Free The Girl With Nine Wigs by Sophie van der Stap

haven’t come from just any ward, but from the oncology department, where the people with cancer are kept. These confrontations are maybe the worst part of the whole disease. For them it’s unreal and for me it’s reality. It’s in their eyes, in their way of looking at me; I see I’m not one of them anymore.
    When my visit to the dentist is done, I go back upstairs as quickly as possible.
    *   *   *
    My IV is like a guardian, always by my side: when the lights go out and I wash my face, brush my teeth, fall asleep, and dream of Dr. K. But also when the lights come back on and I wake up, wash my face, brush my teeth, and eat my breakfast. We are connected by a thin and softly pulsing tube that carries a gentle stream of fluids between us. He never leaves me to sleep or eat and he never needs to rest from carrying my medicines around. Most of the time we don’t speak, but when he senses danger he makes himself heard and brings the nurses running to my side.
    Although I can’t avoid loneliness when evening sets in, these are the most precious moments of my day. I’m finally left alone to lose myself in my thoughts, to stare out the window, or to watch Desperate Housewives , occasionally joined by the nurses who stop by to catch a minute of easy amusement. Every night before closing my eyes, I look at the clock tower next to the hospital. From Dr. K’s office in the pulmonary ward I saw the same clock from a different angle. It’s been a strange journey from that ward to this one. Time is unfamiliar to me now, but the clock keeps ticking just the same.
    Oh, Dr. K. I still hope for an unexpected visit from him, or a kiss, or a card. At night my loneliness reaches fever pitch, and my longing for his strong shoulders is the worst. I truly believe it’s his arms I long for, not those of a nice, uncomplicated twentysomething. I hate the thought of dying without having known true love. If I die tomorrow, the church will be crowded with plenty of flings, but there’s none I would call right now.
    Farther down the hall someone is dying, and it sounds like a rhino with a toothache. They might have warned me, so I could have ordered some earplugs. Will I sound like that? Or smell like that? What a nightmare. Please don’t let it be me. I push the red button and soon Bas arrives with some earplugs. Even at three A.M. it’s nice to see him approaching my bed. The earplugs are pink and moldable. As I warm them up between my fingers, I hear a low threatening whisper in the dark.
    â€œShut your face!” One of my ward companions has also reached the end of his rope. Sometimes this place really is a nuthouse.
    When I fall asleep my cheeks are wet. At least I get to go home tomorrow and eat my favorite dish: Mam’s homemade soto ayam.

 
    MONDAY, APRIL 11
    I T IS WEEK ELEVEN of my chemo and week two of the new term at university. I’ve been enrolled throughout my treatment—the mention of the words “cancelation of enrollment” was just too much.
    In the name of moving on I’ve picked up my books again. For obvious reasons I’ve fallen behind, all this time I have left my books untouched. When I enrolled in political science at the time, it wasn’t so much for the politics, or the sake of studying. I enrolled for the life I wanted to live after: roaming the planet with a degree in development studies. Roaming the planet has always been highest on my list.
    In the summer after my high school graduation I bought a ticket to Tibet. My interest in that country began somewhere between the novels of Hermann Hesse and an intense crush on a guy named Ralph, whose house was covered with Tibetan prayer flags. Since the age of fourteen I had dreamed of wandering the world by myself, and I figured I would be most by myself in the Himalayan plateau of Tibet. Finally, at eighteen, graduated and free, the only way to get around there was if I went