The Girl With Nine Wigs (17 page)

Suddenly I feel something running between my legs. I quickly press my hand against my crotch to stop the stream.

“Sis?”

“Yes?”

“I'm peeing.”

“Oh shit.”

“It's okay, it's already stopped. I think only my pants are wet.”

Sis breaks the silence. “Granny.” We both burst out laughing, which makes me pee again.

What a mess.

 

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 15

“
M
ISS VAN DER
S
TAP.”

I look up, straight into the eyes of my own Dr. McDreamy. Leaning toward me, his hands folded, he looks at me intently with those blue eyes. I blush and feel a new hot flash coming on fast, along my back, leaving behind a trail of sweat. This menopause business is starting to get ridiculous.

“What can I do for you?” he asks.

If he only knew.

“Time for a lung test?”

I'm spending the afternoon visiting Dr. K, blowing and sighing into his tubes. I wonder what his life outside of the hospital looks like. Just like everyone else probably. But he must take his fair share of baggage home with him. Maybe he whiles away most of his worries on the way home, but no doubt he takes a few to bed with him. I wonder if I'm one of the things he takes to bed. The thought excites me. But what does he think about? Is it just sympathy? Does he secretly long for me the way I long for him?

Too bad Rob has followed my example and found another object to look at as well. Although I'm the one who encouraged him to see other women, I hate hearing about the one he chose to see and would prefer not to know of her existence. She does come up every now and then, of course. Sometimes because I can't contain my curiosity, other times because Rob has this idea that as friends we should be able to share this kind of thing.
Yeah, right.

 

MONDAY, OCTOBER 10

T
HIS MORNING
I
FINISHED THE
book
Oscar and the Lady in Pink
by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt. Oscar is ten years old and has leukemia. He lives his entire life within the walls of the hospital, where he and the other children fall asleep each night and wake up each morning. Just like me, Oscar has a favorite nurse: Mamie-Rose. She's the one who advises Oscar to direct his questions to God. So Oscar begins writing letters to God and finds a new friend, without realizing that, as the days go by, he's really answering his own questions.

Oscar has various friends in the hospital. His best friends are Einstein and Popcorn. He explains that Einstein isn't called that because he's so smart but because his head is two times the size of the other kids. That's my kind of humor. Popcorn owes his nickname to his obesity. Oscar says the only piece of clothing that fits him—barely—is an American baseball shirt with stripes. The shirt is so tight that the stripes are not going down straight anymore and it makes Oscar feel seasick. Oscar prefers to spend time with the two girls on his ward: Chinese Girl and Peggy Blue. The first wears a wig in the style of a Chinese girl, and the second always looks blue because of her medicine. Oscar has a nickname too: “Bald Egg.”

Mamie-Rose spends a lot of time at Oscar's bedside. She amuses him with exciting stories of her former boxing career and talks about Oscar's illness and death as easily as she talks about life and growing old. She teaches Oscar to see his inevitable death as part of his life and reminds him that one day she, too, will die, just as he will, very soon. The doctors have given him less than two weeks. It's Mamie-Rose who teaches Oscar how to grow up from a young boy of ten to an old man of a hundred in his last days on Earth, a man who makes peace with the idea of never waking up.

Maybe Oscar died so young so that his story would live on. For his loved ones, for his friends in the ward, for people like me, for all those other Oscars—little people but big heroes. I'm positive Oscar is not invented. That he really lived, really felt seasick, and that he really passed away.

 

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 20

I
BLINK AND FEEL MY
eyelashes brush against the pillowcase. Ever since I switched to maintenance chemo rather than full weeks in the hospital, my hair has slowly begun growing back. My lashes. My eyebrows. And, unfortunately, all the rest too. Back to shaving and plucking and waxing. I get up and go in search of mascara, hidden somewhere in the bottom of my makeup case. I'm also sporting a light fuzz on my head now, which brings some character back to my face.

