The Girl With Nine Wigs (16 page)

“Right.” My hands start to itch and sweat.

Dr. N continues. “Before you go, we'll take some X-rays so that I can start calculating your dose straightaway. After that, we'll make a mold of your chest that will be turned into a mask for you to wear during the treatment. That way we don't have to mark your body. All the markings will be done on the mask, and the radiation goes right through it.”

“How long will I have to undergo radiation?”

“I can't say for certain until I've done my calculations.” He makes a face as if he's about to calculate the entire solar system, and frankly looks as though he'd be able to.

“Why is it so complicated?”

“We want to spare your lungs as much as possible, and that means we'll need to direct the rays at you from the sides. I don't know if we'll be able to reach all the spots we need to.”

“I'm sure you'll manage.”

A friendly smile plays on Dr. N's mouth. His voice is calm and friendly, his demeanor modest and approachable.
So they do exist, considerate doctors.

“That's the attitude we want. We start in two weeks.”

My right lung and liver are going to be severely damaged and my esophagus hit as well. Radiation is nothing more than burning off unwanted tissue along with any wanted tissue that happens to be in the way. At every radiation session my cells get a good beating, after which they try to restore themselves. The idea is that the cancer cells give up the fight, while the healthy cells survive. Apparently, my body will figure all this out on its own. My clean left lung will take over breathing for the time being, and my liver will produce new tissue to make up for the damaged parts.

I thank Dr. N for being so positive. In two weeks the party starts, with a host of nasty new side effects: fatigue, pneumonitis, dry skin, fever, coughing, inability to swallow.

An hour later, I'm lying flat on my back. Two men are busy constructing a mold of my chest with a bucket of plaster and some spatulas and brushes. It takes hours but I endure them peacefully. On Mom—who's sitting next to me—they drew directly on the skin.

“The plaster will feel cold to start with,” they warn me. I have to stay very still because it dries quickly. My chest in a full plaster cast, a bald head sticking out of the top, and men in white suits moving around me: I feel like I'm starring in a sci-fi movie.

 

TUESDAY, JULY 26

I
CLOSE MY SUITCASE.
Annabel is waiting outside for me in the car that will take us to the airport. I had not expected my doctors to take into consideration the agenda of my social life, but Dr. N didn't find it a problem to start radiation five days later so I can enjoy some France.

We're in the hills above Saint-Tropez, parading along the waterfront. I'm drinking a noisette and a Kir Royale at the same time and leafing through a tacky, touristy beverage list in search of other delicacies. Nothing is too much on the Côte d'Azur. Sea creatures grilled and steamed in all shapes and sizes, extravagant drinks and desserts—we order it all.

I open my bag, rummage around for my sunglasses, and lose myself in my surroundings. What a mess. Armed with a giant parasol and a lifetime supply of sunscreen, I make my way through the gorgeous, tanned bodies on Pampelonne beach.

Pam is enjoying the sea breeze. I didn't think I would be able to enjoy this summer, the liberating feeling of driving along a coastal road in the sunshine. I can't tell where the sea ends and the sky begins. The sun is shining like mad and I just want to soak it up, but I have to get back in the shade before Nurse Pauke finds me and scolds me. I wouldn't be surprised to find her here somewhere, keeping an eye on me. Hidden beneath a huge sun hat and a pair of Jackie O sunglasses, I smear on another layer of SPF 50 sunscreen.
So much for feeling the sun on my skin.
Lucky Annabel is lying beside me working on her tan. I have to get my tan from a bottle this summer. All around me I see magic lotions and creams promising me a beautiful, natural-looking tan. I've tried them all: foams to be applied with rubber gloves (ever since in surprisingly short supply in the oncology department), sprays, creams, gels, and lotions. None of them do for me what the sun does for Annabel.

I watch the boats dotting the blue ocean. Their sails an amazing white, the ocean an amazing blue. As I stare into the water, the world of the hospital seems a million miles away. I look farther, focus harder, and my nightmares disappear. I close my eyes—nothing there either. I'm floating away, all my fears forgotten. When I open my eyes again, all I see is blue.

“What's that?” Annabel points at something drifting on the waves. It's drifting farther and farther away.

