by Rachel Trachten
Section I- A Fateful Haircut: Diagnosis & Surgery
1. Every Last Hair
Oddly enough, it’s a guru of long hair who leads me to baldness.
It’s 1978 and I’m 18. My dad’s girlfriend, Susan, is a regular at George Michael’s Madison Avenue salon, where they specialize in long hair. She and George Michael are old friends, and Susan has brought me here as a special treat. We’ve had a delicious afternoon of pampering and long-hair luxury, complete with fragrant orange and pink potions for washing and conditioning.
Once my hair is clean and silky, I stand in front of the mirror for a trim. Just a trim, because long hair is the goal.
But as I stand there, dark spots appear in front of my eyes and the world starts to close in. I go down, and next thing I know I’m on a black leather sofa in George Michael’s office.
Before immigrating to the US and becoming a hair tycoon, George Michael had been a medical doctor in Russia. When Susan tells him how I’m still exhausted from the mono I had months earlier, he urges her to push for more testing. Soon after that hair salon episode, I have a biopsy of a swollen gland in my neck, revealing that I have Hodgkin’s Disease, a cancer of the lymphatic system.
As it turns out, even oncologists like to get their hair done. Cancer specialist Dr. Lois Murphy is also a longtime client of George Michael. He makes the call that gets me on to her patient list, and pretty soon the chemo she gives me will knock out every last hair on my head.
2. Back on the Court
Just before I have that fateful biopsy, the surgeon tries to calm my fears: “I hear you’re a tennis player,” he says. “Don’t worry, you’ll be back on the court in no time.”
“Could I play by the weekend?” I ask.
“Doubles should be fine,” he says.
Liar.
I need the biopsy because that big swollen gland in my neck just won’t go away. I’ve been exhausted for weeks, maybe months, but I’m 18 and keep pushing through. I’ve never been seriously ill, and how could I be? I’m an athlete with big plans to join my college tennis team.
When I get the biopsy results, I’m stunned but strangely calm. I take it all in, including my parents’ assertion that this illness is serious, but can be treated. Decades later, I can’t help but wonder how a less compliant teen would have handled it all, someone more like my sister, Jessica. “Cancer!?” she would roar. “No fucking way! I’m a jock. And how could I play doubles after that lying surgeon slashed my neck open?!” She would slam doors and throw dishes, relishing the crash as they hit the kitchen floor.
3. The Bracelet
The plastic hospital bracelet feels like a declaration of ownership: you belong to Sloan Kettering Memorial Cancer Center; get used to it. But once the bracelet is secured on my wrist, I’m set free until evening. I head out with my parents (they’re divorced, but friendly) for a few hours in Manhattan before returning to face the prospect of the next day’s surgery.
At this point, I’ve finished just one semester at Amherst College. I’d missed what should have been my first semester thanks to the mono. But now I’m supposed to be back on track, feeling fine and choosing courses for the coming term. Instead, doctors are going to remove my spleen, an organ I didn’t even know I had. For good measure, they’ll take out my appendix too and probe my insides for more evidence of cancer.
It’s a warm July day, and we end up on the sprawling steps in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The area is packed with tourists and New Yorkers enjoying the sunshine, eating ice cream, watching street performers. As I stand a few feet from my parents, someone taps my shoulder.
“Rachel, great to see you!” It’s Andrea, a casual friend from Amherst, smiling and looking perky in a yellow sundress embroidered with tiny white daisies. “How’s your summer going?” She looks tanned and healthy; she’s practically glowing.
I pull on my sleeve to be sure the hospital bracelet doesn’t show. Should I state the grim truth? “Things couldn’t be worse. I have cancer.”
I don’t say this. I stare at a thread hanging from one of those cute daisies on her dress and imagine giving it a tug. How far would it unravel?
“The summer’s been good,” I say with a forced smile. “But I’ve got to go; some people are waiting for me.”
4. Broken
That evening my parents are with me in the hospital, and at some point I have a few minutes alone with my dad. He looks as broken as I feel.
We sit in my hospital room as the sun goes down. I don’t recall exactly what I say, but I must have used the word “despair.” And he kind-of snaps to attention and shakes his head like he means it. “No,” he says. “Now is not the time to despair; it’s the time to fight.”
I give him a teenage “oh, come on,” look, but he insists. “If there’s ever a time for despair, I’ll be right there with you,” he says, “but this isn’t the time.”
His words glue me back together, at least in that moment. He offers up a reminder that he’ll be there no matter what and that there’s still hope. At 18 I already have a strong belief in working hard for what I want—it’s how I got into Amherst and how I win tennis matches. My misery lifts slightly as I take in his words and start to focus on what’s ahead.
5. Good Books
Night falls, and the Manhattan skyline glitters outside my hospital room window. My parents leave, and I stare miserably at the bright lights and skyscrapers. Then I decide to take the plunge and call Zach, the guy I’ve fallen hard for at Amherst.
When I first saw Zach, he was in our dorm library sprawled on his back on an old sofa. He looked irresistible in a white tracksuit with thin black stripes down the sides. He was reading from The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, a weighty hardcover edition that he held overhead like a paperback. I asked around and learned he was a varsity squash player, a sport I vaguely associated with high-end prep schools. It certainly wasn’t on anyone’s radar at my public high school in Brooklyn.
