Through These Eyes
by Lauren Ann Isaacson · English · Gutenberg #37060 · 1,012,835 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Through These Eyes
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Through These Eyes
Author: Lauren Ann Isaacson
Release date: August 13, 2011 [eBook #37060]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37060
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH THESE EYES ***
Last Revised August 5, 2011
Through These Eyes
The courageous struggle to find meaning
in a life stressed with cancer
An Autobiography
by Lauren Ann Isaacson
1961-1986
Original Hardcover Book: Copyright 1990
Released into public domain: 2006
Library of Congress Catalog Card #90 93276
ISBN 0-9628196-0-3
This publication is made freely available
to all on the internet, and on any storage
of your choice. You may copy it as often
as you like, and send it in total or in part
to whomever you wish.
PLEASE NOTE: for your convenience to locate certain chapters,
actual page numbers (as presented in the original hardcover
book only) are listed in this text:
For example - PAGE 1 or PAGE 33
To find a given chapter, please hold your
"CONTROL" key, then press your "F" key.
On MacIntosh Computers, please hold your
"APPLE" key, then press your "F" key.
In the dialogue box, insert
the desired text or number:
For example - 111
Press the "ENTER" key.
(111 is found in the Table of Contents.)
Press "ENTER" again.
(111 is found at the begining of Chapter 14.)
You can use this same procedure to conveniently find
any word, number, or short phrase in the entire book
(or in any text file).
If the text seems to be misaligned or difficult to read,
you might change the font on your text reader program
to these settings:
Courier (or Courier New) Font
Ten point (10 pt) Text Size
Select either "Normal" or "Bold" print
depending on your personal preference.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1 Early Years 1
Chapter 2 My Brothers 11
Chapter 3 Todd's Illness 16
Chapter 4 Fifth Grade 19
Chapter 5 Norm / Marriage 24
Chapter 6 Norm / Reflections 28
Chapter 7 Todd / Reflections 31
Chapter 8 Sixth Grade 33
Chapter 9 Discovery of Tumor 38
Chapter 10 Preparation and Surgery 49
Chapter 11 Diagnosis and Recovery 53
Chapter 12 Chemotherapy 70
Chapter 13 Year at Home and Diary 87
Chapter 14 Summer 1976 111
Chapter 15 Return to School 114
Chapter 16 Divorce 119
Chapter 17 Ninth Grade 127
Chapter 18 Summer 1977 133
Chapter 19 Tenth Grade 137
Chapter 20 Eleventh Grade 140
Chapter 21 Twelfth Grade 160
Chapter 22 Summer 1980 167
Chapter 23 Black Hawk College 175
Essays: Views on Choice 181
Views on Awareness 183
Chapter 24 Interlude 187
Chapter 25 Return of Cancer 195
Essays: Suffering 212
Quality in Life 213
Bargaining and Prayer 214
Chapter 26 Categories of Acceptance 216
Chapter 27 Frustrations 225
Chapter 28 Christmas 1981 230
Chapter 29 Self Imposed Barriers 232
Chapter 30 Autumn at Augustana 236
Chapter 31 Depression 243
Chapter 32 Basic Day 246
Chapter 33 Treatment / Hoax 251
Chapter 34 Journey to Greece 254
Chapter 35 In Limbo 263
Chapter 36 Reflections 267
Chapter 37 Zenith of Grief 276
Chapter 38 Personal Belief 284
Chapter 39 Reminiscence 286
Chapter 40 God, My View 288
Chapter 41 Continuum 291
THROUGH THESE EYES, written by Lauren A. Isaacson (10 Dec 1961 -
16 Jul 1986), is rare in several respects. At the age of twelve,
she was diagnosed as having cancer of the stomach; leiomyosarcoma is
a cancer prevalent in older women. She was accepted at the Mayo Clinic
for research, and after a five year period was given a clean bill of
health. During her sixth year following chemotherapy, she was
diagnosed as suffering from the same cancer; it had invaded the liver.
Lauren decided to write her life story. Her treatment of elementary
school days, junior high, her year of chemo and her home tutor, her
return to ninth grade wearing her wig, the first day she went without
that wig, high school experiences, her modeling contract, the way she
coped with her impending death, the continuing of her college education
until she could no longer physically endure, the trauma of seeing her
32 year old brother die; all relate an aura, a searching for quality
in each given day.
Her thoughts on acceptance, awareness, anger, guilt, her views of an
omnipotent being, God; her ability to write poetry as she viewed and
photographed life around her; the maturity and depth of her writings
bring with them humor as well as pathos. She was concerned about those
who loved her and those who medically assisted her. It was her hope
to help others facing adversity, or who have loved ones suffering
the direct trauma. Her journal was her companion as she coped with life.
It brought her peace and acceptance; she would hope it could
do the same for others.
Much of her manuscript is complete; it was necessary for her to outline
journal entries she wished copied. I, her mother, have completed those
listings and have related her final two and one half days at Hospice.
Journal entry June 29, 1986...The night is loud with thunder; the
deep, sharp rumbling that shakes the house as if to remind the world
that it is alive. It is not subtle, but in its brazen clap, I can find
reason to rejoice; I live in the shadows of a wondrous and beautiful
world, yet thunder is one element of nature from which I have not been
excluded, for it penetrates walls.
Lauren's exclusion began after Christmas, 1985. She was confined to
her hide-a-way in the upstairs of her home until Hospice on 14 of July,
and died 16 July, 1986.
Respectfully submitted,
Muriel K. Isaacson (Mother)
Dedicated to...
those who came with culinary delights
who shared of their time making crafts and visiting
who brought lovely plants, curios and books
who shared roses from their garden
who, through Laurie's five year illness,
remembered her often with cards
and gifts of money
and especially those who lifted her name
and her family in supportive love
and prayer.
Journal Quotes
"Carrying a secret would have been like transporting
a dandelion seed head on a windy day."
"Cancer. One word, and yet it made such a difference;
it was almost mathematical; just as surely as positive
and negative numbers, multiplied, equaled a negative
response, certainty coupled with uncertainty yielded
uncertainty."
"Cancer knew no barrier and bore no prejudice; cancer
took the weak, the strong, the indifferent, the proud,
the cheerful, the embittered; it took all, greedily in
an unquenchable hunger."
"Only acceptance can wash away the flames born of despair."
"The more the mind grows the more humble its 'master'
becomes, for he realizes that knowledge is infinity
and infinity cannot be encapsulated in the human brain."
Excerpt from Diary
June 22, 1984
...In a relationship, truth can often times hurt. So, I am faced with
the problem of whether to tell the truth or speak nothing. I would
never choose to jeopardize a relationship, yet if that relationship is
full of deception, or other undesirable attributes, and undiscerned by
the other, is it noble to hold one's peace? For to bespeak truths
could lead to ruinous separation...yet, a one-sided relationship is of
no account.
If I could but harness the energy begotten of my anger towards
self-obsessive persons, I could heat the house for a month. Perhaps,
with time, I shall be able to transfer that energy toward the thinking
of constructive thoughts. Anger cannot be felt without sustaining
internal damage; a raging emotional fire surely must char the mind.
Prologue
DEATH
Man's basic instinct is to survive, and despite all the civilizing
and technological factors of the present, that basic instinct has
remained. Though the improvements rendered on society through
modernization has allowed each individual to live at a more
leisurely pace, those same devices, conveniences and services
have also separated each life from the healing qualities inherent
in a life lived close to nature.
So often I have heard the remark, "Nature is cruel," yet I cannot
regard that statement to be wholly true; nature should not be given
a character which is labeled, at various intervals in time, as
"good" or "bad"; it merely functions to the mutual interactions
of all life. For life to continue, there must also be death.
Nature is the intricate mechanism behind all living and dying things;
it is reality in its most elemental sense. Unfortunately, it is
the one reality which modern society has attempted to purge from
all minds, and replace with a perverted idea of life; since it is
nearly impossible for a man to live naturally, society has also
obliterated the idea that one can die naturally, and quietly.
Even though one is facing death, it is yet difficult to relinquish
that instinct, as well as the instinct to escape pain. One will do
everything in his power to escape a sniper's gun, just as he would
remove his hand from the hot kettle or jump at the prick of a
needle. It is natural to protect ourselves. While sightless and
immobile elderly may "want to die," they would never take their life.
In the case of disease and debilitation, a line must be drawn.
When no treatment is available, one must say "enough" and try
to find peace. Perhaps mercy will one day be a part of medicine.
Death should not be shielded from the young, and borne solely
by the old; when death is faced, one can better learn to live.
Overcoming Disability and Death
The True Hero
Some may argue that the only true heroes confronting a terminal
and/or disabling disease are those who have overpowered that disease.
May I respectfully disagree?
Lauren fought valiantly to retain a best level of health and ability,
in spite of day after day, night after night, of chronic nausea,
sweating, and fatigue. To give courage to anyone facing chronic
disease, she fought to continue writing, even when physically
and mentally exhausted. She continued to write, even up to her
very last days of life. She was, and is, the true hero.
If you have faith in a higher power than either yourself or humanity
in general; and if you have overpowered your disease or disability
by faith, you are to be highly commended. If, by the grace of that
same power, you have given your best effort, and your disease
or disability either totally destroys your capacity, or demands
your life; you are also deserving of honor.
Even those who found healing through faith in a higher power
eventually met their earthly death; most likely by some disease
that they could not, in spite of their faith, overcome. And death
is a blessing, a relief from earthly suffering, not a horrid finality.
Faith in a higher power can afford courage in death,
and timeless eternity in love.
Lauren's brother,
Todd Isaacson
Monday, April 3, 2006
Revised November 29, 2006
Spanish Letter (from a pen-pal from New Zealand)
Hola!
Me llamo Dean
Soy de Nueva Zelanda
Tengo 29 anos
Hay cuatro en mi familia, Mis padres, mi hermana y yo. Mis padres
viven en Auckland, Nueva Zelanda. Mientras mi hermana vive
en Wigan, Inglaterra con Su familia.
Mi padre Uama Merv. Fune cincuerta y cuatro anos. Frabaja en La
policia. Habla Maori y Jngles. Juega rugby y tenis. Foca La
guitarra. Es muy simpatico, generoso, introvetido, sincero y
sentimental. No es cruel, terrible y impulsivo. Se gusta viajar con
mi madre.
Mi madre Uana Jan Fiene cincuerta anos. Habla Jngles, no habla Maori.
No trabaja tambier. Se gusta nadar y beber. Es muy simpatico,
generosa, servical, impulsivo y guapa. No es cruel, introvertido y
rebelde.
Mi hermana Uama Tracy. Tiene Viente y seis anos. Tiene un esposo y
dos ninos. La nina el mayor que la nino. Habla Italiano y ingles. No
habla Maori. Es guapa, simpatica, maravellosa, Trabajadora y
divertida. No es optimista, terrible, cruel, y aburrida.
Letter as corrected, with gratitude
to Esther Erbele, Waterloo, Iowa,
April 19, 2006.
