“Of course, I can,” Deanne said, squeezing his hand.
“Somehow, it’s not so hard when someone’s with me—when someone’s holding on.”
“I’ll be right here,” she told him. She pulled a chair over next to his bed, never letting go of his hand.
From down the hall, she could still hear the night sounds of the hospital.
Eight
“Dad, do people with cancer ever get well?” Deanne blurted out the question as her father sat reading in his woodpaneled study.
Dr. Vandervoort put down his medical journal and stared at his daughter. Deanne’s face was troubled. She knew she must look worried. But she had to talk to someone about what she was feeling inside.
“Come sit down,” her father said.
She went over to the brown leather sofa across from his desk and sat down. Its surface felt smooth and cool. She always liked his study. It smelled of leather and old books. She felt warm and welcomed in the brown and navy blue-colored room.
“First of all,” Dr. Vandervoort began, “cancer is not just one disease. It’s a group of diseases. There are many kinds of cancers. A cancer is a group of mutant cells that begin to grow uncontrollably and crowd out normal cells. No one knows why it occurs in children.”
Deanne nodded. She understood. But what she really wanted to know was if people were ever cured of cancer.
“And yes,” her father continued, “people do get well. Sometimes they go into remission and it never comes back. Sometimes, we can operate then treat the patient with radiation and chemotherapy—and it’s completely gone.”
Deanne let out an audible sigh. Her father looked at her sharply. “But,” he said in his most authoritative voice, “sometimes, despite all the treatments, all the surgery, all the skill and knowledge of an entire staff of medical experts, we can’t save a cancer patient.”
Deanne sagged in her seat. “Nevertheless,” he said, “we never give up. We bombard the cancer with everything we’ve got. It’s like a war. The cancer’s the invader, and we’re there to throw it out.”
“I wish you had a sure cure . . . ,” she began.
“So do I, Deanne. Every day I pray for a cure. But, while I’m waiting, I go on fighting.”
The room grew silent. Deanne could hear the ticking of the clock on his bookshelves. “Something tells me you have a particular cancer case in mind,” Dr. Vandervoort said into the silence.
She dropped her eyes. “Oh, not really. It’s just that I’ve been doing a lot of work on the oncology floor, and I feel so sorry for some of the kids.”
“Don’t let pity cloud your ability to serve,” he told her.
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re there to do a job, to help any way you can. Listen to your patients’ needs and help them. Don’t feel sorry for them. You’re not doing them any favors, believe me.”
Deanne wasn’t quite sure what her father meant, but she was glad she talked to him. At least she now had some hope for Matt, hope that he really might get well.
* * * * *
“Deanne! Come quick! Pam Miller’s locked herself in her bathroom and Mrs. Stewart can’t get her to come out!” Susan’s excited voice preceded her into the hospital room where Deanne was making up a bed.
“Oh, no!” Deanne cried and raced down the hall behind her friend. Together they burst into room 409, Pam’s room.
“Pam! Pam Miller! You open this door right now!” Nurse Stewart said as she pounded on the hard door surface.
“What’s going on?” Deanne asked.
“Pam woke up this morning and huge wads of her hair were laying on her pillow.”
“Oh, no,” Deanne said.
“Yes, it’s the chemotherapy. She knew it might happen. But I guess it’s hard when you’re only fifteen and your hair is your crowning glory. Pam!” she called through the door again. “Please open up!”
“No!” Pam shouted back. “Go away! I’m never coming out! I swear!”
“Can I try?” Deanne asked nervously. “I’ve worked with her a lot. We’ve kind of gotten to be friends.”
“Sure,” Mrs. Stewart said. Then she added, “Quick, Susan, go down to maintenance and get someone to bring up some tools. We may have to take the door off the hinges.”
Deanne went over to the door and called, “Pam? Pam? It’s me, Deanne. What’s going on?”
“Go away!” Pam shouted back. “I’m never coming out! I tell you, NEVER!”
“Well, why not?” Deanne asked, trying hard to think of a way to get Pam to open the door.
