“No, not again!” Duncan hangs up the phone and growls in frustration.
I sit up straight.
“What is it?” I ask – feeling the storm already brewing.
“Noah is sick.” Duncan puts air quotes on the word sick.
What he actually says: crèche teacher G. succeeded in establishing a temperature of 38 degrees. With every diaper change, Noah gets a thermometer up his ass. We think there is a relationship with the shortage of staff at the nursery. Noah counts for three. The apple of our eye is loud, can’t sit still for a moment and doesn’t listen for a meter. At 38 degrees you have to pick up your child. And with Noah’s departure, things will definitely calm down a lot.
According to our doctor, children often have an elevated temperature, which is perfectly normal. Only when the fever is higher than 38.5 can you speak of a sick child. But they think differently at our shelter.
It’s still early in the morning and Duncan has a busy day at work, just like my parents.
I received my weekly shot of chemotherapy the day before yesterday. I feel reasonable. But taking care of my bouncing ball on my own for a day? I wouldn’t know how.
Duncan paces around the room. He is angry with the world. And especially at nursery teacher G. My beloved is currently keeping a lot of balls in the air. He has a sick wife, a busy job and a turbo toddler.
“Fuck man, when I picked him up on Monday with a so-called fever he was running around the room for the rest of the afternoon!” he says with his hands in his hair.
I look at Duncan with concern. If he collapses, then we really have a problem.
So I get up.
“I’ll get Noah. Then you can work. I’m fine,” I lie.
The cancer card
“Can you grab my wig?” I ask.
Duncan hands me my hairpiece.
When I want to take it he pulls his hand back.
“Hey, you know what a good plan is: pick up Noah without a wig.”
I look at him bewildered.
“No dude, are you crazy.”
“Marie listen. You are sick, but you don’t see it. You look great with your fake hair, fake eyelashes and your tattooed eyebrows.”
I nod. “Yup, that’s exactly the point.”
I don’t want to be seen as a cancer patient. That’s why I always wear something on my head. Even with my family and friends. I don’t need to see the fear in their eyes.
Duncan looks at me angrily.
“Listen. If they understand the seriousness of the situation at the shelter, they might not put a thermometer in our son’s hole every five minutes. Better for him. But also certainly for us. Let that cancer work in our favor for once.”
Reluctantly I agree.
“Very well?”
Duncan takes a critical look at me.
“Just take your eyeliner off,” he says.
“Are you serious?”
Duncan is deadly serious.
Moments later, I’m walking down the street feeling naked—the cool wind on my skull. I look at the ground. I don’t want to see how passers-by react to me.
When I appear in the doorway, Noah jumps up.
“Mom!” he shouts cheerfully. And he runs into my arms.
What sick.
Nursery teacher G. looks at me in shock and walks over to me.
“Um… are you okay?” she stammers.
“Not really. Chemotherapy…” I point to my bald head.
“Yeah, I’ve heard something like that…”
“Do you know. Come here Noah. We’ll take a look at it. Maybe it’s not too bad.”
“Are you sure?” I ask weakly.
Nursery teacher G. knows for sure. And so I leave without a child.
Maybe I should play the cancer card more often.
Via Marith’s Instagram account @marithiedema can you follow her closely.
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