Please note: Since the English alphabet lacks certain features
commonly used in Spanish, the following words are given below,
with explanation:
llamo - pronounced YAH-mo.
anos - requires a wavy line (tilde) over the n,
pronounced AHN-yos.
nina - requires a wavy line (tilde) over the second n,
pronounced NEEN-yah.
nino - requires a wavy line (tilde) over the second n,
pronounced NEEN-yo.
ninos - requires a wavy line (tilde) over the second n,
pronounced NEEN-yos.
Ingles - requires an accent mark over the es,
pronounced een-GLES.
simpatica - requires an accent mark over the at,
pronounced seem-PAT-ee-kah.
simpatico - requires an accent mark over the at,
pronounced seem-PAT-ee-ko.
Punctuation: In Spanish, the exclamation point (and the question mark)
appear at the end of the sentence, and "upside down" at the beginning
of the same sentence.
Hola!
Me llamo Dean
Soy de Nueva Zelanda
Tengo 29 anos
Hay cuatro en mi familia, Mis padres, mi hermana y yo. Mis padres
viven en Auckland, Nueva Zelanda. Mientras que mi hermana
vive en Wigan, Inglaterra, con su familia.
Mi padre se llama Merv, tiene cincuenta y cuatro (54) anos.
Trabaja en la policia. Habla Maori e Ingles. Juega rugby y tenis.
Toca la guitarra. Es muy simpatico, generoso, ocupado, sincero
y sentimental. No es cruel, terrible o impulsivo.
Le gusta viajar con mi madre.
Mi madre se llama Jan, tiene cincuenta (50) anos. Habla Ingles,
no habla Maori. No trabaja tambien. Le gusta nadar y beber.
Es muy simpatica, generosa, servicial, impulsivo y guapa.
No es cruel, introvertido o rebelde.
Mi hermana se llama Tracy, tiene viente y seis (26) anos. Tiene un
esposo y dos ninos. La nina es mayor, que el nino. Habla Italiano
e Ingles. No habla Maori. Es guapa, simpatica, maravillosa,
trabajadora y divertida. No es oportunista, terrible, cruel,
o aburrida.
Letter translated by Esther Erbele,
Waterloo, Iowa, April 19, 2006.
Hello!
My name is Dean
I'm from New Zealand
I'm 29 years old
There are four (4) in my family, my parents, my sister, and I.
My parents live in Aukland, New Zealand. Meanwhile, my sister
lives in Wigan (Manchester), England, with her family.
My father named Merv is fifty-four (54) years old. He works
in the police department. He speaks Maori and English.
He plays rugby and tennis. He plays the guitar. He is agreeable
generous, involved, sincere, and sentimental. He is not cruel,
terrible, or impulsive. He likes to travel with my mother.
My mother named Jan is fifty (50) years old. She speaks English,
does not speak Maori. She does not work also. (She is not employed
outside the home.) She likes to swim and drink (refreshments).
She is agreeable, generous, a helper, impulsive, and good looking.
She is not cruel, introverted, or rebellious.
My sister named Tracy is twenty-six (26) years old. She has
a husband and two (2) children. The girl is older than the boy.
(Tracy) speaks Italian and English. She doesn't speak Maori.
She is good looking, agreeable, marvelous, a good worker,
and enjoys herself. She is not opportunistic, terrible, cruel,
or boring.
(Lauren's trip to Mexico is presented on PAGE 160
Chapter 21 - Twelfth Grade.)
PAGE 1
Chapter 1
Early Years
"Having no definite values, one is nothing, insubstantial
and devoid of character."
CHAPTER ONE
Early Years
Long before I entered the world, my family indulged in activities which
germinated lasting memories in their minds, and though I do not
personally recall such events, their existence often touched my life in
some way. Had my ancestors lived differently over the course of time,
the most insignificant alteration could have impeded my very life.
Such is the delicate thread from which humanity is suspended and on
which we depend to obtain, and retain life.
The two individuals to whom I am inextricably bound, are, of course, my
parents. Through their childhood reflections, I have been able to meld
history into my being, for their past is part of me.
I always loved older people, especially those who had not allowed
themselves to become embittered by time and the changes it renders upon
all living and inanimate things. Too often, old age is maligned, as if
it is a communicable disease that, avoided or ignored, will never touch
more than that which it has already claimed. Reacting thus, an
individual gains nothing and loses the joy begotten of the remembrances
related through wrinkled smiles and twinkling eyes. Older people have
much to give; love, which like a fine wine, matures and is sweeter with
age; reflections of the past that, unheard, will be buried and
appreciated by no one; and the wisdom and tranquillity of character
that comes with the acceptance of death and the ability to live.
Many times I hear the complaint that an older person is "set in his
ways" and will yield to no fresh mode of thought. To me, this
indicates that the older individual has an established ethical and
moral code which evolved through a life-long struggle for inner peace.
Predictability, under these conditions, is earned; each of life's
problematic questions had been meticulously solved, carving daily the
beliefs which became the man. Having no definitive values, one is
nothing, insubstantial and devoid of character.
I cherish my father's childhood memories, and always listen with
fascination when he tells and retells past events. Through his speech,
I am able to grasp the bygone years and color the family portrait of
which I was never an active part.
My father's father died before I was born and his mother shortly
thereafter. John Emil and Hilda Isaacson; ancient names, they seemed
to me, yet Dad's memory brought life to their photographs and instilled
in me a wish that I could have known them as had my father. John Emil
was a character; and insatiable tease who provoked the more serious
Hilda: he made dandelion wine and tested it so frequently that it was
entirely consumed before attaining an alcohol consistency.
He ice-sailed on the Mississippi, showing little concern for the dangers
of air holes and thin ice while traveling at a high rate of speed.
He had learned to swim by being pushed off a river barge.
Dad never learned to swim, perhaps because he was never given as good
an opportunity as his father. This served as no impediment to fun,
however. He was always busy; if he did not have toys, he made them,
setting to work with a natural expertise for the mechanical realm.
From the Buddy L and other junk yards and garbage heaps, he and his
brother salvaged rejected parts and recycled them into usable toys. He
fashioned bicycles in the same manner; later, parts were gathered....a
scrapped frame, a model T motor from a neighbor, a coupe body from
another area....Bravo!...the finished product...a car! When the gas
in the tank was low, it was necessary to go backwards up the hill,
allowing gas to flow into the carburetor.
Dad told of dares waged between himself and a neighbor boy wherein each
boy jumped from one large tree to the branches of another tree; he
laughed about the crabapples which he blew sky-high using firecrackers
and a metal pipe. He recalled holidays, from the Christmas when his
father told the children, "There will be no toys this year because
you'll have a new baby brother," and his accompanying joylessness
toward that news. Joy returned, however, when he received a wind-up
train and the accompanying round track. He reminisced about the Easter
egg hunts where the hoard was heaped upon the table, and, under four
watchful sets of eyes, divided by size and color until the remaining
odd number of eggs were given to his mother. I heard of the one
valentine which he received in second grade that had been used and
reused countless times. I learned, also, of the severe case of
diphtheria, which at six, nearly claimed his life. He related actually
seeing fiery flames leaping from his bed sheets while struggling to
overcome his high fever.
About the time that my father had reached ten years of age, my mother
was born in Elgin, Illinois. I was privileged to interact with my
mother's parents whose heritage was somewhat different from that of my
father. My grandfather, Leslie Howard Anderson, was a descendant of
Mary Chilton, who crossed the ocean on the Mayflower with her parents
James and Susanna. She became the wife of John Winslow whose family
came from Dartwich, England. There follows such historical places as
Plymouth and Bridgewater, Massachusetts; the era of the steamboats and
Mary Chilton's name gracing one of the boats; the name "Howard" down
through the lineage to my uncle, Leslie Howard Anderson, Jr.; the
descendants move from Bridgewater to Detroit, Michigan and on to Dixon,
Illinois; the trek from Illinois in a covered wagon to lay claim to a
quarter of a section in Ole Brul County in South Dakota, and the
stories of homesteading in the little sod house whose walls were
papered with newspaper...all fascinating!
My Grandmother Anna's parents came from Germany to America before they
were ten years of age. In the 1800's the Kaiser was mobilizing his
forces. Immigration was popular during this period. Grandma tells of
fighting with her sister over who was to control (by hand) the dasher
for the wooden washing machine; of hitting a fellow schoolmate over the
head with her lunch pail because of his incessant teasing, of the
shoulder that was a little lower than the other, and how her brothers
would sit in church and keep moving their shoulders up and down to
remind her to hold that shoulder "up" while she led the group in
"Opening Exercises." Church school was an important part of her life
and she served as a Sunday School teacher well into her 70's.
It would be nothing short of a lie to say that I actually remember my
first years of life, having, as it was, little to do with life's crises
except assuring myself of thoughtless comfort. I indulged in the selfish
desires that typify the usual child, gleefully absorbed in play until
I discovered that I had soiled my diapers or was shot with a pang
of hunger.
Perhaps it would be accurate to say that my earliest memories were not
truly remembrances at all, but rather, images that were repeatedly
described to me until I finally adopted them for my own.
My earliest actual memories evolve around the age of four years. By
that time, I was capable of performing many duties for myself, and my
vocabulary was developing rapidly. I had the ability to form
conceptions of others, and thus relationships began to materialize.
I could now be considered an active family member, for I was no longer
solely dependent upon my parents, or my siblings, to be the mechanism
behind my existence.
I suppose that one might say I was spoiled to the extent that good
loving can spoil a child, although each member of my family agrees that
I was not spoiled in the obnoxious sense of the word. I was never a
nuisance, either to other children or to adults. I promptly did what
I was instructed to do; so obedient was I, in fact, that a strong word
or tone of voice had the ability to bring tears to my eyes. I caused
no trouble, nor did I want any trouble.
I recall an encounter with Great Uncle Gust in which I was bidden to
sit on his lap. Upon close observation, however, I was appalled to
discover that the elderly gentleman had only four fingers on one of his
large hands. I shied away from him. This was a rather traumatic sight
to deal with at that age, for I had only been exposed to the facets of
life which would be classified as "normal."
Despite my timidity toward sharp words and unusual events, I cannot say
this trait carried over into the physical world of scrapes and bruises.
I rarely cried for bodily injury, electing on most occasions to laugh
and exclaim about the stupidity of my lack of coordination. A case in
point, falling off of Mary's bicycle into her father's bed of roses.
I was willing to testify that rose bushes have plenty of thorns; however,
I felt no use for tears.
A very early and, at the time, quite unpleasant instance would have
to include an ill-fated picnic at a local park. After having eaten my
fill of grilled pork chops and corn on the cob, I gingerly led the way
down a well-worn trail. As I descended, I gradually gained momentum,
eventually finding myself duly out of control of my legs.
Consequently, I hurdled over a projecting tree root and landed in a
ditch of broken beer bottles. I rose in terror, admonishing a true
battle scar on my right hand.
Once at the hospital, a doctor was doing his best to aid my injury.
I considered myself to be in terrific pain, and when he began attempting
to clamp my wound, I felt that he was doing me no service. Outraged,
I bit the doctor squarely on the arm. Apparently he didn't relish my
lack of enthusiasm and quickly bit me back. I was a trifle shocked;
however, I accepted the unspoken truce with no further outbursts.
