shrunk the tumor, and I made an appointment for Thursday. I felt well enough on Saturday to go shopping with Jamie for a wig.
I knew from years earlier, when wigs were fashionable and my hair was long and I spent miserable nights sleeping in curlers, that wigs were hot and itchy. But appearing bald in public embarrassed me—even if privately I rather liked the look. The thing is, people stare. And a woman going out bald seems to be making a political statement, like the singer Sinead O’Connor. But Sinead O’Connor, bald or hirsute, is beautiful and young. If I looked like her—or if I had brown skin, a long neck, and a thin, beautiful face with strong cheekbones (like my acquaintance Yolande)—I’d happily go bald. As it was, I never went out of the house without a head covering.
I had drawn up a list of wig shops in the area of Fifty-seventh Street but soon discovered that only one specialized in cancer patients—Edith Imre, where I was treated well. The other shops were staffed by glamorous young women who were horrified by the sight of a bald head and gave me sullen, lackadaisical attention. I chose a plain brown wig that looked natural (and was insulted when people took it for my own hair). Then Jamie and I went to a gallery down the street to see a Lucien Freud show. Since it would turn out to be my last such event for years, I am glad Jamie was willing to accompany me, despite her profound dislike for the artist. I respect my daughter’s convictions and would normally not have asked her to go to a Freud exhibit.
The next day, Sunday, I had another lovely day in the country. This time, Perry Birnbaum, a pal from college days, picked me up and drove me out to Sag Harbor to visit another college friend, Gloria Beckerman. I hadn’t seen Perry in over a year, and we talked volubly, catching up; Gloria served us lunch on a patio overlooking the water. It was a beautiful day, my friends were fun, and we dished—or they did and I listened, pleased that I could chew and swallow even meat and bread (with care), thrilled to be there, under a tree embracing us with shade, the water a deep blue.
On Tuesday, Rob and I went to my oncologist to hear the results of my CT scan. We waited, as usual, an hour or so, then were ushered into his consulting room. The doctor entered, speaking as if he had already examined the X-ray, but clearly he had not. He turned away from us to study it, talking all the while. I, too, was studying the CT scan, but I could not find the tumor. (I knew where it had been.) Still talking about what can be expected from a mere two months of chemotherapy—“a little shrinkage, perhaps, if we are lucky”—the oncologist paused, peered more closely, then announced in a tone of shock, “Your tumor appears to have disappeared.”
Because of his tone of voice, I had little reaction to this at first—he sounded appalled by what had happened. Finally, I did some thinking for myself, and joy leaped in my heart. “Does that mean I can have less chemotherapy?” I asked, smiling.
“No! No!” he cried angrily. “If anything … well, you’ll have to go through at least the regular course.” He sounded as if he wanted to punish me with an even longer course of treatment. Perhaps he was irritated because his expectations had not been met; the scientific predictability of his work was more important to him than I was. I am sure he did not wish me ill, but I was just one more in a series of dying patients. How dare I confute the statistics? Besides, it would surely grow back. There was no reason for me to be elated: the cancer would recur, and I would still be dead in a year, or a year and a half.
So pervasive and powerful was his negativity about the vanishing tumor that I did not allow my spirits to rise. But I teased him (perhaps I was angry, too). Fingering the beaded leather bag of herbs I wore around my neck (which Gloria had brought me from her last trip to the Cherokee Nation), I said,
I knew from years earlier, when wigs were fashionable and my hair was long and I spent miserable nights sleeping in curlers, that wigs were hot and itchy. But appearing bald in public embarrassed me—even if privately I rather liked the look. The thing is, people stare. And a woman going out bald seems to be making a political statement, like the singer Sinead O’Connor. But Sinead O’Connor, bald or hirsute, is beautiful and young. If I looked like her—or if I had brown skin, a long neck, and a thin, beautiful face with strong cheekbones (like my acquaintance Yolande)—I’d happily go bald. As it was, I never went out of the house without a head covering.
I had drawn up a list of wig shops in the area of Fifty-seventh Street but soon discovered that only one specialized in cancer patients—Edith Imre, where I was treated well. The other shops were staffed by glamorous young women who were horrified by the sight of a bald head and gave me sullen, lackadaisical attention. I chose a plain brown wig that looked natural (and was insulted when people took it for my own hair). Then Jamie and I went to a gallery down the street to see a Lucien Freud show. Since it would turn out to be my last such event for years, I am glad Jamie was willing to accompany me, despite her profound dislike for the artist. I respect my daughter’s convictions and would normally not have asked her to go to a Freud exhibit.
The next day, Sunday, I had another lovely day in the country. This time, Perry Birnbaum, a pal from college days, picked me up and drove me out to Sag Harbor to visit another college friend, Gloria Beckerman. I hadn’t seen Perry in over a year, and we talked volubly, catching up; Gloria served us lunch on a patio overlooking the water. It was a beautiful day, my friends were fun, and we dished—or they did and I listened, pleased that I could chew and swallow even meat and bread (with care), thrilled to be there, under a tree embracing us with shade, the water a deep blue.
On Tuesday, Rob and I went to my oncologist to hear the results of my CT scan. We waited, as usual, an hour or so, then were ushered into his consulting room. The doctor entered, speaking as if he had already examined the X-ray, but clearly he had not. He turned away from us to study it, talking all the while. I, too, was studying the CT scan, but I could not find the tumor. (I knew where it had been.) Still talking about what can be expected from a mere two months of chemotherapy—“a little shrinkage, perhaps, if we are lucky”—the oncologist paused, peered more closely, then announced in a tone of shock, “Your tumor appears to have disappeared.”
Because of his tone of voice, I had little reaction to this at first—he sounded appalled by what had happened. Finally, I did some thinking for myself, and joy leaped in my heart. “Does that mean I can have less chemotherapy?” I asked, smiling.
“No! No!” he cried angrily. “If anything … well, you’ll have to go through at least the regular course.” He sounded as if he wanted to punish me with an even longer course of treatment. Perhaps he was irritated because his expectations had not been met; the scientific predictability of his work was more important to him than I was. I am sure he did not wish me ill, but I was just one more in a series of dying patients. How dare I confute the statistics? Besides, it would surely grow back. There was no reason for me to be elated: the cancer would recur, and I would still be dead in a year, or a year and a half.
So pervasive and powerful was his negativity about the vanishing tumor that I did not allow my spirits to rise. But I teased him (perhaps I was angry, too). Fingering the beaded leather bag of herbs I wore around my neck (which Gloria had brought me from her last trip to the Cherokee Nation), I said,
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