“Because I’m BALD!” Pam wailed. “I—I look hideous!”
“But, Pam, you can’t stay in there. What about all the stuff we planned to do this afternoon?”
“I can’t do anything! Paul is supposed to come today. I can’t let him see me like this!” Pam started to cry.
Paul! Of course! Deanne thought. Paul was her boyfriend.
“Oh, Pam, Paul won’t care. I know he won’t. Why you, Paul, Matt, and I have even talked about it. You know he likes you just the way you are.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Pam sobbed. “He’s never seen me bald. Besides, you have lots of beautiful blond hair!”
Deanne gave a start. She never once thought of her hair as beautiful. It was so limp and baby fine. But it must seem glorious to someone who is going bald. “You know it will grow back,” Deanne tried again. “Matt’s fell out and it grew back, even nicer than before, he says. Now, please unlock the door.”
“Go away!” Pam shouted
Deanne searched her thoughts for an idea. Pam was a nice girl, very outgoing and with a good sense of humor. Deanne remembered that she often talked about becoming an actress. Pam had been in many school plays and loved the theatre.
“You know,” Deanne began. “If you never come out, I won’t be able to use you in the special play Mrs. Coffman asked me to help her with.”
There was silence. “It’s a neat play,” Deanne continued. She made up what she was going to say quickly. “It’s going to be about life here on the oncology floor told from the patient’s point of view. We were talking about asking you to be the star.”
“Really?” Pam asked.
“Sure,” Deanne said, crossing her fingers.
“You know what we’re going to call it?”
“What?” Pam asked.
“Hairless,” Deanne said in her most deadpan voice.
Suddenly, Deanne heard a little snicker come from beyond the door. “W-What?” Pam asked. Deanne could tell Pam was trying not to laugh.
“Hairless,” she repeated. “In fact, the only reason we were hesitant about using you is because you had all your hair. . . ,” she paused. Then she heard a click. The door slowly swung open and Pam stood there looking out at her.
“In a few weeks, I’ll look like Telly Savalas,” Pam muttered.
Her long hair hung in clumps. Deanne could see several bald spots on her head. “Then I guess you’ll be just right for the part,” Deanne smiled broadly.
Pam gave a half laugh. “You could say that.”
“Come on, Pam,” Mrs. Stewart said, taking her hand. “Let’s sit down and talk about it.”
She led the girl across the room to a chair. “I’m sorry,” Pam said,
“It’s all right,” Mrs. Stewart told her. “It’s tough, I know. But you’re not alone. Many, many kids lose their hair with the treatments. It’s a small price to pay if you get well, isn’t it?”
Pam nodded. “It’s only hair,” she said. “I can get a wig.”
“Or wear a scarf,” Deanne added. “You’re still YOU.”
“Hairless, huh?” Pam said with a half-smile.
“Thanks,” Mrs. Stewart said to Deanne. “You can go on now.”
“Listen,” Deanne said as she neared the doorway. “Matt and I will still be waiting for you and Paul in the rec room this afternoon. Want to play some Scrabble?”
“Sure,” Pam smiled. “It’ll
keep my mind off my problems.”
Deanne hurried off down the hall to go find Matt and tell him about her adventure.
* * * * *
Deanne became a minor celebrity among the nurses and volunteer staff. She kept her cool and talked a patient out of a potentially dangerous situation.
Everyone seemed to know her and admired her for her fast thinking. “I said the first thing I thought of,” she told Susan. “I remembered that she liked plays and stuff so I said the part about her starring in a made-for-the-hospital play. I’m just glad she thought it was funny and came out.”
A few days later, while she was on her way to take Matt down for a radiation treatment, she heard her name called from an open doorway.
“Miss Vandervoort.” Deanne froze in her tracks. The voice was that of Mrs. Sanders.
“I would like a word with you, Miss Vandervoort,” the voice called out. Slowly, Deanne turned to face the tall, starched form of Lillie Sanders.
“Y-Yes, Mrs. Sanders,” she said.
“I’ve heard about your recent action with the young patient in oncology.” Deanne felt her heart pounding.