I was also given to occasional inexplicable fears, such as a fleeting
intolerance for what I considered "fast and dangerous vehicles,"
including sled rides and motoring about in our home-made go-cart,
dubbed "the chug." My mom would soon tire of my ridiculous reactions
to those things most children would consider fun, and override my
stubborn insecurity by making me ride. The other kids were right.
It was fun!
More than anything else, I liked to be at home. I loved to romp
through the woods or busy myself indoors. Aside from my neighborhood
friends, I seldom sought interaction with others of my age; spending
much of my time with adults or alone. I was content with my crafts,
swing-set and the like. This attribute may account, to a degree, for
my shyness and lack of enthusiasm for group activities. On the whole,
I found it very difficult to speak at gatherings unless a question was
deliberately pointed in my direction.
As do most children, I enjoyed Kindergarten, although I did not mingle
with others during free-time. I found the various activities to be
interesting and to my liking. I loved the many art projects, except
those in which we were forced to use messy paste pots. I detested
sticky fingers, and was shocked to discover that some children liked
paste to such a degree that they would eat it. I recall stringing
beads to create necklaces through the duration of many play-times;
the teacher would sometimes suggest that I play with the other children,
but that idea I strongly opposed. I would, on occasion, join the group
at her bidding, but shortly I would excuse myself to once again make
necklaces. I simply did not relish pandemonium.
Grade school proved to be neither a happy nor unhappy affair.
I considered it an integral part of growing up through which every child
must pass. I made acquaintances, for I could not truly label these
individuals as friends, so cruel and insensitive they often showed
themselves to be. Many would mock less fortunate children, reasoning
that their standing amongst their peers would undoubtedly be raised for
their unjust behavior. Only once did I resort to such base
inclinations for the supposed purpose of gaining popularity, and once
was enough for me. Coupled with the fact that I was nearly "caught" by
the subject of my ridicule, I despised myself for behaving in such
a lowly manner. From that day to the present I have kept my comments
hidden, or if I do speak aloud, I am prepared to stand behind my
statements. I speak only of my distaste for actions which I personally
regard as wrong or spurred through a lack of control; any further
comments are of no consequence unless the subject is able to change
those things about which he is being ridiculed.
Although I excelled academically in school, I was always content when
the time would come to be dismissed. I liked school only in the sense
that I enjoyed the result of successfully completing my assignments.
I felt a certain compulsion to produce perfection: I believed that if
I was to engage in an activity at all, I should do my best, or my time
thus engaged would be without worth.
This desire for perfection had a price, however, because certain
activities conflicted with my personality. Although physical education
was my ultimate terror, the only subject with which I grappled
considerably was mathematics. After the most elementary techniques of
addition, multiplication, and their counterparts were mastered, I found
myself to be floundering in a sea of the seemingly "unknowable." I had
extreme difficulty accepting the various theorems and equations without
asking the method behind their stated form. I was alarmed to deal with
absolutes, finding it hard to believe that any subject was so
unyielding and allowed no room for error, however slight.
In my inability to accept the laws of mathematics "wholesale," I soon
discovered that there were those teachers who disliked students who
failed to grasp their subject matter. Perhaps they felt that one who
did not understand was undoubtedly inattentive in class and was
therefore undeserving of any further assistance outside of class,
especially when the extra time was the teacher's own. In many
instances, I would seek the mathematically inclined intelligence of my
cousin, Gary, or attempt to work out my disaster through additional
reading and calculation, rather than face the malignant stare
of an insensitive instructor.
My other enemy throughout school was, as mentioned, physical education.
Although I was not uncoordinated, I was unfamiliar with many of the
sports, and my lack of social aggressiveness affected my performance in
a way which could only be described as unfavorable. I felt the class
to be senselessly competitive; so concerned were my schoolmates with
winning that to say we were involved in a "game" was totally
incomprehensible. Except for running, and a somewhat comical aptitude
for standing on my head, I dreaded the activities, and detested any
sport which dealt with balls. The teachers augmented a student's frail
self-image by allowing individuals to choose their own teams,
resulting, of course, in the less able participants being chosen last.
Once the game began, I felt besieged by paranoia; my blunders were met
by icy glances of derision, despite my desperate attempts to perform in
an admirable fashion. I soon learned that sports were not games, but
battles in which winning meant everything. Under such conditions,
I had absolutely no hope or desire to fight.
I have always found it quite interesting that children will attack one
another about many short-comings, but will say nothing of certain other
equally embarrassing occurrences. My observations include those bodily
accidents which could be avoided, such as dirtying one's pants or
vomiting in the classroom. One is always amply warned, but sheer
embarrassment often will not allow the child to mention his predicament
before the entire class is visually aware of it.
I once vomited in second grade, too afraid to raise my hand to ask
permission of the substitute teacher to be excused. I was always wary
of substitutes, and perhaps I also thought that my nausea would
eventually subside if I remained very still. It did not, and I spewed
gastric liquid all over my book and desk. I was allowed to go home,
pacified only by the fact that my "boyfriend" happened to be absent
that day. On my return to school I found that my anxiety was needless,
for no one mentioned my catastrophe of several days earlier. No one
ever ridiculed another person for those types of accidents. Perhaps
there exists an unspoken truce amongst children to avoid such
harassment because each child knows that it could have happened to him.
I fostered a slight fear toward substitute teachers throughout grade
school. They often tended to be rather insecure, a trait which I felt
they were justified in having. Substitute teachers paralleled chaos;
either the class would be utterly uncontrollable and would be allowed
to do as it pleased or the teacher would be unreasonably strict and
foreboding. More than the substitutes, I hated when the regular
teacher would return. Inevitably, he or she would verbally lash the
class, leaving my spirit crushed, albeit the fact that I deserved no
such punishment. Those who do not need chastisement, and for whom it
was not intended, are always the ones who take it to heart.
Throughout my earlier years, my main playmate was Mary, a girl who
lived several houses up the avenue. That her age bested mine by four
years did not seem to restrict our friendship in the least; I had a
habit of better enjoying the company of those older than myself,
and obviously this was no exception.
Much of our play involved the riding of our tricycles, which placed us
under the fire of the neighborhood boys, who were sporting bicycles at
considerably younger ages. We would ride our trikes despite the
ridicule, however, as they afforded a modest degree of mobility and
could also be manipulated to serve as reasonable scooters if one so
desired.
One of the boys whose tongue was particularly keen happened to acquire
a bicycle after a mere six years of life. He would fly past us,
wearing a smile of overt superiority, as we tramped our much slower
vehicles up the avenue. We bore his stately self-assurance as if it
were an inherent factor of childhood which would one day be
relinquished for a more affable character, as eventually, it was.
We looked on as he joyously raced through the neighborhood amid a cloud
of arrogance; he circled, and returned, then lifted the front wheel off
the pavement a trifle too far, causing an irreversible conjunction with
the unyielding cement. His back found the street as his bike crashed
to its side nearby. I believe the entire neighborhood must have heard
his pride dissipating into the humid summer breeze; after that
decidedly rough lesson, he no longer jeered at our mode of
transportation.
Mary and I rarely played with dolls, although we were both fortunate to
have them. Playing with dolls, for us, consisted more of dressing our
"Barbies" in their various costumes, and perhaps, dreaming that we
would one day appear as shapely and attractive as they, rather than
actually involving ourselves with dialogue.
We would often gather together an assorted array of trinkets and
gumball machine prizes for the purpose of trading those we no longer
treasured. Although I admired the appearance of certain "stars," my
devotion was more pretense than real: I could not love an individual
simply through reading a handful of trivia gathered by prying, assuming
publications. The inclusion of an idol in one's imaginings could
result in nothing short of disappointment, and is therefore a cruel
waste of time. Thankfully, I was free of any form of infatuation for
those in the midst of stardom by the time I reached junior high school.
Mary and I shared many entertaining hours, but the most memorable
occasions were those of our overnight slumber parties. I loved going
to her house, as her parents maintained a different store of food than
did my own. We would often eat "Wonder Bread" spread with butter,
accompanied quite nicely, we thought, with a bottle of Pepsi. (My mom
always bought the kind of bread that would not stick to the roof of
one's mouth, but, as she put it, "would stick to your ribs!" Health
bread was not my idea of a good snack.) As we munched on our favored
snack, our mothers would wince, believing that our combination was food
fit for convicts. We were undauntedly convinced to think otherwise.
Occasionally, we tossed a frozen pizza into the oven to complete our
late night feast.
During these affairs we would occupy our time in idle conversation,
watch television, or involve ourselves in a singular form of diversion,
paging through the telephone books in search of the city's strangest
names.
When the party was held at my house, the usual schedule was not
complete without my father grabbing our legs and dragging us from the
couch and across the carpet. Rarely could we walk our arms fast enough
to avoid a slight case of "rug burn."
Instead of bread and pizza we had popcorn and homemade cookies. As my
mother was never an advocate of carbonated beverages, soda pop was
seldom seen in our refrigerator. (To this day, she will bristle at the
mention of "cola.") If we did have pop, it was the less-revered Lady
Lee or Jewel brand.
Mary and I got along quite well, as neither of us possessed any fiery
attributes. We were both mild mannered and soft-spoken; to my great
relief, she shared my lack of enthusiasm for sports.
I was always amazed at her capacity for food; she ate heartily, yet
remained a mere wisp of a shadow. Another of her characteristics which
I deemed truly awesome was her ability to sleep undisturbed while her
mother vacuumed around her bed.
It is difficult to venture those attributes which Mary may have
associated with the essence of my character; maybe it was my joke,
instead of tears, after an injury, or the humor which would evoke her
smile and easy laughter. At any rate, I could have had no finer friend
throughout the initial stages of my life, and although we now are far
apart, and living in our separate worlds, those memories of our
companionship shall persist for all time.
Steve, my other neighborhood buddy, lived next door. We were much
closer in age than Mary and I, with our birthdays being only six months
apart. I spent quite a bit of time with him, though more so during the
summer months; we were in separate grades in school and that seemed to
make a slight difference in our friends. In grade school, more than
any other higher school of education one is more aware of age, somehow
relating that directly to one's social status; in effect, a person of
a higher grade should not be caught dead conversing with his younger
neighborhood friends, at least not at school.
Once apart from our peers, we were the greatest of friends. We often
sought out windfalls in the woods, which made terrific "camps," or
simply hiked along the creek bed. Names were bestowed upon various
landmarks according to their appearance; one drop-off was christened
"dead man's bluff" while a small grove of wild chives was called "the
onion field." There was a seemingly endless amount of diversion in the
woods and we used it to our best advantage.
It was Steve I chose to accompany me on family excursions to parks and
wildlife refuges; he was more game to tromp through the woods than were
many of my companions.
