by Sarah Price
Thomas walked her through the process of how to check in at the front desk and where to wait for her turn to be called. Prior to each chemotherapy session, she would first need to have her blood tested in order to make certain her blood cell counts were high enough to handle chemotherapy.
“What happens if they aren’t?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Then you wait another week.”
The casual way he answered her and the nonchalant shrug of his shoulders irritated her. This wasn’t a sold-out movie on a Friday night. It was cancer, and it deserved more respect than a disinterested shoulder shrug. “Does that impede the progress of the treatment?”
“Not at all,” he said as he guided her across a hallway and through a large door. “It’s cumulative.”
Why did that word disturb her so? Cumulative. Was it because it conveyed a feeling of an accumulation of poisonous substances inside her body, a body that she’d always taken great care of? What would all these chemicals do to her? Sure, she knew these were substances carefully monitored and administered to combat and kill an uninvited invader. But she’d read throughout her research that the chemicals could also precipitate some unwanted—perhaps even dangerous—side effects. How would she, or even worse, her family, be able to deal with these? It was not just the fact that her appearance would be affected, but what about the prospect that she would become unable to care for herself? Would her mental health be affected as well? What about clinical depression? She’d also read that cancer treatment often caused emotional unbalance, frequent thoughts of death and suicide, and trouble focusing as well as remembering the simplest things. Would she find herself standing in the kitchen and forgetting what, exactly, she had intended to cook her family for dinner? Her sleeping patterns would inevitably change, too. Would she have trouble falling asleep or wake in the middle of the night for no reason at all? How would her children and husband deal with all of these changes and disruptions?
“Cumulative? I don’t know exactly what that means,” she replied, dubious as to whether she really wanted him to answer her.
Thomas gestured toward a large reception desk in the middle of the room where they now stood.
“It doesn’t leave your system,” he explained, with no further comment or attempt at alleviating her concerns. “Now, you will sign in here and then see Eddie over there. He’ll take your vitals and record them in the computer system. After he’s finished,” Thomas said, motioning for her to follow him as he walked by a long row of gray leather chairs that lined the back wall near the windows, “you take a seat and wait here.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Just pick a chair that isn’t taken.”
As they continued on, Frances looked at the other patients. Right away she noticed that no one looked happy. Not that she expected them to be smiling, but she certainly hadn’t expected the doom-and-gloom expressions on their faces. There was a definite feeling of resignation in the air. There were no nods or waves to Thomas from the two dozen patients who were quietly undergoing their treatment. She hadn’t been expecting high fives, or even a thumbs-up, but surely a nod or small smile, as he must have been their tour guide, too, she thought.
Most of the patients had someone with them, a person who sat in the chair by their side, a husband or a sister most likely. Or perhaps an older son or daughter. She didn’t see any young kids or even teenagers, like her own. This was certainly not the best place for someone as vulnerable as a child. Almost all of the people wore something covering their heads: a scarf, a cap, or a wig. Only the men sat there with their bald heads exposed. Frances swallowed as she followed Thomas. These people were, for the most part, older patients who seemed resigned to be there and were just going through the motions. In just a few days, she would become one of them. From the expressions on their faces, the ones who did glance up when she walked by, she realized that they must have been thinking the exact same thing about her: Soon she, too, will become one of us.
When Dr. Graham scheduled the appointment for her to meet with the chemotherapy staff, Frances suspected that Nicholas would not be able to come with her. And then she reflected on the debacle of the previous week, when she’d driven to his office. He’d barely spoken to her since then, returning home well after ten o’clock and leaving even earlier in the morning than he usually did. Between his indignation at her intrusion and his focus on work, life seemed far too chaotic to even consider telling him.
She had, however, sent him an e-mail. A simple message that said:
I need to talk to you. F.
The read receipt never came. He hadn’t even opened it!
When they reached the end of the corridor, someone called out to Thomas. He glanced at Frances. “Can you give me a minute?”
She nodded, watching his back as he walked away.
Now, standing alone, she crossed her arms over her chest and turned, her eyes skimming the faces of the patients sitting in the recliner chairs. Some appeared to be sleeping, while others just stared blankly at the wall in front of them. Instead of focusing on them, Frances looked out the window, wondering how the center had created such an inviting garden. There were trees, bushes, and even benches for people to rest on. She tried to envision what was beyond the garden. Probably the entrance atrium. And she realized how clever the center had been to create something so bright and full of life just outside the windows, in a section of the building where people felt the complete opposite.
“Welcome to the club!”
Frances was startled by the voice. She glanced over her shoulder and saw an elderly woman who was seated in the corner. She had a cap on her head and a big smile on her lips, which seemed an incongruous divergence compared to the other patients in the room.
“Excuse me?”
The woman raised her eyebrows, or what was left of them, and grinned. “I said, ‘Welcome to the club.’ You know, the Cancer Club.”
This time Frances hugged herself tighter and looked around for Thomas. “I . . . uh . . .” She didn’t know how to respond. “Thanks.” She paused before finally adding, “I guess, anyway.”