Mrs. Sanders’s face broke into a smile. “Good work!”
Deanne sighed with relief. “Thank you, Mrs. Sanders,” she said.
“In fact, I was impressed with your suggestion. I’ve told the Child-Life Specialist, Mrs. Coffman, that she should get with you and the two of you should write such a play.”
“What?” Deanne gasped.
“It’s a good idea,” Mrs. Sanders continued. “These patients need a way to express their feelings about the doctors, the hospital, the treatments—everything that’s happening to them. A play is a great way to do it. We have video cameras, TV sets, plenty of kids to play the different roles. Yes, I think a play we could record on videocassette for incoming patients about cancer would be a wonderful idea.
“I want you to get with Mrs. Coffman today. You can start planning it. I want you to help write it and pick out kids for the different roles. And why not call it Hairless? It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
Deanne stood staring at her with her mouth open. “Well, run along,” Mrs. Sanders said crisply. “Get your work done, then go see Mrs. Coffman. You two have a lot of work to do.”
Nine
“Pam, I want you to act like nothing’s strange about a roomful of doctors playing video games while the patient lies on the operating table waiting for surgery,” Mrs. Coffman said. She stood in the room directing the actors for the portable TV cameras.
Deanne giggled and glanced down at the clipboard. They already shot seven scenes and the production was going smoothly. She had to admit that she had been scared to death of the project when Mrs. Sanders had told her to do it. But, after discussing it with Clare Coffman, she became excited to do it.
The play had been fun, planning it, writing it, and getting the kids together. Pam had been chosen to be the Narrator. She would guide the viewer through an imaginary day in the life of an oncology patient.
The script was outrageous. There was a lot of fun made of the staff, the hospital, the treatments, and each other. Once Deanne had started talking about it to the kids on the oncology floor, suggestions about how to make it funny flowed like water.
Pam decided to play the part of the Narrator without wearing either a scarf or a wig. Her head was covered with a brown fuzz and she seemed proud to show it off.
“Very good!” Clare shouted as the kids played the roles of the doctors and ignored the guy playing the patient on the operating table. Their scrub clothes hung down to the floor and the patient lay wrapped in a sheet. He pleaded for the doctors to hurry up. “I tell you, I can’t wait all day,” the patient yelled according to his script. “I must get back to my room! It’s lunch time!”
“Cut!” Clare called. “Excellent! Deanne, where do we go from here?”
Deanne checked off the scene they just finished and said, “Let’s see. We need to go to a room so the Dietician can serve lunch.”
“Okay,” said Clare. “Who’s playing the Dietician?”
Matt stepped forward. “I am,” he said.
The troupe of actors, cameramen, staff, and assistants went upstairs into a room already brightly lit for the new scene.
“In bed, patient,” Clare directed.
The kid actors took their places. “Camera and . . . action,” Clare announced.
“Here we have the typical patient resting comfortably and waiting for her meal to arrive,” Pam said from her memorized script. The bed was aimed at a cockeyed angle so that the patient looked folded up in the bed.
Matt, as the Dietician, came into the room carrying a large tray heaped with thick cardboard cutouts of different food items.
“I have a wonderful meal for you!” he announced. He put the tray on the patient’s bedstand.
“It looks so stiff and unappetizing,” the patient said.
“You vill eat this or you vill be shot!” Matt shouted in a thick German accent.
Deanne kept stifling her laughter. She was having a great time and so was everybody else.
On cue, Susan rushed into the room carrying a three-foot-long foam rubber syringe. She yelled, “Shot! Shot! Did someone say shot?”
“Cut!” Clare called out. “Terrific, kids! That was just terrific.”
Deanne checked that scene off on her clipboard. “Now we need the VolunTeens giving the patient a sponge bath,” Deanne said.
Two younger kids, dressed in the familiar VolunTeen outfit, came forward carrying a basin of water, a rubber duck, and a blow dryer.
Pam began her narration. “One of the best parts of a patient’s day is when the friendly, helpful VolunTeen staff arrives to give the patient a nice, quiet sponge bath in bed.”