One of the attributes which gave Steve rare character was his flawless
honesty with respect to one's appearance or annoying habits. He would
as quickly inform a person of a rip in his garment as he would another
who was oblivious of the mucous running from his nose. If there was
something amiss that by most standards should be set aright, he would
see that it was done. Through Steve's keen insight and equally sharp
ability to verbalize these faults, I was made aware of the fact that I
walked "pigeon-toed" and soon corrected the matter through close
observation. Personally, I feel grateful to Steve. There is no crime
in voicing that which, with time or practice, can be overcome.
Some people who are quick to express the faults of others also lack
all tact and sensitivity. This was not so with Steve. In his
perceptiveness, he unquestionably found room for a great amount of
personal concern and interest. Perhaps the most touching instance in
which I witnessed this demonstration of care was when I was yet quite
young. We were playing outside on the Tarzan swing in my backyard,
when, without warning, a loud clap of thunder issued forth from the
gray sky. So completely taken by surprise was I that I began to cry.
It would have been so easy for him to mock my fright, but instead he
jumped up and headed for his house, yelling, "Wait here!" Several
minutes passed before he returned carrying a banana. He presented it
to me, saying, "This will cheer you up!" He was not aware that I truly
disliked bananas, but I was so touched by his show of affection that I
humbly ate the fruit and thanked him for his kindness. That little
episode of human kindness shall forever remain dear to me. It also
altered somewhat my view of bananas.
Summer vacation brought almost unbelievable happiness, a magnetic
appeal akin to freedom, for I was generally allowed to spend time as I
wished. I seldom encountered schoolmates, and if there was a
rendezvous, it was never brought about by my doing. It was far more
convenient to call upon my two neighborhood friends, or to simply amuse
myself.
Summer was not complete bliss, however, for yearly it brought a dreaded
horror to life...camp! My first encounter following Kindergarten...Day
Camp. I was terrified upon discovering that I was to exist amid a mob
of virtual barbarians for the better part of each weekday. This lasted
for but two weeks, yet it seemed an eternity. Each morning I boarded a
school bus brimming with children to then endure a jostling, thirty
minute ride to the location of the camp itself. Once there, we were to
join our assigned group and the daily activities would commence. There
were art projects, games, competition, hikes and swimming lessons.
Many activities would have been quite pleasing had I been in the
company of friends. However, shyness had no place at camp, and I felt
constantly ill at ease.
An additional undesirable factor possessed the name "Betsy." In
effect, Betsy was the group bully, resembling, ironically, the
"Peanuts" character "Lucy" in both form and personality. On one of her
particularly shining moments, she told me and another equally shy girl
that she would make us sleep overnight in the boys' tent on the last
night. Needless to say, we were scared silly although the threat could
never have materialized.
Another camp, owned and operated by the Girl Scouts, was also a source
of much summertime duress, although I recall very little about this
camp other than the fact that the homeward-bound bus was a welcome
sight.
The final camp to which I was sent for a week's time during two
consecutive summers, was a King's Daughters Camp. I never relished the
idea of rooming with people I did not know, yet here I was obliged to
do so. Again, the camp was regimented into various activity schedules
to which each camper was to adhere.
I was friendly, but not outgoing and confident, and as time crept by at
a snail's pace, I became more and more hounded by loneliness. I wrote
my family many postcards lamenting my undesirable situation, but time
thus spent only seemed to make the problem worse.
PAGE 11
Chapter 2
My Brothers
CHAPTER TWO
My Brothers
My brothers were both considered "good Kids" by societal standards,
being law-abiding, and generally speaking, parent-abiding as well.
However, blood relationships do not guarantee a likeness of character
or form, and so it was with Norm and Todd. They looked nothing alike,
facially or otherwise. Norm was muscular, with unstoppable health,
while Todd was taller, thin, and prone to allergies. Apart from such
obvious dissimilarities their personalities and interests also differed
greatly. Such differences rarely evoked conflict, though, because they
were on wholly separate planes. Norm and Todd were not incompatible in
an obnoxious sense; they merely followed their own dreams. A
coincidence of their respected circles of interest occurred mainly
through their great love--and respect--for nature; thanks to Dad. They
also shared a consuming interest in the chug and maintenance of the
woodland trails and bridges on which they would ride. Basically,
though, Norm and Todd were as different as apples and oranges. My
memories of and love for each of my brothers varied greatly from the
other, and changed with the passage of time, for I, as well as they,
underwent transitional phases. Thus, as characters were modified and
outlooks were altered, relationships, also, transformed through the
years.
My fondest memories of Todd, who bested Norm by roughly three years,
were those of our early interactions. Todd had a wonderful ability to
entertain children. He seemed to sense the exact type of gesture and
manner of conversation which enthralled a young audience, and as a
result, was rarely able to rest once a child noticed this value. He
possessed an unbelievable attention span and tolerance for a child's
endless and often irrational demands.
I found Todd to be an inexhaustible source of amusement, as he was
quite adept at conjuring up names and personalities for my motley array
of stuffed animals. He would then provide an endless flow of
nonsensical banter for the animal of my choosing, which delighted and
held captive my attention for countless hours on end.
I had two favorites, the first of which was an alligator; Todd would
shake the green amphibious creature, emit a gravel-throated roar, and
proceed to chase me about the house until I could no longer escape and
irreversibly served as the alligator's dinner.
The second was a beloved bear whose eyes were so asymmetrically adhered
to its face that it appeared to be immersed in a drunken stupor. Todd
christened the bear "Coors Bear" in reference to the beer of the same
name, and projected its character as that of a bum in desperate need of
another drink. He would make the bear twitch and shake with obvious
delirium moaning simultaneously, "Whe'm I?....Whe'm I?" This would
continue unless the bear was administered an ample swig of Coors beer
from a small bottle; the bear was then content to laze back into a
dream-like sleep.
Both of my brothers teased me. It was the inevitable result of being
the youngest member of the family and, of course, the least educated
and self-sufficient of the entire group. They were not ruthless in
their teasing; they never insulted my intelligence, only my ignorance,
which was not as serious since ignorance could be reversed in due time.
I felt transparent; they seemed to know what would bother me, from my
petty insecurities to faulty rationalization.
I well remember the family excursions, in which I generally sat in the
back seat between Norm and Todd. Like clock work, they would serenade
to me in unison, "Souvenir, bathroom, bottle-of-pop" while we drove
past the flat and blistering hot corn fields toward our destination,
claiming that these were my three favorite aspects of the summer
vacation; I would seethe and boil, but could do nothing, as I fully
realized that they were probably right.
They would also grab Coors Bear, and, holding him at an arm's length
out of the window while traveling 70 miles per hour, threaten to throw
him into the fields. I panicked at the possibility, my eyes fixed on
the battered bear as the wind fiercely buffeted its floppy arms and
legs. The bear was always hoisted back into the car after an ample
display of hostility from me and never suffered the cruel injustice.
(Coors bear was eventually disposed of in the garbage can, a more
humiliating, but less violent, retirement.)
Norm especially loved to tease and mock my childish idiosyncrasies; he
derived immense satisfaction from quizzing me, and because he used
words which were far beyond my capacity to understand, smiled
uncontrollably at my frustration. He always called me "illiterate,"
and while I had no conception of the word's meaning, I knew it was
something which I did not want to have as a permanent attribute.
Norm also enjoyed pelting me with the arsenal of pillows which the
basement couch housed. As he fired away, making direct hits with each
pillow I would gather the pillows and try, in vain, to throw one in his
general vicinity. I rarely made contact with his body, let alone his
head, as I hurled pillow after pillow at my assailant, only to be
blasted again in rapid succession after he picked up my futile
scattering of pillows from the floor and behind the couch. Finally, I
would intentionally spill all of the pillows on the floor in front of
me in overt exasperation and yell "The end!" I wanted no further
conflict. After several such instances, he decided to mock my ultimate
reaction to bombardments and he himself threw all of the pillows on the
floor with an accompanying, "The end!" He then looked at me with one
raised eyebrow until he received his reward; a screech of anger.
Other conflicts which evolved in the basement's TV room concerned
the programs themselves. At 3:30 "Lassie" and "Star Trek" were aired,
creating a daily duel between Norm and me. Mom settled the argument,
declaring that every other day we would be able to see our preferred
show. The system worked well, except for the fact that, on the days in
which "Lassie" appeared, Norm would raise his hand in Lassie's dog-like
gesture and emit a mewing howl similar to the one which characterized
the dog. Liking the show, but rather embarrassed by that fact due
to the show's incredibly rosy view of life, the mimicry bothered me.
Luckily my taste changed and I soon truly preferred "Star Trek" because
of it's science fiction appeal, and thereby eliminated one tender spot
through a transformation on my behalf.
Through my early years of life, my memories of Norm surrounded not so
much the things we did together, but the way in which I saw his
character. Norm seldom actually played with me; that was more Todd's
arena. Except when he teased me, I was not conscious of being a child
in Norm's company. I felt on equal terms with him more than I did with
many other people who constantly maintained a distinction between my
age and their own if only through a somewhat laughable change of pitch
in their voice or a determinedly more animated style of speaking.
I always had a great love for Norm. He was easy-going and unobtrusive,
and his presence was never unwelcome. He avoided unpleasant situations
whenever possible and lacked aggression in areas where, for the
generally accepted definition of success, that sometimes obnoxious
trait was necessary. He rarely sought attention and money was
of little consequence.
Norm valued simplicity and serenity; high-scale achievement was not
among his priorities. He saw that "success" was a race which never
ended, for another conquerable realm always presented itself. The race
was everywhere; whether it was the attainment of placing oneself on the
honor roll in school, or gaining promotions at work, or prestige and
popularity in social circles. People allowed headaches to germinate in
their minds simply because the thought of tasting success dominated
their values. Why was "good" never "good enough?"
Norm was a virtual dynamo with regard to accomplishing a task. It had
to go fast or Norm's patience would dissipate into the air. Whether it
was a chore around the house or a dose of homework, he persevered until
his work was finished and then retired to the front steps to sit.
A job's completion did not always signify a flawless result, however.
For instance, compared to Todd's smooth, taut version, Norm's bed was a
haven for lumps, with the pillow stashed hurriedly beneath the twisted
and rumpled spread. In school, Norm was a solid B student. He did not
strive for his grades because perfection, to him, held no rewards.
Norm did his work rapidly and fostered no hideous nightmares about
tests. A slightly above average mark did not obliterate his happiness.
When under the employ of a firm, Norm was trustworthy and
conscientious. Whether delivering newspapers or landscaping a yard,
he made certain that the job was done well, from his punctual arrival
through the day's end. Doing an honest day's work was less complicated
than expending energy to connive a way out of it; he knew that he
earned his pay and never had to look over his shoulder in apprehension
when the boss strode by.
Norm did not worry about being good enough. He was confident and proud
of who he was and what he wanted in life. Average grades or average
jobs did not signify average intelligence and he felt no need
to apologize for his position in terms of societal importance.
It was a refreshing outlook which suited him perfectly.
Norm was very athletic; one could tell by the way he walked. Sports
were a source of entertainment, and he succeeded in almost everything
he tried. Only two aspects of his personality stood in the way of his
being selected as "team material" for many sports. First, he felt that
a game was a game; although he did his best, he could not take a game
as seriously as did many of the others who became enraged by losing.
