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Authors: Sophie van der Stap
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her way efficiently from bed to bed, she reminds me of Miss Clavel from the Madeline books I adored as a child. She makes sure that everything that needs to happen gets done but never loses her cheerful smileâeven when her needle misses its target every now and then, but that only happens on her off days, which even she apparently has.
Today Iâm in too crappy a mood to wander the corridors of my ward. After a few hours of chemo the nausea slowly starts to rise. Itâs not enough to make me throw up but more than enough to make me shudder at the thought of eating. Pauke coaxes me into getting out of bed long enough for her to change the sheets. She does this every day, unless I win her over with an extra-sad face. Iâve only managed that once, when I timed it perfectly so that I threw up just as she came into the room.
I ask her if she ever thinks of me when she disappears into her own world after she leaves the hospital at the end of her shift.
âYes,â she says, âbut when I think about you I think of figs and dates, not IVs or sterile needles.â She thinks of delicious, sweet figs and soft, creamy dates. Just because I once read the nutritional values of these fruits out loud while she was taking my blood pressure. Thatâs another way of looking at things.
So when I think of Pauke outside of the hospital, I think of her three teenagers at home waiting for her to finish her shift; of Cap Ferrat, because she has the most beautiful stories about it; and of Miss Clavel.
And when the moment comes that she disappears into her world I change wigs in order to not disappear in mine. I take off Daisy and put on Blondie. Her magic is at its most powerful in the moment of transformation. Then I fall asleep with my short blond bob glued to my skull, dancing the night away to the sounds of my tall friend standing next to me and with Mr. Gatsby himself, in his royal back garden and lifted by his royal heart, into a different life, leaving mine behind.
Â
FRIDAY, APRIL 8
I N THE MORNING I âM WOKEN up by a nasty lady with an even nastier-looking needle in her hand. Sheâs lugging around a plastic bin with all her equipment. Itâs not even eight oâclock; my face is still stuck to my pillow, and I refuse to open my eyes. Iâm so nauseous. Resistance is futile, so I meekly stick out my arm. I keep one eye open and focus hard on her needle in the hope that she gets it right in one go. No such luck. Jerk.
She draws aside the curtain and Iâm served my breakfast.
âMorning!â the coffee lady calls out so that anyone still asleep is now definitely awake. Just like every other morning, she brings me a thermos of boiling water so that I can make my own green medicinal tea. I realize I need to pee when I see a new bag of salt solution being pumped into my drip, but that means messing around with my tubes. I wish I could just go back to bed, but the constant stream of coffee ladies, needles, nurses, and doctors makes it impossible for me to close my eyes and pretend that Iâm somewhere else.
I get up and ready myself to go see the dental hygienist. I have to see him pretty regularly to make sure my teeth donât fall out from all the medicines running through me. So far theyâre holding up pretty well. According to him I have strong teeth. âJust like your mother.â
To get to his office I have to venture down to where the normal people are. Normal people who might have minor ailments but arenât rotting away upstairs. Normal people who are just here for appointments, not to stay. Downstairs everything is still innocent.
Chained to my IV stand, I take the elevator to the ground floor. In an attempt to blend in, Iâve put on my normal, everyday clothes: jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, Blondie on my head. Too bad I canât hide my bright red puffy cheeks. It feels as if everyone is looking at me. Their looks tell me that they know I
Today Iâm in too crappy a mood to wander the corridors of my ward. After a few hours of chemo the nausea slowly starts to rise. Itâs not enough to make me throw up but more than enough to make me shudder at the thought of eating. Pauke coaxes me into getting out of bed long enough for her to change the sheets. She does this every day, unless I win her over with an extra-sad face. Iâve only managed that once, when I timed it perfectly so that I threw up just as she came into the room.
I ask her if she ever thinks of me when she disappears into her own world after she leaves the hospital at the end of her shift.
âYes,â she says, âbut when I think about you I think of figs and dates, not IVs or sterile needles.â She thinks of delicious, sweet figs and soft, creamy dates. Just because I once read the nutritional values of these fruits out loud while she was taking my blood pressure. Thatâs another way of looking at things.
So when I think of Pauke outside of the hospital, I think of her three teenagers at home waiting for her to finish her shift; of Cap Ferrat, because she has the most beautiful stories about it; and of Miss Clavel.
And when the moment comes that she disappears into her world I change wigs in order to not disappear in mine. I take off Daisy and put on Blondie. Her magic is at its most powerful in the moment of transformation. Then I fall asleep with my short blond bob glued to my skull, dancing the night away to the sounds of my tall friend standing next to me and with Mr. Gatsby himself, in his royal back garden and lifted by his royal heart, into a different life, leaving mine behind.
Â
FRIDAY, APRIL 8
I N THE MORNING I âM WOKEN up by a nasty lady with an even nastier-looking needle in her hand. Sheâs lugging around a plastic bin with all her equipment. Itâs not even eight oâclock; my face is still stuck to my pillow, and I refuse to open my eyes. Iâm so nauseous. Resistance is futile, so I meekly stick out my arm. I keep one eye open and focus hard on her needle in the hope that she gets it right in one go. No such luck. Jerk.
She draws aside the curtain and Iâm served my breakfast.
âMorning!â the coffee lady calls out so that anyone still asleep is now definitely awake. Just like every other morning, she brings me a thermos of boiling water so that I can make my own green medicinal tea. I realize I need to pee when I see a new bag of salt solution being pumped into my drip, but that means messing around with my tubes. I wish I could just go back to bed, but the constant stream of coffee ladies, needles, nurses, and doctors makes it impossible for me to close my eyes and pretend that Iâm somewhere else.
I get up and ready myself to go see the dental hygienist. I have to see him pretty regularly to make sure my teeth donât fall out from all the medicines running through me. So far theyâre holding up pretty well. According to him I have strong teeth. âJust like your mother.â
To get to his office I have to venture down to where the normal people are. Normal people who might have minor ailments but arenât rotting away upstairs. Normal people who are just here for appointments, not to stay. Downstairs everything is still innocent.
Chained to my IV stand, I take the elevator to the ground floor. In an attempt to blend in, Iâve put on my normal, everyday clothes: jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, Blondie on my head. Too bad I canât hide my bright red puffy cheeks. It feels as if everyone is looking at me. Their looks tell me that they know I
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