The older woman laughed. Once again, Frances’s senses were struck by an apparent discordance, this time between what she heard and where she was. Laughter did not belong in the chemotherapy treatment center.
“True, true,” the woman said as her laughter subsided. “It’s a club that no one wants to be a member of. Unless, of course, you’re old man Henry.”
“Old man Henry?”
The woman pointed a wrinkly finger with chipped pink nail polish at the chair next to her, where an older man was snoring softly. He wore a cap on his head, similar to the ones she often saw golfers wearing on the rare occasions that Nicholas was home and camped out on the sofa in front of the television. “That’s old man Henry. He likes being here, I think.”
Frances wasn’t certain what to make of that comment. How could anyone enjoy chemotherapy?
As if reading her mind, the woman gave a soft snicker. “Guess there isn’t much else for him to do at Pine Acres.”
Glancing around again for Thomas, but not spotting him, Frances felt compelled to ask, “What’s Pine Acres?”
The woman made a noise in her throat, almost like a harrumph, as if Frances should know the answer to her own question. “Pine Acres. You know, the place across the street?” She stared at her expectantly as if her explanation would jar Frances’s memory. “The nursing home?”
“Oh!” she said, even though she still had no idea what Pine Acres was or why, for that matter, she should have.
The woman narrowed her eyes and studied Frances. “You probably never even heard about the place,” she went on, pressing her lips together in disapproval. “Why would you? Let me guess. Married, two children, and no thought that one day you might be forced from your home to live with old coots like that poor Henry!”
Frances felt her heart beat rapidly as a lump invaded her throat. Was that what could be in store for her:
an early retirement into what constituted, more often than not, the last stage in a person’s life? Would she be forced into a home, should the side effects of her treatment be so incapacitating that her family wouldn’t be able to care for her? She started to harbor doubts about the wisdom of undertaking chemotherapy. Becoming a burden to her family was not part of her plan. There was no way that she would allow herself to become dependent on them. She was the caregiver of her family, not the other way around! Preserving her self-reliance was her objective. It was not negotiable, but that place, a . . . nursing home! Perhaps she would be better off letting nature take its course, after all.
Thankfully, before Frances could respond, Thomas appeared from around the corner.
“Sorry about that, Mrs. Snyder,” he apologized, then paused, looking over at the woman. “Oh, now let me guess: Madeline, you sharing your war stories with our new patient?”
The older woman waved a hand dismissively at him and turned around to look out the window.
“That’s what I thought,” Thomas said, but not unkindly.
“You go on with your tour, Thomas,” Madeline replied without looking at him. “She’ll learn the truth soon enough.”
That was a bittersweet comment that did not sit well with Frances.
Thomas turned back to Frances and made a face, rolling his eyes in a manner that reminded her of Carrie. The only difference was that Frances couldn’t quite interpret the meaning of his gesture. Was it irritation or impatience? Did that Madeline woman make the same comment all the time? Did the rolling of his eyes express his genuine disapproval or was it just a learned response, a routine comeback to her behavior?
“Come along, Mrs. Snyder, and I’ll show you where to go for ice pops, water, and coffee. Or, better yet, you can have your husband or friends fetch them for you. You’ll need lots of fluids while going through your chemotherapy sessions. Your mouth and tongue will become dry, and you might want to chew on something cold or wet, even ice cubes, to fight the sensation. Cold water or coffee will help, too.”
Thomas took her elbow and guided her to another area of the center. Frances, however, couldn’t resist one last glance at Madeline, who was now staring intently at her hands folded in her lap. She could only imagine that Madeline was the favorite Walmart greeter of the Chemo Cocktail Lounge, welcoming new patients and giving them the dark, seedy gossip even before they learned the routine. Upon their return, they would most likely avoid her, which explained why every chair in the room was occupied except for the one to the right of Madeline.
A part of her felt sorry for Madeline, with no one seated beside her (except Henry, who was still asleep) to fetch her ice pops or coffee.
Clearly, there was more to Madeline’s story than met the eye. But Frances had as little interest in learning her story as Thomas had in telling it. At least not on that day. Her mind was focused on her own story, one that, at the present moment, was filled with fear and anger.
It took her a minute to come to grips with the reality that she, too, would be alone in a recliner. That is, unless she managed to find the courage to tell Nicholas. One look at the other patients and Frances knew that she had to share her diagnosis with her family. Everyone was right: she simply couldn’t go through this alone. The past weeks had been hard enough. Frances needed to start thinking a little less about others and more about herself. And it was high time that they, too, considered her needs over theirs.
For once.
CHAPTER 8
Frances stood before the mirror and put the wig on. Her own hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Dr. Graham had given her a prescription for the custom-made wig, but Frances hadn’t wanted to wait until her hair started to fall out before trying some on. She wanted to be ready.
“That looks nice,” Charlotte said.
Frances thought it looked terrible and knew her friend was just trying to be nice. She could tell by the reserved tone of voice Charlotte had used that it looked awful.