He wanted it to be fun, and competition was fun only as long as the
game remained free of hostilities. Secondly, he disliked sports
demanding body contact; he was conscious of his own space and avoided
being touched. Norm despised wrestling, but since it was required in
physical education, he handled his distaste by promptly pinning his
partner and thereby ending the match. Taking notice of his ability,
the teacher eagerly teamed him up with the heaviest, sweatiest guys
in the class. Sickened by their stench and glassy-eyed fervor, Norm
determined to purposely shorten the match; he allowed himself
to be pinned.
The sport which fit Norm's ideal was baseball and he served as pitcher
for various teams. I recall hazy images of his ball games, especially
those during which Mom and I crouched on the bleachers beneath
a newspaper to ward off the rain, while she proudly feasted her eyes on
the pitcher's mound with an inaudible, "that's MY boy" inscribed on her
face. Dad's employment kept him from attending some of the games,
but Mom always went, a fan until Norm lost his attraction for the game.
Mom savors the memory of Norm being chosen to pitch yearly
for the All-Star games.
Todd never went to Norm's games. He didn't have much interest in
sports. It's difficult to know whether or not being good at something
makes you like it. I happen to know that liking something does not
make you good at it, for I love to bowl, but once bowled a
16--amazing by anyone's standards. (I was in high school at the
time.) At any rate, Todd preferred to forego physical activity
of the competitive nature, electing instead to pursue his penchant
for gadgetry, electronics and in general, anything that would spin
or balance. When drying the dishes he was not content to simply lay
a lid on the table; he first had to give it a hearty whirl on its rim,
whereupon the kitchen would ring with a wavering "wong, wong, wong"
until the swiftly fluttering lid collapsed onto the table with a final,
resolute, "wop." Mom forbid such treatment of glassware and china, of
course, or undoubtedly many items would have sustained irreversible
damage.
In effect, Todd was the mad scientist of the family, having to take
mechanical objects apart to view and study their internal workings,
and obtaining chemicals for his experiments which ate holes through his
bedspread. He had infinite patience and stuck to an idea until it
worked, even if it took all night. Todd was a licensed ham radio
operator and collected all the necessary equipment to seek and find
countless stations as well as other operators. Much of his spare time
was spent behind the "rig," although he found equal enjoyment in
playing with or annoying the huge spiders in our garage. It was Todd
who tried to power his bicycle with an electric motor, and gathered
scum and algae from the ponds to gaze upon through his microscope.
He was also the only person in the family who could start a particularly
cantankerous lawn mower.
Todd loved the extraordinary and took time to notice the small things.
One night, he took a walk down in the woods and found some fungi which
glowed in a luminous shade of green. He returned to the house to
report the strange phenomenon and together we threaded our way back
down the dark trail to the uncanny sight. Sure enough, delicate points
of light embellished the damp, rotting logs on the woodland floor,
transforming decay into a hauntingly magical scene.
With all of his patience in creative and mechanical fields of interest,
one might have thought Todd was unruffled and carefree. Despite his
slow and deliberate reasoning, however, his demeanor could rapidly
transform into reckless belligerence if tormented. While Norm hurried
through his homework to pursue more pleasing objectives, Todd sat
behind his books in angry defiance, as if the homework which he
declared "unreasonable busy work" would somehow shrink before his
abomination. As the night peeled away, he wasted in vengeance hours
which might have been spent behind his radio. Though he was an
achiever, he wanted to go about it in his own way.
Graduating from high school in the 60's greatly affected Todd's outlook
and he adopted the prevalent anti-establishmentarianism attitudes with
intense vigor. He also embraced the ecology movement as a worthy cause
and between the two modes of thought, plus the fact that he had
attained the classic age of rebellion, nurtured a rigid hatred of cars
which, eventually, blossomed into anything but a delicate flower.
Fuming internally about the inherent necessity for cars, despite their
polluting effects on our society, Todd would actually vent his disgust
upon the automobiles themselves (which produced simultaneous
protectiveness and anger from Dad, who was uncertain of the safety of
his car in Todd's hands). Ironically Norm bought a car which Todd
sometimes used that was incredibly pollutive, yet Todd would angrily
flop into the car and rumble out of the driveway, its muffler belching
a toxic cloud of gray carbon into the air that followed him
up the street as he drove to his ecology meetings.
Sometimes I felt as if Todd was like a spring aching to be sprung.
In driving, it was obvious that Todd released frustrations behind
the wheel. This trait, however, was not directly related to his
anti-establishment/pro-ecology stance; other pressures, whether
conscious or unconscious, were to blame for that. Moreover, Mom
recalls that as a youngster Todd would ride his tricycle precariously
down the hill behind our house, balancing on two wheels and cackling
with enjoyment throughout the wild trip. Despite his history, one
generally persisted to assume that Norm, sports-oriented and having
little patience for the fine-honed arts, would have been the terror in
the driver's seat. The fact was, however, that Todd was the reckless
one, using cars in a hard, decisive way which demanded their utmost
performance. I might add that his safety depended on such performance,
for if brakes failed, or mechanical workings malfunctioned, results
could have been disastrous. The rampaging tornado, however, was never
involved in "the big crash" and continues to parallel park vehicles
with one, exacting maneuver (a feat which, in my eyes, demonstrates
brilliant skill). Perhaps I worried too much. Perhaps I still do.
PAGE 16
Chapter 3
Todd's Illness
"Pain or no pain, I did not wish to go through life with my eyes closed
to hardship, for only pure ignorance was bliss."
CHAPTER THREE
Todd's Illness
An individual often lives many years before his memories include any
aspects of life other than those which have directly affected his own.
My awareness of others improved remarkably in grade school, although it
had not reached an acceptable level. I remembered the hurts and
injustices of those around me, yet the memories of my pain still
over-shadowed and dominated those which I viewed in other lives.
Within the home, I knew very little of the harshness of life. No
serious injury had befallen me either physically or emotionally and I
had every reason to be happy. It seemed that a protective shell
surrounded my world, through which no discontentment could pierce.
I missed Todd when he left home to attend the university; phone calls
bridged the miles to a certain extent, but within these I sensed a
melancholic note which bespoke loneliness and homesickness and
involuntary tears would cascade down my cheeks as I hung up the phone.
Letters, however, had a way of concealing emotion better than
conversation, and the proclamation "I'm fine" was easier to believe in
the written form. It was obvious to me that Todd's cheerful remarks
were sometimes the work of mechanical, socially expected responses, but
I had no idea that they had eventually grown into outright lies with
regard to his health.
A visit to the university clinic provided sufficient evidence to
support the fact that Todd was a very ill student and he was told to
return home for more adequate testing in a hospital situation. Relying
on valium to ease and relax his malfunctioning system, he took a bus
from the university, insisting to Mom and Dad that he would be all
right. During the several hours which spanned his two bus connections,
he stretched out in a vacant lot to rest, as the terminal itself
frowned on "loiterers" and therefore had no benches of adequate
proportions for Todd's needs. When Mom was told the above incident,
she immediately envisioned tall grass, dandelion heads and broken
whiskey bottles, which might not have been far from the mark, and
exclaimed "But you could've been arrested...or...mugged!" Todd,
indeed, had true grit.
After approximately three weeks in the hospital, Todd's health
returned. A hypothesis was drawn in which nephritis, a kidney ailment,
and rheumatic fever were determined as the culprits behind his problem,
and drugs were administered which appeared to relieve his symptoms.
During this time, Mom was taking final exams and Norm was graduating
from high school, which altogether spelled chaos for the family. At
eight, however, I did not gather the magnitude of worry which encircled
Todd since I was rather unexposed to his sickness. I was too young to
visit him at the hospital and life, for me, went on fairly well.
That winter the doctor decided to take Todd off the steroid. If his
kidney could function normally, it would be better to avoid extensive
use of the drug. Once he returned to school, it soon became evident
that his health, again, was on the decline. My parents picked him up
at the university, and he came home so weak that he rested on the main
floor instead of in his usual upstairs room. The doctor was alerted
concerning his condition, but a decision was made for Todd to remain at
home through the weekend. However, Todd's state grew increasingly
worse, and the doctor was phoned in desperation whereupon he
immediately made plans for Todd to journey to the Mayo Clinic in
Minnesota. The drive lasted an exhausting eight hours, but it saved
Todd's life.
In a matter of several hours, the test results had been analyzed and a
name was given to Todd's symptoms which could widen the most apathetic
eyes: Wegener's Granulomatosis. Simply stated, Todd's disease was one
in which his own immune system radically over-reacted and actually
became allergic to, and would have killed, himself. Due to acute
kidney failure, his body had neared its saturation point regarding its
tolerance of impurities, beyond which no endurance could have impeded
death. If not for prednisone and Imuran his survival would have been
impossible.
As near as he came to death, I remembered nothing of his stay at the
public hospital or the weekend during which his life slowly dwindled
before our eyes. Perhaps it was a lack of awareness on my part
combined with a degree of exclusion, due to my young age, from the
facts and seriousness of the affair that I suffered from such a dearth
of recollection; at any rate, my consciousness was jarred into reality
only after Todd had reached Mayo Clinic and a noon-hour phone call from
Dad to my mom caused me to comprehend the grave plight in which my
brother was stranded. As Mom hung up the phone, I gasped, "Todd's not
going to die, is he?" This, finally, was reality; among the dish of
peaches, carton of milk and loaf of bread that decorated the kitchen
table, it stuck in my throat like peanut butter.
I never forgot that lunch, nor the ignorant bliss which departed when
reality caught up with me. A selfish person suffers insignificant
wounds, for his shallow love is generated only toward himself; however,
when one is able to extend his love and concern beyond himself, the
pain is much deeper. I learned that the world did not revolve around
me; I controlled nothing. Just as I had been virtually oblivious to my
brother's failing health, so was the world oblivious to me. Life
became larger than it had been as my eyes gradually opened, widening
the scope through which I gained my image of existence. Pain or no
pain, I did not wish to go through life with my eyes closed to
hardship, for only pure ignorance was bliss. It seemed that change was
the only certainty in life. If I could instill that thought in my
mind, growing up would prove to be less of a battle.
Todd recovered slowly and after regaining his strength returned to the
university at the beginning of the next semester. Complications caused
by ill health no longer wreaked havoc upon his plans, and under the
protective wing of medication he successfully completed his education
without further set-backs.
The following summer, Todd traveled to Mayo Clinic once again for
restorative surgery on his nose. His illness caused the cartilage
to dissolve completely, making a noticeable recess. The surgery
was the last of the weightier consequences of Todd's disease though,
it too, possessed few endearing qualities.
Todd would never be free of the drugs, for they alone allowed him
to survive. It did not appear that my brother's life would ever again
be "normal," but that, I later found, depended on one's definition
of the word.
PAGE 19
Chapter 4
Fifth Grade
"To maintain a friendship, one must have unrelenting endurance, yet
should never need the companionship of another so desperately as to
justify the acceptance of a flagrantly inconsistent personality."
CHAPTER FOUR
Fifth Grade
During the latter half of fifth grade, I decided to keep a diary.
