“Welcome, everybody,” I said nervously. “Maybe we can go around the room and introduce ourselves. My name’s Jeff. I had brain cancer. I guess I’ve been feeling kind of alone, so I’m really happy to be meeting all of you.” People smiled at me and nodded. It felt good.
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