The Girl With Nine Wigs (10 page)

One little bubbling tube.

 

FRIDAY, MAY 20

“
H
ERE SHE IS.
What do you want now? Come to bother Dr. L with more of your questions? And who's this you've brought along? Is this your new man?” Nurse Esther stands up from behind her desk, smiling.

I turn around and see a gray and wrinkled C6 patient behind me, who by the looks of things doesn't have much time left. A bundle of laughs, Esther. I once asked Dr. L whether it helped my case that I wasn't as wretched-looking as most of the other C6 prisoners, despite my uncertain prognosis. He told me it did.

Going through chemo is a strange process. It wears me out, but so does the cancer. At least knowing the chemo is killing the tumors manages to energize me at the same time. On my strong days, wearing a wig to match my mood, nobody on the street notices anything out of the ordinary. Besides the massive fatigue I feel after a week of chemo and my hair-free existence, I appear quite healthy. On my low days, my sickness shows on my face, but those are the days that I hide in my bed.

I'm now so familiar here that I always have a good time with the nurses, who know how to make me laugh. I dropped by to kill some of the boredom of my fourth hospital week, immediately forgetting my surroundings when Esther starts telling me about her latest embarrassing escapade, falling backward, camera and all, into the fountain of the Alhambra in Granada.

Pulling my IV pole back to my ward, I pass the door to the hospital chapel and decide to pay a call to Jesus, just to say hi. At least he's always home. These days I regularly stop in for a church visit. Not for some hypocritical idea of finally putting effort into my relationship with God, but honestly, just to pass time. I see Jesus looking down on us from the high beams of the white chapel. Quietly, so as not to disturb the peace, I walk up to him to light a candle for the general good of the world. As well as one for my trusty IV pole: Jesus's heavy eyes seem to tell me lighting a candle for myself is not done. Needing a quick rest, I take a seat on one of the white benches inside. As an atheist or agnostic, I'm still contemplating, praying isn't really my thing. I stare ahead and sink into beautiful thoughts about Dokter K, until my IV rudely bleeps me back to reality. Obediently, I get up and go in search of the nearest electrical socket in the corridor. I maneuver my pole into the right position and come to a halt again.

When I'm sufficiently charged for another walk, I wander toward the Muslim prayer room. It's a free country, and Friday is the first day of the Muslim weekend anyway. I clumsily tie my cardigan over my head and I get down on my knees. Who knows, maybe this will bring me amazing new insights. So far the only insight it's ever brought me is it's not a good time to lose your headscarf, which happened to me once in Iran, while traveling there with a friend. Less common a destination than India or Tibet I guess, but for me it wasn't. Both my parents had visited the country, my mother had even lived in Tehran for two years as a young girl, when the shah was still in power. It turned out a beautiful trip and a very surprising experience: most people we met were not that different of us. Just their regime was.

The day I left, my father gave me a poem about a gardener in Isfahan and told me he'd searched for him close to the famous bridge but never found him. When I set off, I decided I would look for him and bring back the picture he had never been able to shoot. I must have gone on the right day, because when we went to Isfahan I came across a gardener and took his picture to send to my dad.

My IV battery gives up yet again, and as the mosque doesn't appear to be vanquishing my boredom, I leave the quiet room behind and slowly make my way back to C6, like a disciple back to her master.

The elevator comes to a halt on the second floor and the doors open. To my delight, my favorite white coat appears: Dr. K.
Now, that's what I call a sign from God
. He looks at me with a friendly and somewhat cheeky look in his eyes. He comes and stands close behind me, even though we only have to share the cavernous space with two cackling nurses. I hear the nurses chatting about the upcoming staff party this weekend and wonder if Dr. K will be attending and what he wears outside of office hours. I probably like him better in uniform.