Entries were, at best, sparse and infrequent throughout the school
year. Upon the arrival of summer, they subsided altogether. While the
entries persisted, however, the content consisted merely of the days
events, amassed in broken sentences and one word implications. I also
made certain that major events did not pass without notice.
Jan. 19, 1973... Gerbil's tail fell off today. He was going out on the
carpet and so I grabbed onto his tail. Guess what? This much (one
inch) of his tail fell off. It's in a bag.
Yes, I even saved the tail.
Jan. 20, 1973... Made a bet with Dad about snow. Church, Rainy, wet
day outside. Popcorn at night. 2 bottles of pop. Got the hiccups.
Played with gerbil.
I was painfully concise.
Mar. 13, 1973... I stayed home and am sick. I barfed in the sink and
then watched T.V.
My diary also reminded me of the double standard that exists between
parents and their children. Many battles ensue due to the fact that
parents can do that which a child is not permitted to do; initially,
this would include such privileges as touching objects in stores and
staying up after 10:00 p.m. Arguments increase as the child seeks
maturity. My exposure to the double standard involved not so much the
things I could not do, but rather, the things which Mom had never done,
yet forced me to do. Admittedly, I would never have ventured from the
house had it not been for Mom's insistent prodding, for I liked it
there. Through her dictation, I attended swimming lessons, piano
lessons, and Girl Scouts. By this age, I liked swimming a great deal,
and it was no longer a source of resentment. Piano lessons required
that I practice a half-hour each day; after walking stiff-legged to the
piano and playing several notes, I relaxed my limbs and, on good days,
tried to conceal my musical enjoyment from Mom. Girl Scouts, however,
was a continual menace. Through my affiliation with the organization,
I had to wear an ill-fitting green dress to school on the day of the
meeting. Each year I bore the humiliation of refusal which came with
selling Girl Scout cookies. On one of our field trips to a local
beauty school, I was placed under the hair drier (which was on "high")
and promptly forgotten.
It was no surprise, then, that when the Girl Scouts offered roller
skating lessons, Mom applauded the idea. I cringed, knowing that a
protest would have been futile despite her history of roller-rink
nervousness. (Her arms hurt from thrashing.) At any rate, the lessons
began and I learned that I was not meant to travel on wheels. It was
completely different from ice skating. Being confined to the rink
created the probability of multiple pile-ups. Already feeling
hopelessly out of control, I was horrified at the thought of turning by
lifting one skate over the other; skating was hard enough with both
skates planted on the floor. Stopping consisted of rolling around in
circles until I lost momentum, or slammed into a wall. Performing
figure eights and skating backward were feats which bordered suicidal
nightmares.
After the lessons ceased, I was quite relieved and, for the most part,
as much an amateur at roller skating as I had been at the beginning.
However, I had relinquished the wall for the rubber "brakes" and no
longer became traumatized when the announcement to "change directions"
resounded through the skating rink. I had not failed utterly and
completely.
Popularity is, indeed, a curiosity. I noted that the means toward
popularity changed in various age groups and social situations. For
instance, during the initial years of grade school, one could attain a
certain degree of popularity through excelling academically. Since I
was naturally an achiever, I received a fair amount of friendly
attention through these years. With my fellow achievers I competed for
the high score which would bring exaltation and admiration from one's
peers and teachers, and had little difficulty holding my position as
undefinably determined by the class.
As years passed, the more outgoing personalities reached the pillar of
esteem and without trauma, I settled back into a station more agreeable
with my character. If I was not asked to a party or special event, I
felt undeniably relieved; I then would not be obliged to listen to the
inevitable cutting gossip which always seemed to accompany closed
parties and the like. In a sense, I could have been described as
"everybody's friend and mediator," as I never chose to involve myself
on any particular side of a dispute, especially when the two sides
seemed equally at fault. When two friends were not on speaking terms
they would both speak to me; I took care to avoid asserting my views,
electing instead to mechanically nod my head in silence.
Aside from Mary and a handful of others, I believe that I enjoyed the
company of boys over girls, possibly because their personality was more
consistent. In most cases, a friend on Monday would still be a friend
on Tuesday. Moreover, boys liked tromping through the woods and were
usually not squeamish; I had little tolerance for those who panicked at
the sight of an insect. (I feared only spiders, for they had a nasty
habit of biting me at night while sleeping.) I enjoyed their coarser
sense of humor (after all, gas is funny)! I also had a high regard for
bravery in the face of bodily injury; chronic whiners and screamers won
no points with me.
Although the rowdiness of certain boys initially caused a degree of
alarm, I was soon able to relax and enjoy the companionship afforded
by their more self-assured personalities. The boys which I encountered
seemed more eager to accept people, whereas girls were prone toward
competition with their own sex and, consequently, more apt to foster
petty jealousies and complaints. Moreover, because of their inability
to inflict any serious injury other than the emotional type, many girls
gained mastery over painfully judgmental tongues and appeared to relish
the mental pandemonium to which one was subjected upon the most trivial
misunderstanding.
To maintain a friendship, one must have unrelenting endurance, yet
should never need the companionship of another so desperately as to
justify the acceptance of a flagrantly inconsistent personality. If
one is unwilling to firmly entrench his feelings toward another, the
resulting friendship is grossly mismatched.
I quickly grew weary of "friends" who would, for no better reason than
the excitement begotten of such behavior, decide to ostracize one
member of the "group" for an undetermined length of time, during which
the hapless individual would endure a prickly barrier of silence,
piqued by icy stares and inaudible gossip. Some of the victims would
beg or cry to be forgiven for the guiltless crime that evoked the
group's sudden disfavor. Generally, I was completely baffled and
rather amused when the disfavor fell upon me, and, knowing that nothing
would hasten my reacceptance into the group, would calmly go about my
business until they decided that I once again merited good treatment.
One of the most revolting instances that I remember pertaining to the
above dissertation was eating at a "friend's" house for lunch. Because
my mom was working, she thought it would be more to my liking if I
would spend lunch hour at the house of a friend or neighbor. A fee was
established for this service, yet I was rallied around the area,
eventually finding myself at the house of a schoolmate. She usually
was one of my school chums, so I rather looked forward to our sharing
this additional time together; how wrong my assumptions proved to be!
Soon after I began eating lunch at her house, she somehow decided to
hold me in ill regard. She refused to speak to me at the table, and
gained the further assistance of her older brother to make my stay
twice as uncomfortable. The only conversation I was able to gather was
that of her amiable mother, and I was only too glad to know that she
understood the hatefulness of my situation. Although I ignored their
stupidity as best I could, lunch was not a thing which I looked forward
to under those conditions and I once again changed my noontime regimen
so as to facilitate a better appetite. No longer having to share her
mother on a daily basis, she soon restored her "friendship."
If one can ignore such treatment, the wrath is more rapidly abandoned.
Affairs such as these reflect badly on their initiators; it is sad that
pointless wars must be waged to win friendship, but perhaps these are
an intrinsic facet of early relationships for certain individuals.
Personally, if I have to alienate a friend to insure that he would be
loyal to me, I would rather bury my head in the sand.
Grade school was the place wherein I experienced my first taste of
romance. My initial spark was in second grade; although the boy and I
were so shy that we were not on speaking terms, the flame kindled for
many months, during which time we would smile at each other sheepishly
and flush with embarrassment when, in gym class, we were square dance
partners and momentarily held hands. Our romance was sporadic through
the years, but its peak was reached in fifth grade. By that time, we
actually conversed and spent time in each other's company, which
greatly aided our relationship. Soon it became apparent to both of us
that our interest had progressed beyond the platonic level.
Jan. 10, 1973... Went to school. Made lunch for myself. Went skating
with B. Had a lot of fun skating. Played "go fetch" with ice.
Feb. 15, 1973... After Valentine's Day...B. gave me a really funny
valentine (A drawing of a heart).
Mar. 14, 1973... B. brought me a 5-pack (of) bubble gum from T.D. who
is leaving school and going to Tenn. I'm still sick.
Mar. 30, 1973... After supper I went outside and played a kick-ball game
with S. and B. B gave me a real pretty rock (quartz). Then B. and I
played a game and we talked a little until 7:30. (I like B.)
April 10, 1973... School...I had practice for the style show. B. came
and watched me!
The climax of our romantic fling was during a field trip to the local
arsenal. Our class boarded a school bus, and side by side, B. and I rode
to the site of the old artilleries, very much aware of the other and
bashfully enamored. We were also somewhat nervous for it had been
rumored that B. was going to give me a ring.
Upon our arrival at the Arsenal, we all piled out onto the neatly
clipped government lawns and prepared for our tour. The afternoon
progressed rapidly, and B. and I were continually surrounded by a mass
of fellow classmates throughout our surveyance of guns, cannons, and
assorted weapons. I saw no ring, and felt somewhat relieved, being a
private person who disliked drawing attention to myself, especially
when that attention included my boyfriend.
As the tour drew to a close, we were shown the final points of
interest. One was a large tank which each student either climbed upon
or gawked at disinterestedly, as per his or her general emotion toward
army equipment. I remained on the ground, gazing at the tank as B.
scrambled to the top with some other children. suddenly, B. drew THE
RING out of a pocket, and, not knowing how to present it, threw it to
me from his battle station. I caught the ring and flushed with
embarrassment. The rest of the day became a blur. B. also seemed
uncertain of the next course of action. I do not even know whether I
rode next to my boyfriend on the return trip.
To be truthful, the rest of the school year was another blur following
THE RING, and although we liked each other, we seldom spoke at school
any more. Sheer embarrassment, I fear, finally killed our romance;
happily we remained friends, however, and never entertained bitterness
toward each other. Ours had been an innocent, uncomplicated
infatuation, evolving in part from a mutually compatible sense of humor
which caused our eyes to glisten. We never kissed, and only held hands
during school functions in which it was necessary. Neither of us
possessed lofty expectations for the other to fulfill, and therefore
enjoyed each other's company when we shared activities together.
From this early point in life, I saw that friendships were more stable
than romantic inclinations, and therefore worth much more. To this
day, when B. and I meet, we still share a glimmer and a smile.
PAGE 24
Chapter 5
Norm / Marriage
."..religion amplified the significance of marriage, entrenching the
ceremony itself into the hearts and minds of society..."
CHAPTER FIVE
Norm/Marriage
As the years aged to decades, college became the educational
replacement for high school. My dad attended, and graduated from high
school in an era when, in some areas, relatively few accomplished that
feat, and fewer still furthered their academic standing by enrolling in
a college. Mom, born ten years later, was able to earn a teaching
certificate after two years of college. By the time my parents married
and raised their children, college had evolved into a common
aspiration, and both Sharon and Todd took full advantage of their
educational opportunities, each earning their Bachelor Degree and
excelling in their respective fields of study.
College had almost become a given, especially with the advent of the
less expensive community colleges which boasted low tuition and the
option to eat and sleep at home. Unless one obtained a good job,
college seemed to be the national answer for the unmarried and
unemployed, as well as the aspiring professionals. It was just the
thing to do, and, in certain cases, this was unfortunate; in
commonality, education lost its honor and significance.
