Season of Blessing (15 page)

C
HAPTER

Twenty-Six

Harry went
with Sylvia to her first post-surgery visit with the oncologist the next day. They sat across his desk, a stack of books and articles on the table next to them.

“What's her chance of recurrence?” Harry asked.

Martin Thibodeaux, the oncologist, drew in a deep breath and thought for a moment. “I'd say fifty percent.”

Sylvia gasped. “Fifty percent? I thought my chances were better than that!”

He shook his head. “We'll fight the recurrences if and when they come, Sylvia. But the number of lymph nodes involved raises the stakes.”

She felt herself wilting in her chair. Harry's hand closed over hers.

“I'm recommending six months of chemo,” the doctor said, “with treatments every three weeks.”

“Which chemo?” Harry asked.

The doctor told him the name of the drugs they'd be using.

Sylvia saw by the look on Harry's face that the choice didn't please him. “What is it?” she asked.

“It's a really harsh chemo.” The lines of his face deepened. He looked as if he'd aged ten years in the last few days, despite his attempt to keep her positive.

“We need to be harsh,” the doctor told her. “Like you've already been told, it's a very aggressive cancer.”

Sylvia closed her eyes. “I don't even feel sick. I feel like I've had surgery, but I don't feel like I have cancer. Not the kind that needs the big guns.”

“Just keep in mind that we're only doing it for six months. And then because we had six positive lymph nodes, I recommend radiation to begin six weeks after the chemo has ended and the hormone therapy has begun.”

Sylvia felt as if facts flew around her head like debris in a tornado, threatening to crash her skull if she didn't duck at the right time. “Harry, I'll never remember all this,” she said. “I hope you're getting it.”

“I am.” She realized that Harry's knowledge of what she was about to embark on made it even more stressful for him than her. Maybe it was good that she didn't know all the horror stories that he knew.

“So when does she go for her first treatment, Martin?” he asked.

“Two weeks. I'm going to go ahead and set up her appointment. She should have healed well enough by then.”

The doctor handed her one of the books off of his stack. “I want you to be sure and read this before you come. The first chemo treatment probably won't be quite as bad as you've read. But the effects will accumulate with each treatment. Your hair probably will fall out. And you probably will have a hard time tolerating the drugs. You'll probably have nausea. You might get sores in your mouth. You might get headaches. You'll probably feel pretty rough for a week after each treatment, then you'll have a couple of weeks to get your energy and your blood count back before we do it again.”

Sylvia just stared at him and wondered if she was really ready for this. What if she just let it go? Took her chances? Left the chemo to those who could handle it?

“Honey, are you all right?” Harry was stroking her hand, watching her face.

“I just don't know…if I'm up to this…”

“You are.” He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Honey, you are. You're strong and brave, and you can do this.”

Her mind reeled through pictures of herself pale and sick and bald, sitting on the bathroom floor waiting for the nausea to move her again. Funny how the very drugs that were supposed to make her live would make her sicker than she'd ever been in her life.

But it was the provision God had given her, and somehow, she had to search her soul and find gratitude for that.

C
HAPTER

Twenty-Seven

When Tory
,
Cathy, and Brenda came over that night to hear what the oncologist had said, Sylvia tried to put on a happy face again.

“I was just thinking about my hair,” she said. “Since it's going to fall out, I'm ready to shop for a wig.”

The girls were silent, just watching her, and she knew they were on the brink of tears.

“I want you all to come with me Saturday,” she said. “There's a wig store in Chattanooga that specializes in wigs for people with cancer. I want you guys to come with me and help me pick one out. I don't want to look like a hag while I'm retching my guts out.”

No one laughed.

Brenda touched her arm. “Sylvia, are you sure you don't want to do this alone?”

“I'm absolutely sure,” she said, “and Harry's no help. He'll just tell me everything looks great. I want some serious help on this. I know you three will tell me the truth. Besides, it'll be fun.

We can go first thing in the morning, then stop for lunch on the way back. It'll be a girl trip. We've never had one of those.”

Cathy smiled. “Count me in.”

“Me, too,” Brenda said.

Tory had to think a little longer. “If Barry can keep Hannah, I'll come,” she said. “I would sure hate to miss a day with my three best friends.”

“Come on,” Sylvia said. “When's the last time you went hair shopping? It's the chance of a lifetime.”

That Saturday, they all gathered for breakfast at Sylvia's, then took the short drive to Chattanooga, chattering all the way about anything but cancer. But as they went into the store with wigged Styrofoam busts on shelves around the walls, they all grew quiet.

Sylvia was first to break the silence. “It's a little creepy, isn't it?”

Cathy began to laugh. “It's just hair.”

A plump woman popped out of the back, wearing a hot pink crepe dress and a black Cher wig. “Hi, girls! I'm Trendy. Are you looking for wigs?”

Sylvia tried to keep a straight face at the name. “Hi, Trendy. Actually, I am. I'm starting chemo in a couple of weeks, and I'd like to be ready.”

