The Girl With Nine Wigs (18 page)

On my agenda? I'm back at the hospital for my chemo. Toeing the line between life and death. That does put Rob in second place in my thoughts. For now. I guess that's something to be cheerful about.

There are six green recliners next to me; I'm in the seventh. When I came in they were all occupied, now there are three that are empty. Pauke is always here, which automatically gives her authority over the other nurses, who are part-time nurses. And she has a glass jar filled with ladyfingers on her desk. That helps too. I don't understand why they keep on trying to feed us sugar as every but seriously every diet book about cancer tells you that it feeds on sugar. In some ways this place where miracles happen is incredibly backwards.

Dr. L usually stops by when I'm here. He comes to see the day patients only when they have complaints or questions, both are almost always the case with me.

 

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 23

“
A
RE YOU IN LOVE?”
I look at Rob fearfully, preparing myself for the blow that will undoubtedly come.

“Sophie…”

It hurts. I want it to hurt less than when I heard my diagnosis, because love is supposed to be less hard to deal with than death, and maybe it is, but I don't know as I already seem to have forgotten the pain of that day. Selective memory.

Rob looks straight ahead. He tries to touch me, hold my hand, stroke my cheek. I push him away.
Goddamn it, this hurts!
I want to touch him, to feel his arms and his body around me, but I can't. I scream that he has to leave, to get out of my life, and to take the pain he's caused with him. I say that I never want to see him again, and right now I really believe it. I forget that it was me who pushed him away.

 

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24

I
SIT ON
A
NNABEL'S WINDOWSILL,
wrapped in a dressing gown, after waking up next to her early this morning. I look outside and feel totally shitty. Shitty because I slept curled up against Annabel and not Rob, who instead probably spent the night snuggling with someone else. And shitty because my next scan is approaching fast and I'm scared.

I hate everything. The whole month of December with all its traditions: Sinterklaas, Christmas, New Year's—I'm dreading it all. The family dinners, the endless appetizers, the oysters and champagne. I hate myself for having pushed Rob away and now being heartbroken. I hate how I long for his arms more than Annabel's, because hers are always there for me. I hate the stabbing pains in my body that make me think I'm dying. I hate my stupid tumor and his whole stupid family. I hate my body. I hate my life.

I look at the clock impatiently. I make myself another cup of tea and sit watching the second hand ticking off the next eight minutes. I have a plan. I reach for the phone and ring my doctors' offices in Amsterdam and Rotterdam. I convince both my doctors to move up the date of the scan. I exaggerate the stabbing pains just a little bit. I tell them I'm feeling worse than usual. How can I explain to them that the pain and the uncertainty are so much worse without Rob? And how do I explain that to my parents, my sister, and the rest of my terrified family? Sis will understand. I call her, and after half an hour on the phone with her I'm still sobbing. She's crying too.

“Why don't you come and stay with us tonight? Kieran will be home late. We can watch movies together. Maybe Mom wants to join in too.”

After hanging up I call Mom, who was just called by the hospital because my phone line was busy. I have some explaining to do.

“Mom?”

“Hi, honey, how are you feeling?” She sounds caring and worried.

“Not so good. I've moved up my scan. I can't take the uncertainty. Not without Rob.”

“I understand, sweetheart. The hospital just called to say the scan is now on Wednesday the 30th. Can I come?”

“I don't know. I want Jur to come. I'll have to see if he can make it.”

“Okay. Are you coming home soon? I'll make a pot of tea.”

“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

T
HANKS TO
J
AN,
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

T
HE 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
R
OB
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 good 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.