The adverse affect which seemed to encroach upon some college
graduates, who, feeling educated and superior, were still unable to
"adequately employ" their mighty selves (and later collapsed into a
pool of confusion) did not touch Norm. Well tuned to his inner needs,
he excused himself from the collegiate race hours short of attaining a
two year degree. Mom was discouraged, of course, but Norm stood fast
to his decision, since graduation required that he take speech. He was
phobic in group situations despite his outer appearance of self-assured
collectiveness, and he, with reason, feared that in such a class he
would meet his demise. Moreover, he had no intention of acquiring a
"career"; he wanted to find employment with relatively little tension
after which he could return home and, suffering no mental fatigue or
emotional anguish, settle into an easy chair and persue a philosophy
book or take a carefree evening ride on his motorcycle.
Since Norm had funded his entire college education, no obligation had
been left unfulfilled and he was free to seek his dreams. I knew he
didn't care about owning a fabulous car; he had too much fun with the
various junkers that he managed to fish out of the used car lots. I
will never forget the time that he and several other guys rocked the
Rambler until it stood on its side; impervious to further damage than
that which its previous owners had provoked, the car was finally
righted, seeming no worse for the affair.
Other than finding a job, I was not certain of the type of ambitions
that Norm possessed. He had always been rather quiet, given to
infrequent bursts of conversation between lapses of brooding silence,
but now, his silence sometimes masked turbid emotions. Whereas Todd
had openly rebelled and demonstrated his conflicting views with society
and the reigning generation of "elders," Norm fumed within, concealing
gaps of understanding and petty annoyances with a disconcerting
unwillingness to speak. He spent more and more time alone, and if his
space was disturbed, he often quit the room for other surroundings.
This latter incident was most notable upon the arrival of one of our
parents; I, as well as they, sensed his intolerance for their presence,
and although it was unpleasant for everyone, such injury seemed to
coexist with the search for freedom and independence in youth.
Personally, I could do nothing but cringe, for even within such silent
battles, emotional bruises were in great supply.
Because of their changes toward self-sufficiency, young adults become
progressively more difficult for their parents. I say this because it
is at this time in a young person's life that he tests and selects
those morals by which he shall live, choosing, bending or sometimes
brutalizing the ideals which his parents had feverishly sought to
instill into, and hopefully command his life. It is extremely
difficult for parents who witness a seeming metamorphosis in the child
they helped to create; astonishingly radical modes of thought practiced
by their "child" can be a devastating blow. While certain
"demonstrations of individuality" will subside with age, it is
important that parents not blame themselves for faults within their
children. A good, solid foundation is all that parents are expected to
give to their off-spring; beyond the foundation, growth must be left to
the child, for although he may have been erected to maturity under the
utmost guidance and love, the child remains an individual, a human with
a unique mind.
When Norm began dating a woman who worked at the shop, it evoked a
natural aura of curiosity. He had never before dated, and we at home
were surprised and pleased that he had taken interest in someone;
indeed, such was his interest that he soon was absent from the house on
a daily basis. Mom made several invitations to Norm for the purpose of
meeting his girl, but none were accepted, so the suggestions fell to a
minimum and subsided altogether. It was never Mom's habit to pry,
thinking that such behavior would only serve as a constraining
influence.
Moreover, Norm was legally an adult and had a right to his privacy.
Months elapsed yet we were not introduced to the mysterious girl who
had stolen Norm's penchant for solitude. "Maybe Norm's
embarrassed...or embarrassed of her," I deducted. I began to wonder if
she was fat, envisioning a rotund but jovial cherry who worked
diligently on a drill press, her body a package of perpetual motion
when she laughed or descended a flight of stairs. "That's unfair," I
thought to myself, chastising both my ignorance and presuppositions.
The family's internal relations sank lower, although no outright war
existed. Norm continued to see his girl, now referred to as "Tracy,"
while Mom and Dad continued to wonder and worry as each date seemed to
end at a later hour. I merely continued to go to school and do my
chores on Saturday. As I dusted Norm's room, I noticed greeting cards
which he had received from Tracy, the softly romantic kind that I
dreamed over at the drug store. Love, Tracy...her signature was a
hurried scrawl, the letters a combination of vertical lines and rigid
points. I picked up each card and dusted the dresser, carefully
replacing them in their orderly march across the old piece of
furniture. A spare pair of Norm's glasses rested on the vanity. I
took off my glasses and placed his on my face. Pulling aside the
curtain, I gazed at the woods below, blinking to counteract the
strength of his glasses, I could see like an eagle! Norm's eyes were
still worse than mine, but mine were going fast. With each child,
eyesight grew progressively poorer in our family. I knew I was doomed.
Distraught, I took off the glasses and moved to the other side of the
vanity. A furry ball wearing a horned helmet and brandishing a wooden
club met my eyes, and I picked up the Nordic figure with a smile. I
figured that it was a gift from Tracy but I asked Norm anyway.
"Yeh...," he admitted with a grin. "She likes to think of me as a
Viking."
Upon the celebration of Norm's birthday he received a beautifully
tailored shirt from Tracy. She was a gifted seamstress, fitting shirts
to Norm's muscular frame in a way that could not be equalled. Such
specialization and effort made me certain that she wanted to snare Norm.
Aside from occasional, subtle teasing, I did not burden Norm with a
parcel of inquiries. If the relationship was as "serious" (or,
"sincere," a word which I prefer) as it seemed, Tracy would soon have
to make an appearance. So it was that one evening, when Mom happened
to be gone, Norm brought Tracy to meet us. She was thin,
well-proportioned and attractive, and quite unlike my mental
meanderings. Her personality was pleasantly outgoing, yet not
overbearing. I liked her immediately; she made a good "first
impression."
Mom finally met Tracy during a family rendezvous at my sister's home.
We no longer had to subsist upon fragments of unsubstantial
suppositions; Tracy was a person, not a figment of one's imagination.
The introduction helped to mask the tensions within our home, yet
something remained amiss which corroded the trust between my parents
and Norm. He battled for freedom; as is often the case, however, the
conflicts were internal, waged between who he was and who he wanted to
be in an uncertain world.
After months of unanswered questions, Mom went upstairs with some of
Norm's clean clothes and, pulling open a drawer, found it entirely
stripped of its former contents. She pulled open another...and
another...they, too, were empty. Mom now faced an even greater
question. Norm had moved out with no warning while the three of us
were absent from the house. He was gone. But where? And why?
That evening, Norm came back to the house to reveal his intentions, and
to give Mom and Dad a formal explanation regarding his sudden move.
His appearance alone served to quickly escalate the conversation toward
a destination which was beyond my realm of involvement, so I turned to
one of the far corners of the kitchen where my gerbil cage was situated
and stared unseeingly at my pet while listening intently to the
scenario unfolding behind me.
Norm stated that he had moved in with Tracy. "You kids got married
then!" Mom exclaimed, moving closer as if to embrace her son. A
quiet, no frills wedding would have been characteristic of Norm.
"No...," he replied. A silence followed his statement, as if each
person was attempting to understand the conversation which was
unfolding and see beyond the misconceptions that had obscured the truth.
"You mean you're just going to live with each other?" Mom asked.
"Didn't our marriage and family mean anything to you?" She was aghast,
tearful, frustrated.
Norm appeared awestruck by the magnanimous fervor he had evoked. He
had not thought that marriage could have meant so much to my parents.
"You have made a beautiful home!" Norm exclaimed, "But it just can't be
for me."
Questions flurried about the room like a mid-summer blizzard; upset
parents, I learned, excelled in the art of interrogation. Mom's voice
had transformed into a slightly nasal, high-pitched whine which
characterized both disapproval and sickness of heart, while Dad's
speech quickened into abrupt, angry darts which leapt through the air
and stung their recipient. To each question, Norm bowed his head a bit
lower. "If she loves you, she'd marry you."
"It just can't be for me." It was all he could say. He loved Tracy,
and wanted to spend his life with her; love of the heart should require
no legal document to assure its sincerity. He could not understand the
importance of marriage.
Norm's was an idealistic view of human love. Society, however, having
judged man's ineptitude in the areas of honesty and integrity, found
that unceremonious love was not, generally speaking, taken as seriously
as love proclaimed before an audience in the form of predetermined
vows. In certain circles, religion amplified the significance of
marriage, entrenching the ceremony itself into the hearts and minds of
society...and to my parents; moreover, it was tradition. To them, love
alone was not enough to justify a man and a woman living together as
one unit; Norm's proposition was a revolt against their values.
An ultimatum surfaced after all of the questions had spilled from my
parent's minds: Norm would no longer be welcome in the home unless he
married. Tears welled up in Norm's eyes and he began to sob; Mom and
Norm held each other in a long, emotional embrace. So much depended on
the future; a hug was all that they had. Until then, I had been eyeing
the gerbil cage feverishly as the discussion raged behind me. Norm had
under-estimated mom and dad and their inflexible scale of values, but
even I could not swallow such a voluminous consequence of
co-habitation. How could marriage be so important that one would no
longer consider his son a person because he desired to live unwed with
his beloved? Did not love matter more than all else?
Apparently it did not. I could listen to no more if I had to assume
that I was going to lose my brother. I choked upon a mountainous wave
of hysteria, and with tears blinding my vision, went wailing out of the
kitchen into the sheltering darkness of my own room. I felt like a
fool, flying from the argument in such an undignified manner. "Now
look what you've done," said Dad, seeing my agitated state of mind. It
was not Norm's fault, however; I knew, and Norm knew; my distress was
related only to the thought of losing Norm forever; it was like a
planned death. I could not handle such a loss.
"I'll drive you to Tracy's apartment...you can get your things and come
back here," Dad offered. It was a final plea, an attempt to make
amends before the damage was done.
Norm shook his head. "I'm sorry...I can't." Not after all that had
been said. He was trembling; like an injured animal, he wanted only to
run and hide from further hurt. Mom knew he couldn't return that
night, but as the door closed and her son disappeared into the dark
abyss, she prayed that he would change his mind.
PAGE 28
Chapter 6
Norm / Reflections
PAGE 28
."..I had been transported across 2000 miles...Memories and heartaches,
however, came along for the ride."
CHAPTER SIX
Norm/Reflections
It seemed impossible to think that I may never see Norm again. I
thought about the kite that we bought at a grocery store and flew in
the spring gusts until it was a mere speck in the blue sky. I
remembered our discussion about the importance of seat belts, after
which a love-smitten, one-armed Don Juan nearly forced us off the road.
I thought about the many times he pitched to me, saying, "Keep your
eye on the ball!," and how we rumbled up the street to K Mart on
low-budget shopping sprees. I did not have Tracy's address, so letters
would be a pointless effort. My mind began to create images,
concocting chance encounters and elaborate dialogues. I pictured his
tall form striding from a store into the sun-bathed parking lot; I
would run to him despite the protests of my parents. The image would
dissolve and another would take its place. This time, I saw him while
I was alone; I was able to obtain his phone number and address, and
planned to keep in touch. Again the fantasy would fade. I wondered
fearfully whether the years would so change his facial appearance that
I would fail to recognize him. Nothing and no one in life was immune
to change; features, health, relationships...everything could bloom or
wither in an instant.
