The Girl With Nine Wigs (14 page)

I inspect the contents of another customer's basket as they are being scanned: seaweed, algae, and some packages I can't identify. Behind the counter is an array of tablets and bottles: spirulina, chlorella, aloe vera, ginseng, and a lot of other mystery. I listen to the conversation between the other customer—who obviously speaks fluent health guru—and the girl behind the counter, wearing Birkenstocks. You have to be careful with people wearing Birkenstocks outside the hospital. Before you know it they'll try to convert you to their entire lifestyle.

A few jars disappear into her hemp bag. I sigh and decide to leave the Chinese herbs for the time being.

On my way home I pick up a class schedule from one of the many yoga studios in the neighborhood. “Yoga”: such a promising word. During each class I diligently try to stretch and bend my stiff body parts into increasingly difficult positions. That's all there is to it, really: stretching, stretching, and more stretching, from your legs and arms to your toes and fingers.

After yoga is meditation.
Pfft, meditation, what a mission
. It's way harder than it looks, especially when you forget what you're doing it for. To be honest, I've never really gotten it—not in meditation class (which seems like an oxymoron to me), or when I was surrounded by it in Tibet and India. I'm still trying to master the contemplation and concentration phase and hoping I'll stumble into meditation.

What a cliché I've become: getting sick, contemplating spirituality, trying to get healthy by squeezing fennel bulbs and broccoli stems. Seducing men wherever I go, to forget my loneliness
.
Truthfully, I'd rather have a boyfriend on the couch than all the rest of it. Then at least being flexible and lighting candles in the evening would serve some purpose.

 

FRIDAY, JUNE 24

“
A
ND THAT'S WHY
I
NEED
to have an MRI of my brain,” I tell him.

Dr. L sighs and says something like: “If it will make you feel better, but I'm not concerned.” He picks up the phone to make an appointment.

I've convinced myself there's something growing in my brain. Something like a brain tumor. I've been suffering from constant headaches for a few weeks now. I feel stabbing pains and hear helicopters landing between my ears, and my nose is running like crazy. In the medical library I read that a runny nose can be an indicator of something wrong in your head. And there have been cases of my disease in which brain tumors have led to rhabdomyosarcomas like mine. After a few helicopter rides/panic attacks and afternoons researching in the medical library, I've presented my haphazard argument to Dr. L.

Dr. L hangs up the phone. “Wednesday, June twenty-ninth, at seven fifty
A.M.
,” he says. “Did you write that down?”

“Yes, this coming Wednesday at seven fifty.”

“Good, then I'll see you afterward for your day treatment.”

“Fine. How many chemos are we at now?”

“That's nine, ten, eleven—wait a minute, twelve—yes, the twelfth. Goes by fast, doesn't it? Almost halfway.” Dr. L looks at me encouragingly.

“When will I get the results of the MRI?”

“As soon as possible. I hope the day after. Then I can tell you more about the rest of your treatment. I'm going to a team meeting in which we'll discuss the possibilities of radiation and operating. But as I said before, an operation, in my opinion, is not an option.”

So, Dr. L is gossiping with his friends about my treatment plan. If they want to cut me open, now is the time. Every doctor I've confronted with my file shakes their head no, but I keep hoping for an operation. Better to have three treatments to cure me than two. Maybe my luck will turn. My tumors could look completely different after six months of chemotherapy.

“Oh, and this wig”—he nods at Platina—“does nothing for you. It makes you look old.”

I sigh. “I feel old.”

 

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 29

I
AM ONE BIG BALL
of nervous energy. For the past twenty minutes I've been lying with headphones on and a mask over my face, listening to a sound like a jackhammer.

The ruckus suddenly stops. Two faces appear above me. “We need to inject some extra contrast fluid for a better image.”

Shit, that means they see something. There's something there. Shit, it's in my head.

“Is it bad?” I ask.

The two unfamiliar heads look at each other and call over the radiologist. I'm freaking out. If they won't give me an answer, it must be bad.

The radiologist looks down at me. “Everything looks normal so far, but we can't confirm anything until Dr. L has taken a look. We're just going to take one more image.”