I take a quick look but can't really be bothered to see what she's talking about. “I'm sure it's nothing,” I murmur. I lay my head back down, listening to the sound of the waves breaking. A soft sea breeze caresses my head. It feels good, comforting. It must be this Mediterranean sun that makes it feel so soothing. Suddenly, Annabel sits up straight.

“Weren't you wearing a wig before?” She lets out a scream. “Sophie, it's Pam! In the water!” Annabel sprints into the sea to save Pam from drowning.

*   *   *

The blue sky slowly turns pink, the first boats start sailing back inland, and lights are flickering on. As evening falls, we swap our sandals for high heels.

We end up at a party in the garden of some ridiculously wealthy American movie producer, somewhere in the hills above Saint-Tropez. Annabel and I have always had good luck when it comes to these kinds of things. Tonight we happened to be in the right place at the right time to squeeze in with the rest. Just when we were driving down toward the coast, we saw everybody heading up. We looked around, recognized a face, used the person's name to get in, and here we are.

“Champagne?”

“Yes. Why not?”

Among the long-legged Russians and short-legged Arabs I let myself go. I love garden parties, even if I do feel a little out of place as the chemo sweat runs down my back and my wig dances along to its own rhythm. Luckily my fake tan is reasonably believable and there are no telltale smears ruining my cleavage.

The whole party is a parade of people flashing their money. We spot Paris Hilton, with the longest legs and the most complicated strappy sandals I have ever seen. Dresses straight from the pages of
Vogue
. Countless beautiful women and an impressive number of beautiful men. An old cowboy from Los Angeles. Ivana Trump, Catherine Deneuve, and Natalia Vodianova. Annabel and I look at each other and smile giddily.

At two
A.M.
we're exhausted. Me from my low blood count; Annabel from her precariously high heels. We sink down on the steps to the balcony and watch all that glitters pass by.

These are the little perks of having cancer: After your dreams have been swapped away all you need to be happy at two
A.M
. are some fresh cool steps with your best friend next to you.

*   *   *

The next day I wake up with a scalp covered with bites. I had thought to be liberated from the mosquitos this year with all the chemo in my blood, but they still prefer me over Annabel. Wearing a wig only makes it worse. I guess I'm doomed to a scarf. What a drag.

I take a cold shower to wash away the itchiness. I do have to admit: the feeling of fresh drops on my bald head is priceless.

 

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 10

B
ACK HOME,
R
OB STANDS BEHIND
me, giving me a big hug. We're in the health food store—unmistakable with its huge tubs of vitamins, boxes of herbal remedies, and loads of Asian shoppers. I'm reading a pamphlet about menopause. The symptoms are scarily similar to the nasty side effects of the chemo: hot flashes and missed periods. My periods stopped coming when the chemo started. Twenty-two and bled out already. My herb guide says aniseed has been known to revive menstruation. We order a shopping bag full.

 

FRIDAY, AUGUST 12

R
OB SITS NEXT TO ME
in the car as we pull into the hospital grounds in Rotterdam. He's a little sweaty as well, but for a different reason: last night's vodka.

Rita, who came for free with the radiation, is my favorite taxi driver. She opens the window a notch and carefully follows the signs to radiation. For the next seven weeks, I have to go down to Rotterdam for a daily session. On average, that means three hours on the road for ten minutes of radiation. Which means chatting with Rita and taking naps in the backseat. My parents often go with me. If it were up to them, they would come every day. Often one of my friends or Rob tags along. But sometimes I just like being alone with Rita.

In the radiation room, wearing a spotless white coat, is Kevin. He's always friendly and never too busy for a chat while setting up the machine. I must look as though I could use some distraction. He means well, but it's no use. I'm in my own sci-fi movie. Green laser beams and red dots shoot out of a mechanical trunk the size of a whale revolving around my bald head. I'm strapped to a narrow table, my upper body naked and wrapped in a plaster mask with an incomprehensible series of marks drawn on it.

Kevin presses the hooks of my thorax mask into the table and then turns to the machine moaning and groaning above me. A loud noise; the machine is ready to go and slowly starts to move. Electronic humming and invisible rays. The enemy within me is under attack, but all I feel is my arms, which are starting to hurt from being held outstretched above my head.

