Season of Blessing Page 12

  “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.

  CHAPTER

  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.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Eight

  The morning Tory was to start her new job, she set her alarm for 6:00. Waking up wasn’t a problem, since she hadn’t really slept much at all. She had lain in bed listening to the rhythm of Barry’s breathing and wondering if she was doing the right thing by taking Hannah to the nursery for several hours at a time. Of all the people in Breezewood, she trusted the lady who would be caring for Hannah. But she still worried.

  She’d be right down the hall. If Hannah got upset or sick or hurt herself, Tory would be just feet away. It wasn’t as if she was leaving her at all. And she needed this.

  Despite her trepidation, she’d been a little excited about working with the older children who had the same affliction as Hannah. She wanted to hear how clearly they could speak. She wanted to see what concepts they could grasp, how much they could learn, whether they had skills of reason and logic.

  “Why are you up so early?” Barry’s sleepy voice sounded slightly irritated.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just have to get ready for work.”

  “You don’t have to be there till nine.”

  “Yeah, but I thought I’d run a couple of miles first, read my Bible, do a couple of loads of laundry, make the kids a good breakfast…”

  “Tory, are you gonna do this every day?”

  “Nope. Just the days I work. I refuse to neglect my family for an outside job.”

  Barry sat up and turned on the lamp. “You’re not neglecting your family, honey. Brittany and Spencer will be at school. They’ll never even know you’re gone. And you can do the laundry on your off days.”

  She slipped on her shorts and sat down on the bed to pull on her running shoes. “I just want to start out right.”

  “You’ll be exhausted by the time you get there.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” She came around the bed and kissed him, then turned the lamp back off. “Go back to sleep. Your alarm doesn’t go off for another hour.”

  He pulled the covers up over him again and settled back on his pillow.

  Tory scurried out of the room.

  She went to the laundry room and started a load, then hit the floor and began her stretching.

  When she was finally warmed up enough to run, she took off out the door. The dark morning air was full of dew, but summer still hung on, making it warm. She left the cul-de-sac and headed down the mountain road, easily making the distance she had marked off so long ago. She ran hard and fast, and when she reached the one-mile point, turned around and headed back uphill.

  The run back was more punishing than the first half had been, but it was important to her to stay fit and slim. She couldn’t stand the thought of getting plump and lumpy. It wasn’t vanity. It really wasn’t. She just expected more of herself, had a higher standard than most. She wanted to be her best.

  By the time she got back home, it was 7:00, and she was soaked with perspiration. Barry had already gotten up and had put in a second load of laundry. Scrambled eggs and bacon fried on the stove.

  “You’re cooking,” she said with a grin.

  He nodded. “Not the kind of thing you eat, but the kids’ll like it.”

  She kissed him. “I promise not to wake you so early every time I work.”

  “It’s okay. You’re nervous.”

  She got a towel out of the laundry room and wiped her face. “Am I? You think this is nerves?”

  “I know it is.”

  She leaned against the doorway. “So why am I nervous?”

  “Because you’re not sure you’re doing the right thing.”

  She smiled. He knew her too well. “Am I?”

  “Yes.” He grabbed the waistband of her shorts and pulled her close, until her nose touched his. “You’re doing the right thing, Tory. I want you to say that fifty times while you’re in the shower.”

  She grinned and brought her sweaty arms around his neck. “If you say so.”

  “I do. And you’ll see.”

  She felt better as she got into the shower. Barry was on her side, Brittany and Spencer wouldn’t know the difference, and Hannah…

  She heard Hannah crying as she woke up, and Barry called out, “I’ve got her!”

  As the warm shower rained down on her, soothing her jitters, she smiled. It was going to be okay.

  Class was already going full tilt when Tory finally left Hannah in the nursery and went to her classroom. The children, age six to nine, all with Down’s Syndrome, sat at a table, already hard at work. Their teacher, a woman named Linda Shelton, sat with them as they shaped Play-Doh blobs into things only they could identify.

  “Hi, Miss Tory,” the teacher called out in a singsong voice as Tory came into the room. “Children, say hi to Miss Tory.”

  The children looked over at her while still molding their Play-Doh and muttered things that sounded a little like “good morning.”

  “Good morning, boys and girls.” She wondered if Linda called them “boys and girls,” or if they even knew that they were boys and girls.

  Then she told herself to stop obsessing. These children were forgiving. If she made a teacher faux pas, they probably wouldn’t notice.

  She pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. Ten children sat around two tables. Two of them sat in wheelchairs, and three others had braces on their legs.

  But the other five she had often seen running down the hall-way on their way to lunch or recess.

  “Thank goodness for your help,” Linda said. “We’ll get so much more done with you here. And frankly, I was thrilled when Mary Ann told me you’re a Christian. It’s not a requirement for working here, you know. But I love the fact that most of the teachers here are. And I like for the kids to have that kind of influence. Some of their parents aren’t believers. But they really need Christ, I think. Don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Tory said. “But I didn’t think we could talk about Christ in the classroom.”

  “Sure we can,” Linda said. “This is a private school. And even though it isn’t a Christian school, the people who run it are believers, too. So they’re just fine with our passing our faith on to our precious children.”

  Tory looked at the children working so hard on their blobs, and wondered if they even had the capacity for faith, but she didn’t say so. It seemed to make Linda feel better to think she had an impact. And who was she to say Linda didn’t?

  The little boy next to her tore off a glob of Play-Doh and thrust it at her. “Thank you,” she said. She looked at the teacher. “What’s his name?”

  “Ask him,” Linda said. “He’ll tell you.”

  She asked him his name, and the boy said, “My name Bo.”

&nb
sp; “What are you making, Bo?”

  “Haws.”

  “A horse?” she asked, delighted that she’d understood.

  “I make a ball,” one of the other ones said, and she oohed and aahed over the ball. A couple of the others muttered things that she could not understand, but the teacher managed to translate as she helped them work on their Play-Doh creations.

  Already, she tried to picture Hannah sitting at this very table in this very room hammering on a piece of Play-Doh and explaining what her vision for it was. Would she be one of those in the wheelchairs or have braces on her legs, or would she walk and talk like Bo? Tory didn’t know, but just being here gave her peace that she hadn’t had before. Sylvia and Barry had been right. She was glad she had taken the job.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Nine

  Sylvia grew more serious as the day of her first chemotherapy treatment approached in the second week of September. She’d been warned that the treatment would be given intravenously and could take three hours.

  When the day came she packed a couple of novels, her Bible, and some magazines, and Harry drove her to the Cancer Center.

  The place looked different than she’d expected. Decorated in warm shades of green, with accent lighting in strategic places around the room, it looked more like someone’s living room than a sterile hospital room. Recliner-like vinyl chairs were spaced about three feet apart in the large room, and soft classical music piped through the sound system.

  Several other cancer patients occupied those chairs, their own medication dripping into their veins. A couple had on Walkmans, and leaned back with their faces pale and sunken eyes closed. Would she look like that a few months from now?

  The nurse led her to a chair next to a woman who stared in front of her with dull, lifeless eyes. The woman’s hair had already begun falling out, and thin, lifeless wisps hung into her face. She had a yellow cast to her skin, and dark circles hung under her eyes.