On the way up I can feel his breath on my neck. I break out in a light sweat: on my back, under my arms, between my fingers. Three months ago my tumors were causing my sweats; now it's my unceasing crush on Dr. K. The elevator comes to a standstill again, this time on the third floor, and the door opens to let out the cackling nurses. I'm starting to recognize them from the many times I've traveled these halls. My typical route takes me first past radiology, then to cardiology via the newborns, then past the operation rooms, then comes my ward: oncology. Before, when I was still in the caring hands of Dr. K I would pass further up through neurology, to the pulmonary and orthopedic wings on the eighth floor—Dr. K's domain.

The nurses disappear around the corner and the knot in my stomach tightens. I have three floors to go, Dr. K another five. With a little luck the elevator will maintain its usual glacial pace, which means another two minutes. Two minutes alone with Dr. K, behind closed doors. I can still feel his breath. Goose bumps on my neck. Everything inside of me is aglow. Here I am in the middle of my ultimate doctor fantasy and I'm paralyzed.

We stand next to each other somewhat awkwardly. It's he who finally breaks the silence by asking after the state of my body, in particular my lung. “You gave us quite a fright, you know.”

I smile shyly. Although Daisy falls dramatically around my shoulders, I feel the opposite of sexy with all the fresh chemo pumping through my body. “My oncologist is not the most charming of men,” I say.

Dr. K laughs kindly and assures me I am in good hands with Dr. L. “And I've kept my eye on you.”

“Will you come and visit me sometime?” I ask. The elevator is slowing down. He nods. Being this close to him, I feel like I'm flying through all sorts of strange worlds.

Ding.

The doors open and I awaken from my fantasy to the eternal boredom of my ward.
SIXTH FLOOR—ONCOLOGY
stares at me through the open elevator doors. I'm back in my reality: the emaciated-bodies-and-baldies department. I leave Dr. K behind, with a warm glow and a spring in my step.

 

SATURDAY, MAY 21

M
Y HOSPITAL WEEK IS OVER
and the sun is shining. I don't have to open my eyes to see that; the heat is burning right through my eyelids. I open my eyes and look at the time on my cell phone, which I fell asleep with last night: half past twelve! The colors through my window are calling out for me to get up.

It's so nice being woken up by the bright sunshine, or by a soft rain that drips me out of my sleep instead of alarm clocks. There's a funny game going on with time today. The same day that she's started walking away from me, leaving me behind with Damocles's sword, she has become very generous with me, giving me for each minute two. No more to-do lists, appointments, even meetings for drinks, but long minutes of warming my face in the first strokes of daylight. Peace has set in. There's a surprisingly close connection between cancer and life.

I get in the shower and lather my whole body in soap. No rush. With curiosity, I study my shower curtain. It's covered in old-school bathing beauties, all with different boobs and butts. I examine my own breasts. Small and round, with tucked-in nipples. Thinking I had a problem, I always played with them to get them to pop out, until I learned there are more women than just me walking around with ice cubes. I find a match with the long, curly-haired girl; she's holding her arms up in the air and pointing her chin down. I turn the water to cold and wait a few moments, for circulation and nipples.

After doing my makeup, I stick my arms up high and jut out my right hip in the mirror. I see the girl from the shower curtain. Today I decide that I'm Daisy: light and full of life.

I fry an egg and stand in front of the stove to watch it bubble. I see how the egg slowly turns bright yellow and white. Multitasking is a thing of the past. After I polish off the last of my egg, I call Rob. No one answers. He must be filming. Annabel does answer and we agree to meet for tea at Café Finch. Finch is that kind of café where you can hang around on your own with a laptop, meet up with friends on a rainy afternoon, or go out on a Thursday night and meet someone cute.

That gives me plenty of time to e-mail Dr. L about the status of my stabbing pains and tingling—I can't distinguish the stabs that are getting rid of the tumors from the stabs that are caused by them—and go in search of a solution for my pasty white arms, legs, and cheeks. I have to protect myself from the sun these days, which is not great for someone with a naturally pale complexion. Of course it's better to be pasty than have dark spots all over from the chemo, but there must be some product out there to make me look less sickly. The wigs only do so much.