I burst into tears of relief as the sound of the cement drill starts up again.

Relieved to be out of there, I arrive at the day-treatment outpatient clinic. Pauke is rushing around. “Cyclone Pauke,” as her colleagues call her. I say hello to everyone, take a seat near the window, and stick a cookie in my mouth as I press
PLAY
on my iPod.
Bring on the chemo.

 

THURSDAY, JUNE 30

R
OB AND
I
SIT ON
the waterfront in a small town on the Amstel river. We drink, eat, and talk, but mostly we are waiting for a phone call. When I look down at my plate, I see that I've hardly touched my food. I've been listlessly pushing my salad around on my plate for the past twenty minutes. Rob, as usual, is eating something red and meaty; I, as usual these days, am eating something green and healthy.

My phone rings. My fork misses my plate and I stick it into some meaty substance on Rob's.

It's Dr. L.

“I've spoken with my colleagues and everyone agrees that an operation is not an option. We're moving straight on to radiation.”

“Oh.”

“It's still too dangerous to operate that close to your lungs. We'll cause more damage than good.”

“So, what now?”

“I've made an appointment for you next week with the radiologist. He'll explain everything.”

“What about my MRI?” I ask.

“The MRI looked good, exactly like they told you. There's nothing in your brain.”

Deep sigh. It took a paranoia-induced MRI to realize I trust Dr. L more and more.

“No other complaints?”

“No.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, just a bit more washed out than usual.”

“That's probably due to your low blood count. Perhaps we should get you another blood transfusion. When is your next blood test?”

“Monday.”

“All right. Stop by my office and see me then. Have a good weekend.”

I don't know if I'm relieved or scared. I wouldn't have been too happy about hard-core surgery and a twenty-centimeter-long scar like Jur's stretching across my stomach, but losing one of my three treatment options doesn't feel great either. Jur explained to me that even though chemo kills a lot of the cancer, a local treatment such as surgery or radiation is necessary to get rid of every last cell. Now I understand what my doctor meant when he said that it's even more of a challenge to keep my illness at bay once we get rid of the tumors. The toughest part is hunting down the very last cancer cells in my body.

Rob's arm finds its way around me. And there it is, in between the arm squeezes, hugs, and friendly kisses: a long look, followed by a long kiss. Rob kisses away my fear.

It must be a combination of the way he looks at me, his firm hugs, and—let's not forget—the vintage Jaguar that made the butterflies in my stomach fly around in a frenzy.

“Rob?”

“What is it?”

“I've got butterflies.”

“Butterflies?”

“Yes, you give me butterflies. These past few days.”

“Oh, dear.” Rob always calls me “hon,” “cutie,” or “sweetie.” He gives me another kiss and squeezes my leg. Rob always likes to grab me—arm, leg, or butt.

“Come on, let's go, cutie.” He gets up, pays the bill, and takes me by the hand. “
The Sopranos
at my place?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to stay over?”

“Yes.”

“You know I'm far too old for you.”

“Twice as old, to be exact.” We laugh.

“This isn't right. You can stay over and we'll sleep, that's it.”

 

FRIDAY, JULY 1

I
OPEN MY EYES.
Someone is lying next to me in bed. I blink, and for a minute he's gone. Open, closed, open, closed.

Open.

Deeply tanned shoulders, back, and arms. Brown hair speckled with gray, and that oh-so-handsome face. He looks as if he just stepped out of a Marlboro campaign. He has his arms crossed and his eyes closed. I sigh with relief; he hasn't seen me naked—wigless, that is. Without making a sound I turn and hunt around for Uma, who must have fallen off while I was sleeping and turning. I touch my scalp, which has stretched—without any trace of my hairline and eyebrows—into the shape of an egg: my face has lost not only its features but also its humanity.

I sit up straight in bed. It's still dark outside. Carefully, I slide Uma onto my head, seeking some comfort beneath her soft, dark strands. I crawl back under the sheets, close against Rob's warm body. Last night I made love and fell asleep as Uma. This morning I woke up as myself, not capable of anything I did last night. Careful not to lose my wig, I give him a kiss on his nose.

