Season of Blessing (17 page)

C
HAPTER

Thirty

The second
chemotherapy treatment seemed to have come too soon. Three weeks had passed way too quickly. Priscilla looked pleased to see her.

“My new friend,” she exclaimed as Sylvia got comfortable in the seat next to her. “God is good for sending you to help me through this.”

But it was Sylvia who needed help this time, and as her head began to ache and she began to feel that desperate, nauseous sense rising up into her throat, Priscilla started to sing. Sylvia joined in and tried to concentrate on the words and the concepts therein, praising the Lord and keeping her eyes on him as she grew sicker and fainter. By the time they got the needle out of her arm she was retching into the bowl they had brought her.

Harry had to walk her out to the car and into the house. She lay in bed curled up in a fetal position for the next few days, concentrating on feeling better.

The neighbors brought food that she couldn't eat. Friends brought books on alternative treatments, information they got from web sites, tapes on positive thinking, and diets that helped fight cancer.

Strangers she couldn't place for the life of her called her to see how she was doing. She didn't feel like talking to any of them, but on the rare occasion that she answered the phone, she felt as if they were only looking for gossip.

“That's not true,” Harry said when she voiced that to him one day. “They just want to know how to pray for you and offer their support.”

“Some of them, maybe,” Sylvia said, “but people I've never talked to on the phone are calling, people who hardly even speak to me at church. People who didn't even realize we'd been gone to Nicaragua. It's like I'm a celebrity now, and people want to get to know me. Where were they when we were trying so desperately to raise money for our mission work?”

Harry didn't argue, but part of her knew that her attitude wasn't very charitable. People did, indeed, care. She just didn't have the energy to deal with them.

She began to feel better the next week and her sweeter nature crept back in…as her hair began to fall out. When she woke in the mornings, strands lay on her pillow. She found it sticking to her clothes, collecting on her furniture, gathering on her carpet.

“I feel like a dog that's shedding,” she told Harry. “I think it's time to bite the bullet and shave my head.”

Harry looked stricken. “You're not going to do that, are you? Not really!”

“Why not?” She ran her hand through her hair and pulled out a wad. “Look at this. By the end of the week it'll all be gone, anyway. If I shave I'll at least feel like I have some control. And I won't have to vacuum six times a day to get it all up. Then I can start wearing my wig and stop obsessing over my baldness.”

She called Cathy as soon as she saw her car home from work. “I need you to come over with your grooming shears,” she said.

Cathy laughed. “For what? You don't have a dog.”

“I want you to shave my head.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Cathy said, “Oh, Sylvia!”

“Don't sound so shocked. My hair's falling out so fast that one good tug would just about do the trick. I have to do something. I'd rather just get it all over with.”

“Sylvia, I've never shaved a human head before.”

“I promise to be a lot more compliant than your usual subjects. Oh, and call Brenda and Tory. We might as well make a party of it. And tell them to bring a camera. I'm making a survivor scrapbook, and I want a picture of this. Someday when I'm well I'll look back and remember how far I've come.”

Cathy hesitated a moment. Then, in a voice packed with amusement, she asked, “This isn't a trick, is it? You're not going to shame us into shaving our heads, too, are you?”

Sylvia laughed hard. “That, my dear, is up to you. Just get over here, and let's get this show on the road.”

By general consensus, the three decided again not to shave their own heads for Sylvia.

“There are other ways to support you, Sylvia,” Tory said as she bounced Hannah on her lap. “I'll walk ten miles in a walkathon to raise money for cancer research. I'll bring you food. I'll take you for your treatments. But I will not shave my head.”

Sylvia gave her a look of mock disgust. “Some friend you are.”

The shears over her head began to buzz. She swallowed hard and clutched the arms of her chair.

Brenda sat on the porch swing, her hand gripped around the chain from which it hung. “Sure you want to do this?”

“Absolutely.” Sylvia looked back over her shoulder. Cathy stood there, holding the buzzing shears and staring down at her hair.

“Oh, Cathy. Don't look so nervous. You can't mess this up!”

Cathy tried to smile. “Okay. But you won't hate me for this, will you?”

“Of course not.”

Sylvia turned back around. The buzz moved closer to her head. Cathy lifted the hair at her neck…and began to mow through.

Brenda covered her eyes. “I can't look.”

“You have to,” Sylvia said. “I want you to take pictures. Cathy, give me a mohawk before you shave it all off.”

Tory screamed. “A mohawk? Sylvia!”

“Just for a minute,” Sylvia said. “For one picture. I'll send it to my kids. Heaven knows they need a good laugh.”

Sylvia held her breath as Cathy buzzed off one row after another. She watched as the breeze blew it off across the yard.

“The birds'll love it,” she said. “It'll cozy up their nests.”

A strand blew past Hannah, and the baby laughed. But Tory's face was red as she stared at Sylvia.

“Okay,” Cathy said. “Just let me lengthen the clip so the mohawk will stand up.” She buzzed again.

“Oh my gosh,” Brenda shouted.

“It's you,” Tory said. “Quick, take a picture!”

Sylvia struck a pose and Brenda snapped the picture. Cathy handed her the mirror.

A demented stranger stared back at her, and she howled out her laughter.

When the laughter had settled, she sat back down. “Okay. Finish it off.”