I have no appetite for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, but that seems to be normal for radiation patients. My body responds directly to every treatment and sometimes in such extremes: I've gone from emaciated to blowfish, then back to a normal weight, and now I look anorexic again. It's exhausting. I'm as energetic as a squeezed-out lemon.

Despite all our reservations—and admittedly due to some jealousy on my side—Rob and I have gone away for a few days. To Luxembourg: lakes, mountains, fresh air. I take hundreds of photos—of autumn leaves, Rob, archways, Rob, panoramas, more Rob.

In the morning I wander out of the hotel as Pam; at night I crawl into bed as Uma. The receptionist is confused and looks at Rob with a questioning gaze.

“Got tired of the blonde, left her in town,” Rob says. That playful threat makes me enjoy each look, each joke, and each touch even more.

We eat cheese, drink red wine, and pet friendly dogs in the street. We go out dancing. Well, Rob dances; I sit and look. We admire the mountains and eat chocolate. It's romantic and beautiful, but still I wonder if we're not better as friends than as lovers. I don't know if it's the cancer or if it's us, but Luxembourg seems to be telling us that it's not meant to be. I wish I knew more about love. I wish I knew why my love stories never seem to last.

“Look at these great pictures!” I exclaim in the car on the way back to Amsterdam. Rob and Sue at breakfast, Rob and Pam in the car, Rob and Uma wandering around town, Rob and Blondie at dinner.
Fuck. Letting go is hard.

 

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 26

“
D
OES THAT MEAN YOU MIGHT
move to Hong Kong
permanently
?”

“I have no idea, anything could happen. But yes, it is a possibility.”

“Do you know how far away that is?”

“We'll get used to it.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't let you go there. I just can't.”

Sis holds back her tears. She is curled up close beside me; I'm in my standard position, tired and sick, tucked up in bed.

“I'm sorry, Sis, I know it's not a choice. You found your man. You have to go.”

“I just can't bear the thought of leaving you. Especially not now.”

“Can't Kieran find something to do here?”

“Sophie, I won't go if … you know.” I know what she means, but neither of us can say it out loud.

I hug her tightly. “That means you're going. ‘If' doesn't exist. I will get better.”

Sis quickly wipes away a tear.

*   *   *

I sit in front of my screen waiting for the words to fill up the white space. It's been days since I've written a word. And just when I was starting to get the hang of it. Can't say I like my life today. Frankly, it sucks. Fucking cancer. Fucking Hong Kong.

 

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 6

D
AD CAME UP WITH THE
idea to get some fresh air, and a thirty-minute drive to the beach wasn't far enough. So here we are, driving along the mountain roads of the Sierra Nevada.

“You'll see. You'll love it. Otto immediately offered his help when he heard the news. He's a renowned doctor, you see. And Bebé is a sweetheart. They now live in a very quiet mountain village.”

Otto has convinced my father that the fresh air will do wonders. I remember Otto. As a child I was always a bit scared of him. No, that sounds too nice. Actually I was scared shitless of him. There was something in the way he looked at us. I haven't seen him since. It's the first time I will meet Bebé. When Dad suggested we go and see them together, I didn't know what to think of it. But then, I'm not a child anymore and I'd love to see some mountains and stars.

Otto and Bebé have both been married three times. Third time's the charm, they say. Together they must be doubly charmed. He and Bebé emigrated to Spain five years ago, to the region of Andalusia. After years of hard work as a general surgeon, then plastic surgeon, and then electrical engineer, he was fed up with life in the city.

Born in Zimbabwe into an English family, Bebé started modeling quite young and has lived through the infamous London of the sixties, quite an exciting life, sharing rooms with Twiggy, cooking dinners for the Rolling Stones, dancing with the Beatles. So exciting, in fact, that each and every day here she enjoys the peace and quiet she and Otto have found in Spain. They live their lives isolated from the rest of the world. The nearest village is several kilometers away, and it doesn't amount to much. But that remoteness is why they love living here, and why I enjoy it so much. The simplicity of one market, one village café, and one church. The surroundings are spectacular: a deep valley below, mountains above, and a sliver of ocean in the distance. Best part: Can't find any trace of my childhood fear for Otto. And Bebé really is a sweetheart. Dad hadn't exaggerated this time.