“Let’s try a different style,” Frances suggested, pulling the wig off and placing it on the stand. “Something just . . . crazy!” Her eyes scanned the items on the faceless mannequin heads. “Oh! What about this one?” She pointed toward a short, spiky styled wig. It was completely different from the one she’d just tried on and nothing like her own conservative hairstyle. “That looks like fun!”
Charlotte gave a short laugh that expressed no mirth. “I would find it fun if you weren’t going to lose all of your beautiful hair.”
Frances let her hand drop. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. In two short days, she would be starting her first chemotherapy treatment. While she’d hoped, against all odds, that she wouldn’t lose it, Dr. Graham had compassionately told her that with Adriamycin and cyclophosphamide, or AC as the medical people called it—a very potent chemotherapy cocktail that she would be receiving for the first four treatments—she would indeed lose her hair. She hadn’t cried, just merely pushed the cold harsh reality into the recesses of her mind. She had tried not to imagine the day she would stare in the mirror and see the inevitable. But the idea frightened her.
Hair. One of the symbols of femininity. Women spent hundreds of dollars at hair salons each year attempting to hide their grays and shave the years from their appearance. Frances knew only too well how others made snap judgments about women based on their hair. Too many roots? Oblivious. Outdated style? Lazy. Perfectly coiffed? On top of her game.
“That’s why we’re here,” she said in a soft voice. “Find a short wig and then get my hair cut to match, right?” She looked at Charlotte, hoping to get some reassurance. A word of comfort when she was beginning to feel weak. “I mean, it’s only hair, right?”
Charlotte did not respond at first. She just stared at Frances. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I do have to do this.” She reached out and touched one of the wigs. “It’ll make the transition easier.”
Charlotte reached out and touched Frances’s arm. “I know you don’t want to feel sorry for yourself. You’re trying to be in control. But life has just dealt you a bad hand, Fran. It’s OK to acknowledge that.”
Lifting her chin, Frances walked past her friend, her eyes assessing the other wigs on the wall. Then she glanced back. “Remember what I said. Positive thinking, Charlie. I don’t want any negative vibes sent my way.”
Rolling her eyes, Charlotte began strolling down the aisle while Frances took a step back and scrutinized the many different choices.
A mother and her young daughter walked into the store, the little bell over the door announcing their entrance. The daughter looked to be the same age as Carrie. Her long blond hair loosely framed her face, and she was wearing a simple white leotard with matching stockings. A dancer, no doubt. As the daughter walked right beside her mother, with her head bent over her cell phone, Frances heard her laugh. Then she grabbed her mother’s hand and showed her a picture on the screen. Her mother smiled, and they started to chat as if they were good friends. It was such a comfortable exchange between a mother and a daughter.
If only Carrie would talk to her like that. Frances watched them, imagining the days when Carrie had held her hand and drawn her pictures. But unlike the young dancer girl, Carrie had turned into a sassy teenager far too early, leaving Frances with only memories and the hope that her daughter might one day become more friendly.
As they passed Frances, the mother glanced down at the wig in her hands. Immediately, sympathy crossed her face and she looked up to meet Frances’s gaze, giving her a tight smile of silent support.
Frances felt short of breath as her heart began to palpitate. That smile had reminded her of her own mother. She could almost make out her voice in her head.
Poor Mr. Bentley! her mother had said, with the phone pressed tightly to her ear. I’m not sure how well he’s coping with his wife’s illness. I just dropped off a meal for them this afternoon, and when he answered the door, he looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. Such a pati
ent man!
As if he should be any other way, Frances wanted to yell at the memory of that day.
“Charlotte!” she called out. “I’m going to take this one.” She held up the short spiky wig and stated, “I’m ready for a change.”
At their next stop, Frances heard the bell ring when Charlotte opened the door to Supercuts, but she hesitated before stepping inside the salon. It was all so unsettling and yet, at the same time, necessary. Charlotte had been correct: Frances was intent on controlling what she could, and this was another step that needed to be taken. All of her research on the Internet had said so. Women going through breast cancer often felt better when they took this step rather than waiting for chemo to steal their hair.
Still, she was suddenly having second thoughts. How could she just cut off her hair? See it piled in long, loose curls on the floor to be swept up and thrown away?
“Come on, Frances!” Charlotte snapped. “It’s cold outside!”
Frances took her time entering the salon. “I . . . I was just thinking—”
Charlotte interrupted her by gently prodding her. “It’s a haircut, not a death sentence, for crying out loud! You said so yourself when you told me you wanted to do this. Now, let’s get this over with. Then we can go next door for some coffee.”
But it’s my hair, Frances thought, subconsciously lifting her hand to run her fingers through it, perhaps for the last time. In the past eighteen years, she’d not once changed her hairstyle, or even her hair color. Nicholas loved her long blond hair. He always had. And he also liked things to stay the same. Consistency, he always said, makes for perfect happiness in a marriage.
Funny. She shook off her black jacket and hung it on the coatrack. That’s the same thing my mother used to say.