Out on the street, there are people everywhere—strolling, shopping—all taking their sweet time. After a week of chemo, my tolerance level is below zero. The thing that wears me out most is people trying to grab my attention or swarming around me like ants. Unfortunately I'm not the only one who's on leave. Sighing heavily, I slowly work my way through the masses. At moments like these my wigs turn into a necessity I can't live without. But from some people I can't hide. Every woman who has been in the same place I am now immediately recognizes the texture of my fake hair. In the tanning salon, the saleswoman carefully addresses the topic, assuming I'm wearing a wig. Once I confirm, she starts talking to me about her own cancer. She's just been operated on for breast cancer so she knows what she's talking about. She's exactly what you would expect when you think of a woman working in a tanning shop: too blond, too tanned, her lips too pink. It's a good thing I'm wearing Daisy—she makes the interaction so much easier. I give Miss Fake Tan a kiss on the cheek and take my bottle of bronzer.

On my way to meet Annabel, I hear someone call out “Daisy!” I don't react. They couldn't possibly mean me. But the voice persists. “Daisy! Daisy!” Finally I turn around and see Jan walking out of the crowd. “Busted! I knew your Caribbean tan was fake. Maybe I should go there myself one of these days.”

“Very funny. Where are you off to?”

“You mean which café? You tell me.… you know that old men like me don't lead but follow.”

I take him by the arm and together we head to Finch.

It took Annabel some time to get used to my taste in friends. Although Rob's daily wear is jeans and hoodies, Annabel still makes fun of me for hanging out with the elderly. And truthfully, my friend Jan is not far from retiring. She calls me an omni-friend because apparently I'm comfortable around anyone. I can go from arguing philosophy with my classmates in the afternoon to talking fashion with Jan over cocktails. I guess she's right: I never really disliked someone. But now that I have cancer, I'm suddenly allowed to do so. To dislike others, to dislike life. Hate the world. Moan about everything, call everyone names, shoot everything down. Cancer at twenty-one. Life is no longer my friend but my enemy. Pessimism could be my personality and nobody would criticize me. But it's not: even cancer has become my friend.

It has given me my wigs, which grow more and more a part of me. It has given me time and the ability to not waste it, but use it. It has given me Jurriaan; a grocer who carefully inspects each beet, kiwi, and fennel for blemishes before packing them for me; a florist who slips an extra purple orchid into my bag when I'm not looking. Cancer has given me not only ultimate solitude but also ultimate happiness and togetherness. Like my wigs, it's a part of me now.

And now I love everyone even more: nerdy students, trendy urban types, smooth-talking jet-setters, philosophers, and jocks. And goddamn it, because of it, I can't hate my cancer, no matter how hard I try.

Annabel must be right, I really am an omni-friend.

 

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 1

“
S
ORRY, MADAM,
I
'M AFRAID
I can't help you. I really need to see your patient pass.”

I repeat my patient number and carefully explain that I have misplaced my pass. Considering the number of times this pass has been put in and taken out of bags, purses, and jeans pockets, it's not surprising that this is already the third time I'm queuing up to have a new one made.

“Miss, starting this Monday we're working with a new system where everything is digitally scanned. Without your pass, I won't be able to do anything for you.”

“But that's what I'm here for! A new pass!” The hospital is busy modernizing, but that clearly doesn't mean it's getting more efficient.

“By the way, I can't seem to find you in the system. I mean, you don't look at all like the picture I have here.”

“It's a wig.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” The girl suddenly changes faces. As if she has said something she shouldn't have.

“Don't worry about it. I quite like her.” I tilt Sue a few centimeters from my scalp and bend her back and forth. The girl starts laughing. The laughter does me good but I still feel tense when I call the receptionist.

“Good morning, this is Dr. van der Stap, could you please put me through to Dr. L?”

I'm hiding behind one of the many cement pillars dotting the hospital entrance hall. As doctors are more important than patients, they don't get put on hold for half an hour. I don't have half an hour. I have to be at the radiology department in fifteen minutes. Luckily—and against all expectations—Dr. L can see the fun in this. He of all people is in a position to know that modern hospitals are threatened by bureaucratic inertia.