Cathy cut off the last row of Sylvia's hair, then buzzed around her head trying to find places she had missed.

“There,” she said in a quiet voice. “It's all done.” Brenda and Tory's faces grew more serious as Cathy handed her the mirror.

Sylvia raised it and looked at her reflection. The sight startled her, jolting her heart. She looked…awful. Not stylish or trendy…not even particularly brave. Just sick and pale and bald.

She tried to think of something funny to say, but nothing came to mind. It didn't seem that funny anymore.

“So that's what my head looks like. I've always wondered what it was shaped like. You know all those times when you see
Star Trek
and see those bald-headed women with the perfectly shaped heads? I always had a feeling that mine was probably egg-shaped and lumpy.”

“It's not.” Tory's voice was weak.

Sylvia kept staring into the mirror. “No, it's not, is it? I should have done this years ago.”

Brenda laughed again, but it was a forced, strained laugh, and it didn't fool Sylvia. She stared at the shape of her head and at the soft, smooth, peach-fuzzy feel of the buzz cut.

“Put the wig on,” Brenda said softly. “You haven't tried it without a mane of hair underneath.”

But Sylvia couldn't speak. She felt the tears rising up in her throat, her voice getting tight. “Why do I feel such shame?” she asked. “It doesn't even make sense.”

“Shame?” Cathy asked, coming around to face her. “Honey, what are you ashamed of?”

“I don't know. I guess it's just that I
look
like I have cancer now. It announces it.”

Tory got up. “Where's the wig, Sylvia?”

“On that Styrofoam head in my bedroom.”

Tory headed in. “I'm going to get it.”

She came back a few moments later sporting the wig they had spent so much time choosing. Still serving as the designated hairdresser, Cathy put it on Sylvia, straightened it, finger-combed her hair. Sylvia raised the mirror and examined herself.

“Not too bad, is it?” she asked.

“Sylvia, it looks beautiful,” Brenda said. “When your hair grows back, I think you should style it like this.”

Sylvia's tears backed out of her eyes, and her throat relaxed. “I do like it. It's just hard to get used to.”

“Pretend you just had a makeover,” Brenda said.

“And think of the bright side,” Cathy added. “No more hair drying, no more rollers.”

Tory shifted Hannah. “Like Trendy said, no more bad hair days.”

“No more dandruff,” Cathy added. “Or can you get dandruff when you're bald?”

“You wouldn't think so,” Sylvia said, “since you can put lotion on your scalp. That's a good thing.”

“Think how much less time it'll take you to get ready in the mornings,” Brenda said.

Sylvia sighed. “Okay, Brenda. Take a picture of the alien Sylvia.” She pulled off the wig.

Brenda held the camera up to her eye. Sylvia smiled, showing all her teeth, as Cathy snapped the picture.

“Now on with the wig.” She pulled it back on, straightened it with her fingers, then posed up at Brenda. “Not bad for a sick woman, huh?”

“Not bad,” Brenda said. “Sylvia, I think you look even better than before.”

“See? Chemo becomes me.”

The others laughed, but she knew that it was hard for them. Once again, tears threatened the backs of her eyes and hung in her throat. But the wig really did look good. Things could be so much worse.

She suspected they soon would be.

C
HAPTER

Thirty-One

The image
of Sylvia's shaven head, and the pale yellowish color of her skin, implanted itself in Brenda's mind. She remembered seeing Joseph looking that way, weak and shaky and not quite right. The knot that seemed to tighten in her chest every time she saw her dearest friend had grown bigger today.

Instead of going into her house, she went out to the swing David had hung on a tree on their back lawn, and looked out at the trees that lined their yard. She hadn't wanted to cry in front of Sylvia, not loud and hard like she'd needed to. Now she let the tears come.

She prayed for Sylvia, that the chemo was doing its job, that there wouldn't be any trace of cancer left in her body. She prayed that her friend wouldn't have to suffer or grow weaker before her eyes. She prayed that Sylvia would have the strength she needed to get through this.

“You all right?”

She looked over her shoulder and saw David. She wondered how long he had been watching her. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little down.”

He grabbed a lawn chair and set it in front of her. Sitting down, he looked into her eyes. “Bad time with Sylvia?”

“No, actually, it was a good time. She made Cathy give her a mohawk. You should have seen it.” She laughed, but more tears rolled down her face. Finally, she gave in to the tears and let them twist her face. “Oh, David.”

He slid his arms around her and held her, and she wept against his shoulder. “You're really scared, aren't you?”

“Not scared, so much,” she said. “Just upset that she has to suffer.”

“Is she really suffering already?”

She thought about that, and realized that she wasn't. Not yet. “She just looks weak and pale. And her hair…”

“If she's okay about her hair, then you should be.”

“That's just it,” she said. “I don't think she is okay. She's just so…Sylvia. Putting on a happy face. Trying to make everybody think she's just having fun. But she shaved her head today, David, because the chemo was making it fall out. She shaved her head!”

She wilted against him again, and he held her quietly. She was thankful that he didn't accuse her of overreacting. She hadn't expected to feel like this. She wondered if Cathy and Tory were crying somewhere, too.

Finally, she got up, and David walked her into the house. He was gentle with her for the rest of the day, helping with the kids and the house and the laundry, as if she was the one with cancer, and not her friend.

But she couldn't get the sight of Sylvia's bald head out of her mind.