In the waiting room a dozen other heroes are waiting for their turn with the evil machine—all with their own scripts and fight scenes. One of them is a young boy, maybe eight or nine years old. He's tough and vulnerable at the same time. He has this alien look to him, bald and no eyebrows and all.

He doesn't want to come back. I heard him telling one of the white coats. “The big machine hurts,” he said.

I look at him and feel my eyes welling with tears. I wish I could tell him that this is all a movie set. That the men in white coats are on his side, and that the good guys always win. I want to tell him that he'll win the battle, and then he can go back to playing with his friends. I feel an overwhelming desire to talk to him, but I don't know how. I open my mouth but nothing comes out. His name is called and we both disappear behind different doors.

 

MONDAY, AUGUST 29

I
'M WALKING DOWN THE BEACH
at Wijk aan Zee, a small village on the North Sea. The wet sand sticks to my toes. It's a game between sea and sand; the cool water rinses my feet clean, then the beach attaches itself to me all over again. I walk from left to right—east to west—but that can't be right, I realize, when I see the factory pipes of IJmuiden appear on my left-hand side. A few meters farther up, Jan's dog, Ben, is happily running along to the rhythm of the tennis ball that Rob keeps throwing. I'm busy looking for shells. Every time the sea retreats, I enthusiastically sift through the surf and then empty my findings into Jan's oversize yellow tank top, which I've stolen and am using as a pouch. I even find a few shells with holes worn into them, one big enough to slip onto my necklace. Now I have two shells decorating my neck: one from the waves in the South of France and one from Wijk aan Zee.

I collect shells from every place I visit. I put them in my shower, next to the sink, or on my shelves filled with tea lights. I use them to store jewelry and other treasures. Sometimes, in the rare moments when I let myself dream, I fantasize about living in a beach house, with the beach as my back garden. My desk would be facing the sea: endless views to stretch my thoughts. I'm still writing every day; it has become as much a part of me as my illness. Jan is the only person who reads and comments on all my words, and there are some I handed out to Mom and Dad and Sis. Some things are easier written than said.

The wind blows furiously and Blondie's hair knots up like crazy. We leave the beach to eat somewhere overlooking the water. I have a goat cheese salad with multicolored tomatoes while I sift through the day's findings. Rob is calculating the angle at which he will get the most sun to tan his face. Jan is rummaging through his bag full of newspapers as his dog hassles the neighbors. I go off to the bathroom to sort out my hair with the antique silver brush that belonged to my late grandmother. It's the only brush that works with synthetic hair.

 

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6

R
OB AND
I
SIT AT
the kitchen table discussing “our future.” The boyfriend conversation. Yagh
.
We're happy together, but more as friends than as lovers. We're living in this strange situation in which there's only today. And today Rob is what I want. Or well, Jurriaan is who I really want but I can't have him. In the moments I allow myself to look further, I know that Rob and I aren't going to make it. He fits my life like a glove though. He's best friends with Jochem and Jan, and so am I. But we've never completely gone for it, and I don't think I would in different circumstances (read If I had been healthy or if Jurriaan had wanted me). Being together is a choice, according to Rob, and one we both prefer to postpone until a time when we can actually talk about a future.

I wished so often for two strong arms to hold me at night when the lights are out, when I'm all alone with my fear. But now they're here, I don't know how to let them hold me. I still feel like an island in his arms, no matter how close I cuddle up to him.

 

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14

I
T'S THE LONGEST TRAFFIC JAM
in the Netherlands and we're right at the end of it, en route from my chemo in Amsterdam to my radiation in Rotterdam. Sis is with me today. The longer the drive, the longer I sleep—that's one advantage to this mess. After half an hour of chatting, I fall asleep on her lap, exhausted and fed up. I don't want to be a sci-fi heroine anymore, I'm done playing tough. I'm frail and flimsy. My stomach and cheeks are hollowed out. The look in my eyes is unfocused and the pink skin around them is now puffy and dark. The scale has never been this low: there's only fifty-one kilos left of me. Sis gently strokes my soft head with her fingertips; Pam is lying next to me on the seat. For the rest of the drive Sis strokes my arms and back with her soft fingers. She knows how much I love that.