I also heard that Zach had a bit of a reputation as a playboy, but I wasn’t scared off. A few weeks after we met, he asked me to dance at a Valentine’s eve party and the chemistry between us was undeniable. When we sat in the same lecture hall or I spotted that white tracksuit across the campus quad, I felt his presence like an electric charge. One night we took a midnight walk around campus and kissed by moonlight. I soon learned that Zach had grown up in Northern California, where his dad was a physicist and his mom worked in public television. His West Coast childhood was as exotic to me as my New York roots were to him.
When the semester ended, Zach and I parted for summer with the quasi-commitment “try not to fall in love with anyone else.” I headed home to Brooklyn, and he left for California, then back to his mom’s current home near Boston.
Now it’s July, and Zach has no clue that I’ve just been diagnosed with cancer and will have surgery first thing in the morning. We’d been writing occasional letters that summer, and I’d mentioned that I was having a biopsy. But neither of us took it too seriously, assuming it was just something I was doing to appease my parents.
I set off in search of a pay phone, clumsily pushing my IV pole down a hallway decorated with cheerful museum posters. I’m on a pediatric floor and most of the children I see are bald. I try not to think about what that means. Some of these kids also have amputated limbs and are getting around using crutches or wheelchairs. As I slowly make my way toward the phones, doctors and nurses in bright scrubs bustle past, miniature teddy bears clipped to their stethoscopes.
I’m trembling as I dial Zach’s number and try to explain the train wreck my life has become. “Hodgkin’s Disease,” I say. “It’s a cancer of the lymph nodes, but they say it’s curable. The surgery is tomorrow.” Silence hangs between us.
“So, um, what else have you been doing?” he finally says. “Have you read any good books this summer?”
Good books?! We end the call soon after that, and I sob against the cold hospital wall. Why would he want a girlfriend with cancer?
6. Love Medicine
I’m stuck in the hospital for two weeks after the surgery, and Nancy is my main nurse on the day shift. She’s good at her job, but mostly it’s her love life that helps me through those depressing days.
Post-surgery, my abdomen is covered by a large bandage with stitches underneath. I have a tube in my nose, an IV needle in my arm, and pain meds every few hours. The saga of Nancy and her boyfriend offers something to focus on other than my own misery.
Nancy lives in New York, but she’s in love with a guy in Boston. They’ve been in a long-distance relationship for almost two years, and, at 30, she’s more than ready to get married. But Boston won’t commit. He’s content with the status quo, where they see each other every few weekends. Nancy is starting to doubt his love. Meanwhile, there’s a New York guy who adores her, but she’s only lukewarm on him.
It’s my daily bit of fun to hear Nancy’s latest drama. And she’s eager to hear my boyfriend blues too instead of just taking my temperature and blood pressure. When Zach announces that he’s coming to visit, Nancy and I have a long conversation about which nightgown I should wear. In the moment, it’s an important choice, and she turns out to be good medicine.
7. Nurse or Supermodel?
My mother stays with me in the hospital after the surgery. There’s a cot for her next to my bed, though I can’t imagine she got much sleep.
I’m aware that my mom has terrible fears about hospitals. But I’m a typical self-centered teen and don’t give it much thought.
I do know that my mom had tried to visit a friend in the hospital but had to leave almost immediately because she felt faint. Perhaps she never even made it to her friend’s room. And now Sloan Kettering is her second home.
Somehow, she copes.
One post-surgery night, I awaken with sharp abdominal pain. Please, let it be time for more painkillers. No, it’s too soon. My mother goes in search of the night nurse, who turns out to be a glamorous blond. I can’t help but admire her chic angled haircut and the tiny diamond studs in her ears. But something about her cool elegance makes me think she’ll tell me to tough it out until I’m due for pain meds.
My mother explains what’s been happening, and the nurse listens closely. In a soft voice, she asks me to show her exactly where I’m hurting. Then she gently rearranges my body to help ease the pain. She gets extra pillows, putting them in just the right places under my legs. The nurse promises more meds soon, but I’m already feeling better. People can surprise you.
8. My Own Prince Charming
After telling Zach about my diagnosis in what feels like a disastrous phone call, I try to resign myself to the end of our relationship.
In an attempt to protect him, well-meaning friends and relatives also suggest that he let our romance end. Recovering from Hodgkin’s Disease is far from a given in 1978. In fact, the protocol I’m getting is barely beyond the experimental stage and is being tested only at Sloan Kettering and Stanford Medical Center. Dr. Murphy tells my parents that this combination of drugs and radiation is beginning to show good results, with cure rates as high as 75 percent. I’m unaware of these statistics, but I do know that my disease has progressed to stage IV, having spread to several parts of my body.
Zach ignores the advice to stay away. Instead, he calls my father and arranges a visit. About a week after my surgery, Zach gets on the Eastern Airlines Shuttle and into a cab and appears at the hospital. I’m so excited and anxious about his visit that I exhaust myself before he gets there. I’m sound asleep, probably snoring, when he arrives.
I open my eyes and he’s standing there in khaki pants and a striped button-down shirt, his hair nearly blonde from the summer sun. I forget about my pain and tubes and stitches. Whatever Sleeping Beauty felt when she awoke to find Prince Charming beside her, I’m sure it was nothing compared to my joy in that moment.
For a while, we make small talk about Zach’s flight from Boston. Then we cover his recent visit to California, where his father lives. The issue of my illness feels too dangerous to touch. Finally, we tiptoe up to it. “I won’t be back at school in the fall, with all this going on,” I say tearfully, motioning toward my body, the IV pole, the room. “I know,” he says. He sits by my bed and holds my hand, and, after a little while, I doze off.