Time does not exist here. We get up when we want to get up, we eat when we want to eat, and we plan what we want to plan. Which isn't much more than a visit to the local market or a day out in nearby Granada. I forget what it is like to feel time slipping away. Usually, even if I lose track of the days, I'm aware of the year passing by as I count down my fifty-four weeks of chemo. As I cross off each week, I understand more and more what the concept of today means.

The end of my chemotherapy is slowly approaching, and I know I should be happy, but what will I do without chemo? What if my tumors always stay a part of me?

At least Otto's medical background makes me feel safe while I'm here. We discuss my file (which I still drag along to every doctor I meet), my experience with doctors, which medicines I'm on, and the horrible statistics. They show me how to test my urine for my frequent bladder infections (another unexpected side effect of the treatment) by peeing in a pot, and they tell me which vitamins and supplements to take to tackle them.

Before bed, I take my medicine and swallow extra vitamin C to combat the bladder infection I can feel coming on. Then I snuggle deep under the blankets.

Rest, rest, rest.

 

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 8

I
PUSH
L
YDIA'S HAIR ASIDE
so that it doesn't hang down in my plate of fish and vegetables. Lydia is my latest addition. She was given to me today by Bebé, a souvenir from when she used to wear wigs back in the sixties. Lydia's warm auburn hair fits me perfectly here in the Andalusian landscape.

We are having dinner in the local village and talking about doctors, medicine, and my cancer, which has been given many diagnoses by many different pathologists. Otto—who treats me like a daughter since the day I stepped into his house—thinks there's a chance I was misdiagnosed, and that the faulty diagnosis might well have saved my life. That I may be “overtreated,” but that I could otherwise have been “undertreated,” in which case I would be dead as a doorknob. He explains that there are so many unknown elements swimming around in my body that the area between sickness and health is rather gray. What an enlightening conversation.
Such fun, talking to doctors.

I fall asleep under a blanket of stars.

 

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 9

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I
WAKE
up early and decide to go for a walk. The stars are all gone, now it's Mount Lugar to surprise me with nature's beauty. The dogs start barking when I open the door and follow me over the path along the river. I take a left turn at a beautiful fig tree, just like Bebé told me to do yesterday over dinner. Here the path becomes steeper, taking me through an empty ruin accompanied by an enormous palm tree and then bringing me to the acacia. The air is so fresh here. And although it's November, the sun warms my face, heating up my muscles. I walk up the ridge of Mount Lugar, overlooking another valley. I try to have happy thoughts or no thoughts at all, but I can't forget about Oscar and Marco. Marco died exactly a year ago. Although I never knew him, I think of him as I go to bed. It fits in with my own funereal thoughts. It almost feels rude to write about Marco without ever having met him. But it feels even ruder not to write about him, to forget him. To me he is not forgotten. I carry his picture with me in my wallet; I wear the yellow bracelet his father gave me. He is a part of my thoughts. Tomorrow in the village church I'll light a candle for Marco and Oscar. And for my own mom, dad, and sister, who have had to deal with so much these past months.

Surely I won't be one of the ones who doesn't make it?

I hear footsteps approaching. “So this is where you are!”

“Morning, Dad.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Like a rock. You were right. It was a great idea to come here. Breathing even comes easier to me here.”

“Then Otto was right. Good, that's good. Would you care for some breakfast?”

“Well, actually, yes.” My stomach makes a rumbling sound. I haven't been hungry for breakfast in months.

“Great. But first let this old man get back on his feet. It's quite a walk to get here.”

 

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 18

T
ODAY IS THE FOURTH DAY
I haven't seen or spoken to Rob. He's off with his new love interest, with whom he might be super happy and in love. Today sucks.