Sigma Alpha Iota

Duet With her red mane and fair complexion, Burrows could be mistaken for soprano Christiane Noll, star of several award-winning Broadway musicals, including Jekyll & Hyde, Urinetown, and the most recent revival of Ragtime. Eshbaugh has her own alumna doppelganger in mezzosoprano Heidi Skok (A'90), whose statuesque presence adorned Metropolitan Opera's stage for more than a decade. Right now, though, they're just incoming freshmen with big lungs and a lot to learn about music, life, and each other. Burrows is softspoken—a self-described "music nerd" who mostly keeps to herself; Eshbaugh is gregarious, immune to intimidation, and addicted to adventure. Soon, they're inseparable. Although Burrows is a stranger to Pittsburgh, Eshbaugh knows her way around, having been raised in Indiana, Pa., just 60 miles from Pittsburgh. So, for the first few weeks of the semester, Eshbaugh plays tour guide. From the symphony to diners, no Pittsburgh staple is out of their reach. Sometimes, when Burrows is too tired to make the walk to her off-campus dorm, she has a sleepover in Eshbaugh's Donner House room, where the two philosophize until their eyes close. In October, they begin working in the costume department for an upcoming music school production. One night, while climbing the stairs to the costume shop, Eshbaugh stops at the second-floor landing. "Are you OK?" Burrows asks. Eshbaugh says she feels queasy, but they press forward. At the next floor, Eshbaugh says she has to throw up. Burrows snatches a trash can. It's not the first time in the past few weeks that Eshbaugh has been ill. First, her back hurt. Then, she had leg spasms. Now, she's throwing up. They both agree she should go to the student clinic. They walk there, but it's closed. What to do? Perhaps Eshbaugh should go the hospital and get checked out, just to be safe. Burrows calls campus police from her cell phone, and a few minutes later, they're on their way to the hospital in the back of a campus squad car. The hospital staff administers preliminary tests, and Eshbaugh calls her parents, who are concerned enough to get in their car and make the hour drive to Pittsburgh. Through it all, Eshbaugh doesn't lose her sense of humor. She walks up to the registration nurse and asks if she could ensure her attending physician is male. And cute. Burrows blushes. When Eshbaugh's Burrows buys pink and purple embroidery floss at the University Center art store and twists them together into a friendship bracelet. During her next visit, she ties it around Eshbaugh's wrist. "Even if I can't touch you," Burrows tells her, "I can always hold your hand." parents arrive, they thank Burrows for staying with their daughter, and Eshbaugh's father gives her a ride to her dorm. Back at the hospital, doctors press on Eshbaugh's abdomen. She winces. Maybe it's her gallbladder? More tests. When the bloodwork results come, the healthcare team is troubled. Perhaps the tests are wrong. They run them again. At 7 am the next morning, an oncologist steps into Eshbaugh's room. "There's only one explanation for blood platelets to be that low and calcium to be that high," he says. "Something is growing, and it's growing rapidly." "Like a tumor?" Eshbaugh asks. Like a tumor. In class, Burrows doesn't see her friend. She's worried. Eshbaugh never misses a class. After a few days of small-talk texting back and forth, Burrows and some other music majors decide to visit Eshbaugh in the hospital. When they arrive, Eshbaugh knows her friends are wondering what's wrong. Tears stream down her cheeks as she tells them that she's taking a medical leave from school. She has cancer. It's called rhabdomyosarcoma — a rare, aggressive cancer of the connective tissues. It will require up to 11 months of chemotherapy, and blood transfusions. Hopefully, she'll be in remission then and can resume her studies. The students hug Eshbaugh, the last time they'll be able to do so for a while. Once she starts chemo, her immune system will be compromised. A hug or a handshake might have serious ramifications. So, the next day, Burrows buys pink and purple embroidery floss at the University Center art store and twists them together into a friendship bracelet. During her next visit, she ties it around Eshbaugh's wrist. "Even if I can't touch you," Burrows tells her, "I can always hold your hand." Eshbaugh begins her monthly treatment regimen: 48 hours of chemotherapy, followed three weeks later by another five days of eighthour chemotherapy sessions. After every chemo cycle, Eshbaugh receives a blood transfusion. She usually gets a fever, too, which forces her to stay in her hospital room. She can't receive visitors for days. Then the cycle begins again. Chemotherapy, blood transfusions. Despite the grueling routine, the best friends work out a schedule of their own. Burrows visits Eshbaugh once a week; they keep in touch via cell phone and Internet video-calls when Eshbaugh is in Indiana; and, once a month, if Eshbaugh feels well enough, they venture to the symphony or opera. The chemo robs Eshbaugh of her hair and her eyebrows, but she doesn't let it steal her beauty — especially when she goes out with Burrows. On those nights, Eshbaugh always dons a bright red wig and colors in eyebrows to match, so that the two can take on the town as — in Eshbaugh's words — "two hot red gingers." And though she can't sing because the chemotherapy affected her vocal cords, Eshbaugh attends the weekly voice seminar class when she can, where she can hear undergraduate, graduate, and artist diploma voice majors perform. A few weeks before classes start in fall 2009, Burrows gets a phone call. It's Eshbaugh. Her doctors gave her the all-clear. Her cancer is in remission. Eshbaugh is back! The best friends return to their old ways — the Zebra-Lounge lunches, the inside jokes, the Cheesecake Factory dinners. They're in different classes now because Eshbaugh is still a freshman. But Eshbaugh is just happy to be training again, and Burrows couldn't be happier to have her friend back. Fittingly, in mid-October, Eshbaugh makes plans to walk the cancer survivors' lap in conjunction with the campus' "Relay for Life," an overnight relay used to raise money for the American Cancer Society. Not feeling great that night, she has to walk slowly; later her legs begin to swell and hurt, driving her to tears. The next BOND continued on page 26 sai-national.org SPRING 2012 PAN PIPES 25

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