His eyes slowly open. A smile. “Hey, gorgeous. Did you sleep well?”

I nod.

“What's the time?”

I shrug.

We stare at each other and stare some more. Strange how a face changes when you get closer. We both smile but can't take our eyes off each other. His hand strokes my arm. I snuggle up closer. And then we kiss. Beneath the sheets our legs find one another. I feel my wig gliding over my head and fear takes over. Does he notice? Am I repellant? I carefully try to get my wig back in shape. I want to feel feminine. Sexy, desirable, irresistible. But I feel everything but. Maybe this is why I fear my scalp so much: being pretty and attractive is apparently not so much about seducing men as it is about seducing life. Representing death, it's like life is slipping away from me. The life that was always there. All I had to do was get up and smile. Now every time I put on a wig, it's like I'm picking up the pieces she left for me.

“Sweetie, why don't you just take it off?”

“No.”

“You're beautiful without it.”

“I can't.”

Rob remembers me from my days of messy buns, political ambitions, and wine drinking on the terraces of Amsterdam. But he also recognizes me as a lost little girl who doesn't know where to turn.

“Rob, I'm so scared sometimes.”

“Oh, honey, of course you're scared. I'm scared too. But they're going to make you better. I'm sure of that.”

“How do you know that for sure?”

“They're doctors. It's their job.”

*   *   *

Snuggling and
The Sopranos
turned into passion and sex. Therefore I keep two of my wigs at my bed table. I can't make love without.

“Honey, are you coming?” Rob has gotten up; the bath is full. We stay in for ages, until our fingers shrivel up and the warm water cools off. Then back to bed. Tomorrow I'll pass by my wig store to get some tape.

 

SATURDAY, JULY 2

T
HE SUMMER SALES ARE ON,
and after a morning of shopping, I met up with Jochem for some lunch. He polishes off his beer and orders another. I want to head back to the shops, but Jochem's just settling in.

As I listen to Jochem's story with one ear, I inspect my new purchases. Behind him, a man in a suit is passing by. A well-cut suit. I pay less and less attention to Jochem's story and peek over his shoulder as the suit walks by. Is he a lawyer? A consultant? In IT? Married? On a business trip? Kids? A mistress? Daisy's type?

I cross my legs and wiggle my foot up and down. I look at the high heels peeking out from under my jeans and smooth my hair. I take a sip from my sparkling water and leave a set of glossy lip prints on the edge of my glass. My lips are my biggest asset. Full, thick lips. Perfect for a flirt like me.

I was fourteen when I met my first love. His name was Emiliano, and he was the paperboy on our street. I gave up my teen heartthrobs for him in a heartbeat. Even Steven Tyler and Mick Jagger were no match. Young and naive, I didn't think I would ever be parted from Emiliano and his Vespa. It didn't occur to me that there might be more Vespas zooming around town. Those evenings spent on the back of his white scooter awakened my desires, and a new world opened up to me. It was cheap-romance-novel stuff, but I thought we would be together forever.

“Which name can I put the tab on?” the waitress asks. I look up in surprise, without pulling my head out of the clouds.

“Daisy.”

Jochem smiles and then chatters on uninterrupted. About his acting career, the waitress's backside, and his belly—a very cute but not-so-sexy belly. Problematic because Jochem likes to wear trendy, tight T-shirts. He says that his belly only shows up when he drinks beer. Unfortunately, that's pretty much every day, sporadically substituted for health shakes. That's why I call him “Bunny” instead of “Honey.”

Jochem is a model on the side. With his stomach held in, he regularly attends castings that land him jobs in front of a camera, washing his hair with L'Oréal or cooking Bertolli pasta with very happy girls in a kitchen. With his handsome face, heavenly blue eyes, and endless charm, he always manages to talk his way out of parking tickets and other annoying situations. He's a dreamer like me, but sometimes he finds it difficult to separate his dreams from his parking tickets. For Jochem, Amsterdam is like his own little Hollywood, where vain dreams become reality. Starstruck by a few modeling jobs and some luck at the casino, he has a hard time with regular things like taking out the trash, making his own sandwiches, or having an office job. Great for me because he always has time to go shopping with Daisy.