Immediately, the two VolunTeens began bickering over who was carrying the bowl. “I’ll do it!” the first VolunTeen shouted.
“No, you won’t! I’ll do it!” the second VolunTeen shouted back. They both kept tugging at the bowl they carried between them.
The bowl was dumped right on the patient’s lap. “Now look what you’ve done!” the patient shouted.
“Oops!” said the first VolunTeen.
“So start sponging!” cried the second VolunTeen. Together, the two girls began rubbing the struggling patient all over with the sponge. Then, they turned on the blow dryer and aimed that at the patient.
“Cut!” Clare called out. “Outstanding!” she cried. “Oh, you all are really doing a terrific job. Just wait until we sit down and see the finished tape! You will be so proud.”
The day seemed to fly by. Deanne ran around to help set up scenes. She reminded the actors of forgotten lines. She got cans of pop and snacks for everyone working on the project. By five o’clock the production was complete.
“It’s a wrap!” Clare called. “Hairless is officially ‘in the can!’”
The group clapped, cheered, and whistled. “Now, I’ll edit it. I think we’ll be ready to officially view it in a couple of days.”
“We need to have a premier party,” Pam said.
“Good idea!” Clare agreed. “Who should we invite?”
Everybody started talking at once. “Hold it! Hold it!” Clare laughed. “Deanne, help plan this thing!”
Deanne called out, “I need a committee. You, you, you, and you,” she said, pointing to various faces. “Tomorrow, at two o’clock in the rec room, we’ll plan the party.”
“The gala opening of Hairless!” someone shouted. Another cheer went up. Deanne beamed. She had never had more fun.
* * * * *
“Are you okay?” Deanne came quietly into Matt’s room and walked over to his bed.
“Sure,” Matt whispered. But Deanne could tell he was in pain.
“I missed you after we finished taping this afternoon,” Deanne said.
“I was feeling a little tired.”
“Matt,” she reached out for his hand. “My father’s waiting down in the lobby fo
r me. I’ve got to go home. But I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Can I call you later tonight?”
He squeezed her hand weakly. “It’s all right,” he said painfully. “I’ll be okay until tomorrow.” Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
Deanne felt a lump rise in her throat. She felt so helpless! She wanted him to stop hurting. “Did you have a good time today?” she asked.
“Sure,” he whispered. “You wrote a great script. I can’t wait to see it all put together.”
Deanne ached inside for him. She could think of nothing else to say. “I-I have to go,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“If I should die before I wake,” he said with a half-laugh.
“Oh, Matt, don’t say that!” Deanne pleaded. She squeezed his hand and left the room.
It had been an interesting day. They taped a twenty minute video play about cancer. They made fun of all the things that kids with cancer had to endure. Everyone had fun doing it, too. They had laughed and joked about a very serious topic. Deanne hurried down to meet her father.
* * * * *
The auditorium was crowed. Doctors, nurses, patients, parents, and hospital staff were all waiting to see the production of Hairless. Deanne squirmed in her seat. She felt nervous. So many people had shown up. Even her own parents were there.
Mrs. Vandervoort, smiling and waving at the people she knew, sat next to Deanne in the auditorium. Deanne silently wished it would start. The waiting was the hardest part.
Matt and his family sat two rows in front of them. Deanne had talked to all of his sisters and his brother when they first arrived. She also introduced the Gleasons to her parents.
“You must be very proud of Deanne,” Janet Gleason smiled. “Matt tells me she helped write and produce this entire show. And I heard she thought of the idea in the first place.”
Deanne blushed. Mrs. Vandervoort looked at her with surprise.
“Why, no,” her mother said, “Deanne only said she helped work on the story.”
“Well, according to Matt, she was the driving force behind the project.” Janet paused. Then she added. “You know, I’m glad to finally meet you. Deanne has been such a good influence on Matt. She’s been a real friend to him and so helpful. With the kids and all, I can’t get to the hospital as much as I want. But Deanne’s been here every day. I just want you to know what a fine girl my husband and I think you’ve raise.