“Of
course
you would.” Trendy had a little-girl voice that lilted with enthusiasm. “And you'll be so glad that you took care of this before you started it. Trust me. After the hair falls out, most women get desperate and hit that wig store at the mall—you know, the one with all that synthetic hair? And they put it on their bald little heads and, besides having a perpetual bad hair day, they might as well have ‘I have cancer' written across their foreheads, because it's obvious they're wearing a wig, because real hair doesn't really look like that. Our hair is one hundred percent real, and it
looks
real. You'll love it.”

She led Sylvia to a dressing room with mirrors all around, and sat Sylvia down at the dressing table. She pulled chairs up close for Tory, Cathy, and Brenda.

“So, is your color out of a box, or are you one of those lucky gals who never grays?”

“Box.” Sylvia glanced with amusement at her friends' reflections in the mirror. “Definitely a box.”

“Great. Then we can use the same color to dye the wig you choose. That is, if we don't have the style you like in your color.” She stood behind Sylvia, looking at her in the mirror. “Now do you want to keep this style, or do something different?”

Sylvia sighed. “Well…I'd kind of like to look like myself. But then again, it might be fun to have something different. Maybe one of those new styles that's bigger on the top and thin around the neck.”

“Oh, honey, we have those. I'll bring a few of each.”

“Or…maybe I could go longer. I've never been able to let my hair grow out. Maybe I could have a big head of hair. You know, the kind that hangs down around the elbow. Maybe like yours.”

Trendy snatched her wig off of her head, revealing a short cropped pixie underneath. Cathy howled with laughter and fell against Tory. “Here, try this while I gather up several more choices.”

Sylvia looked horrified. “I didn't mean to take the hair off your head!”

Trendy waved her off. “Oh, honey, I have plenty more. I was itching to pull a Nicole Kidman today, anyway.”

Sylvia's eyebrows popped up. “Nicole Kidman? Red and curly? I might like to try that, too!”

Brenda's mouth fell open. “Sylvia, you really want to go red and curly?”

Sylvia thrust her chin out. “Maybe.”

“Bring one of those,” Cathy called. “And do you have a Meg Ryan like she was in
Sleepless in Seattle
?”

“Do I ever!” Trendy said.

Tory and Brenda leaned into each other, giggling. “Sylvia, you're crazy.”

Sylvia winked at them in the mirror. “Hey, it doesn't hurt to try them.”

Trendy spun around, her dress flowing behind her. “You girls come try some, too. You never know when you might need them. And it's the only surefire way not to have a bad hair day, ever. You may just want to take one home your own self.”

The girls scooted their chairs closer to the table as they caught the dream. “I want to be a blonde,” Tory said. “Marilyn Monroe.”

Brenda ran her fingers through her hair. “I've always wondered how I'd look with short hair. One of those new styles, maybe, that flips up?”

“Got it,” Trendy said. “And what about you?” She looked at Cathy.

Cathy thought for a moment. “Got any dreadlocks? I've always wondered how I'd look in dreadlocks.”

Sylvia loved it. She laughed hard and loud, and the others joined in.

“I can't believe we're trying this stuff on,” Tory said. “It's not like we'd buy it in a million years.”

“Really?” Sylvia feigned disappointment. “Didn't you hear about the little boy who had chemotherapy and his hair fell out and everybody in his classroom shaved their heads so that he wouldn't feel bad about the way he looked?”

Cathy narrowed her eyes. “You're not expecting us to shave our heads, are you?”

“You mean you're not willing to? Not even for me?”

Tory couldn't hold her giggles back. “Sorry, Sylvia. I love you, but not that much.”

Cathy cleared her throat. “See, I have to keep hair so the animals at my clinic won't get scared of me. Plus there's that pesky law that vets have to have hair.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sylvia said. “I've heard of that law.” She looked at Brenda. “Et tu, Brenda?”

Brenda wiggled her shoulders. “I'll shave. But I don't want a wig. I just want a tattoo of a butterfly right on top.”

The four of them screamed at the image.

“Oh, forget it,” Sylvia said finally. “I can't have that much change in my life. Just try on the wigs, but keep your own hair.”

Within moments the saleslady had come back with about twenty wigs on Styrofoam stands. The women set about putting them on their heads and making fun of each other in the mirror. Sylvia had brought a camera, just to help her remember what she'd bought if she couldn't bring it home today.

She got a shot of Tory in a blonde Marilyn Monroe, Cathy in her Jamaican dreadlocks, Brenda in a short cropped wig.

By the time they had gotten the silliness out of their system and chosen a serious wig for Sylvia, three hours had passed. She'd finally picked a style that was more modern than her own hairstyle. It was blonde now, but she would leave it for Trendy to dye to match her color. This wouldn't be so bad, she thought. She would look younger and perkier as she suffered through her chemo. Already she felt better about herself as she and her friends headed out to have lunch.