Many thoughts flooded my mind during the next week. I considered my
parents and their steadfast values, and understood their torment.
Their son was about to embark on a lifestyle which they viewed as
morally wrong. After 20 years of guidance, Norm's action was
translated as an injustice done to them. Often I heard my dad describe
an incident, remarking, "If the kid really loved his parents, he
wouldn't have done (it) out of respect for them."
I had been raised under the same school of thought, and, until my views
had been tested, my stance on various issues usually echoed those of my
parents. Following the incident with my brother, however, I could no
longer believe that cohabitation without marriage was so wrong that the
act should tempt a parent to disown his son, especially if the two
cohabitants loved each other. Had Norm been a promiscuous lout who
flitted from one woman to the next merely for the purpose of filling
his primal needs, I would have agreed that his irresponsibility
demanded punitive action.
As I reflected over my silent disagreements, I wondered why Norm and
Tracy couldn't get married. If their life was to be shared, why didn't
they just marry to please society? Sure, the legality may only have
been a grand joke to Tracy, but if it saved certain relationships, was
it not worth the trouble? Moreover, Norm had always avoided involving
himself in a scene which would direct undue attention. I found the
current circumstances rather odd and out of character, for "shacking
up" was a relatively new phenomenon to strike the midwest. I had no
answers, and my questions had no ear to rest upon. It was best not to
dwell on that which I could not hope to change.
After a week of emotional survival, I boarded a jet bound for
California. With all my expenses paid, I was to spend several weeks at
the Santa Monica home of my aunt and uncle. Never having flown, I was
excited when the journey commenced and the jet tore a path into the
hazy summer sky. I found flying to be a delightful affair, especially
during the circulation of complimentary pop and peanuts. Silvery
mounds of cloud formations glistened against the sun's blinding light.
Across the blanket of white, another jet raced toward a secret
destination. Corn and wheat fields made a quilted pattern of the
landscape. Rectangular fields slowly gave in to circular ones as the
jet scorched westward; irrigation. The Rocky Mountains pierced a
jagged line through low-flying clouds that skirted each side of the
airliner, and the fertile land disappeared where the soaring mountains
grew from the earth. The jet flew past that which nature took
centuries to create as if it was insignificant and worth little more
than a fleeting glimpse. The mountains were now behind us. As I
peered out of the tiny window, the land became increasingly arid and
fewer roads disrupted the sea of creeping grass and sage brush.
As we began our descent, I felt my ears clog in rebellion to the slight
change in air pressure. Swallowing and trying to induce yawns, I
cleared my ears continuously until the jet was hanging lazily above
city streets and buildings. Not until the aircraft touched down on the
runway was I aware of the speed at which the jet was moving; the grass
was at first a green blur against outstretched silver wings, and we
rushed on as if powered by an unstoppable force. Then I perceived that
the forward thrust was steadily reined until the huge jet slowly
strolled along the landing strip and taxied toward the Los Angeles
terminal. Within the passage of hours I had been transported across
2000 miles; it certainly did not take a long time to leave a place.
Memories and heartaches, however, came along for the ride.
This was my vacation, and I tried to avoid thinking about that which
had transpired the week earlier. While my aunt and uncle showed me the
sights in their part of California, my parents decided to take a
vacation of their own. They, too learned that miles did not alleviate
worry. Worry cannot be left at home. It is weightless baggage that
one is obliged to carry.
After several days of eventful tours, relaxing on my aunt's patio
swing, and tempting their aged and extremely bored cat into playing
with a ball of yarn, I received a phone call from my mom. They had
returned from their small trip and found a note from Norm saying that
he and Tracy were married. I was ecstatic. My fears had never
materialized.
I hung up the phone, feeling that I had been revitalized by a flood of
happiness. It now was possible to truly enjoy the remainder of my stay
in California. I determined that I would attempt to find gifts to give
Norm and Tracy for the purpose of demonstrating my affection; and a
"wedding gift" seemed rather inappropriate under the circumstances.
After a joyous day in Disneyland, where I rode countless rides and was
seemingly transported into a magical world, I finally purchased two
items, a hand-carved wooden box for Tracy and a back-scratcher for my
brother. My treasures were placed in a sack and I clung to them
excitedly. No longer helpless and unable to express my love, I felt
like a child who had just recovered a favorite belonging from the "lost
and found." Disneyland shined that night, and the parade of lights
glistened on Main Street with a star-like fire. No fantasy could
compare with a dream that came true.
The summer had ended well. I reveled in the hours spent with Norm and
his wife; it was easy to be with them, for their life appeared low-key
and free of pretense. As we discovered many common interests, Tracy
became the sister that Sharon was unable to be, living 80 miles
distant. Toward Norm also, I developed a greater understanding, and a
deep, yet unspoken bond formed between us; we discovered that we were
quite alike, thinking in the same manner and sharing the same type of
humor.
PAGE 31
Chapter 7
Todd / Reflections
CHAPTER SEVEN
Todd/Reflections
Todd resided in Chicago after graduating from college, and my parents
and I occasionally drove up to visit him. He always planned a gala
affair, often treating us to a splendid play among an array of other
suggestions. Upon our arrival, hugs and kisses were widely
distributed; I would run to Todd, whereupon he would grasp me under the
armpits and lift me sky-high, wailing in his "Aunt Minerva" voice,
"It's been so LONG since I've SEEN you!" This traditional welcome
became increasingly difficult to manage as I grew in stature and, of
course, gained the accompanying weight, and was thus allowed to die a
dignified death.
When we were not touring the city's delights, I entertained myself by
arranging Todd's personal effects. The apartment which I most clearly
recall boasted a crude built-in bookcase. I loved to flit back and
forth between the many compartments and lend a sense of order and style
to the pandemonious wall. There were always a few things of which I
had no idea concerning their use; these were generally odds and ends,
factory rejects, a handful of D cell batteries, and, I must not forget
several large and curious aluminum containers. I would neatly line up
the small items on the shelves and place the nameless metal containers
on the floor in a line. The latter objects were for experiments.
Having completed my task, I would stare silently at the line of silver
pots, shrug my shoulders and turn my attentions elsewhere.
The sleeping arrangement was simple. Age and respect dictated that my
parents sleep on the beds. Since I was a guest, Todd determined that I
should sleep on the couch. My brother was left with the remaining
alternative, which was an inflatable air mattress and a sleeping bag.
The nights brought out humor which came from bizarre circumstances.
Several hours after lying down, Todd's air mattress had deflated to the
point of nonexistence and, bone meeting floor, he had no choice but to
inflate the mattress once again. Slow expirations, sounding akin to a
distant steam engine, would resound into the night. Mom, understanding
what had happened, listened to the steady, "Puff...puff...puff..." and
would have laughed had it not been for the fact that she pitied Todd
and did not wish to waken my dad or myself.
At exactly 4:00 a.m., the church, standing directly beside Todd's
apartment building, would begin a horrid serenade in chimes.
Approximately every other note was sour, yet the noise continued until
the tune was completed. Todd explained that the person who set the
clock mistook the four o'clock a.m. setting for the afternoon
setting...hence the "ungodly" serenade.
A final recollection regarding the overnight occurrences in Todd's
apartment is, admittedly, rather hazy. Having a preoccupation with the
shelves by day, it was no shock to find myself sleep walking to them in
the middle of the night, searching for my pillow. My walk might not
have been discovered by Todd or remembered by me had it not been for
the row of metal canisters which flanked the base of the shelves, for
in my futile search (my pillow had never strayed from the couch), I
bumped my foot into one of the pots, which gonged loudly against a
second and third to create a symphony of echoes. Flustered by the rude
interruption, I nearly woke, and can recall my brother's sleepy, "Is
there something wrong?" to which I mumbled an explanation of my hunt.
The next morning I looked suspiciously at the shelves and was haunted
by a memory for which I could not account and therefore inquired of the
night's events, asking if I had walked in my sleep. "Oh, yeh..., I
couldn't figure out what you were doing!" Todd said.
I reflected over my strange habit and wondered whether I had walked
elsewhere on different occasions, and because I encountered no one, did
not remember or was not informed. It was slightly disconcerting yet
immensely humorous; I only hoped that I would never take a walk which
lead me out of a building, because I remembered the tale of a young man
who, while sleeping, took out the garbage cans and then completed his
slumber on the grass beside the curb. It was a humbling thought, for
although a sleeping individual cannot be responsible for what he says
or does, one's lack of consciousness will not guard the individual from
accompanying embarrassment.
Certain aspects of my brother's personality had changed, while others
had remained original and quite intact. When the time had come for us
to leave Chicago, Todd's apartment was cleaner and his billfold was
decidedly thinner. Although Todd no longer cared about the neatness of
his living quarters, which plainly stated that his orderliness at home
was merely a function performed to placate Mom's desires, he maintained
his suicidal generosity with horrifying steadfastness. My brother had
also changed from his too-trusting self to a more realistic and
perhaps, cynical person. Losing a coat and bicycle at the university,
followed by distributor caps and gasoline in Chicago, had a way of
opening ... or, at least, readjusting ... one's vision of the world.
It was not an ideal place, and idealistic views were hastily smashed to
oblivion. I saw, too, that he possessed a definite need to exist on
his own; more than a door to freedom. Todd's separation from family
seemed to be a requirement for personal satisfaction and future
happiness. He had to affirm himself by living alone, and having no one
near to depend upon through the rough spots.
Despite Todd's need to acquire self-sufficiency, homesickness was
difficult to avoid, and his eyes mirrored pure emotion as we drove
away. The image of home was, at once, pleasant and unkind, for
although memories could quiet the noise of the city, their unattainable
substance created a barrier between the present and his need to build
happiness from aspects thereof. Sometimes it was easier to bury the
past and all which related to it. Todd seldom came home any more.
PAGE 33
Chapter 8
Sixth Grade
"Friendships are realistic interactions of individuals rather than acts
performed to satisfy the specific requirements of a group."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sixth Grade
Upon reaching sixth grade, I did not feel that I had risen to the
infamous "big cheese" status that I had supposedly earned for
successfully passing through the curriculum and harassment of the older
kids, nor did I foster any ill regard for those who were younger than
myself. I was essentially the person who I had always been, with the
exception that I was a year older and somewhat wiser through my
experiences and observations.
Although I had become slightly more confident, I knew that it did not
pay to feel superior, for someone always had the immense enjoyment of
smashing the misinformed individual down to size. Whereas superiority
was a false assumption, confidence developed upon a somewhat humble
realization of one's mastery over life's trials.
Rarely were there situations for which kindness was unfit. It was not
my nature nor my ambition to be mean to people who were younger or less
fortunate than I; moreover, I remembered the instances wherein I had
been subjected to cruelty simply because I was too small to fight back.
Never would I forget the nasty sixth grader whose ultimate pleasure
came by way of bullying younger students; having a keen sense of
hearing and disliking noise of any kind, my entire composure was
shattered when he blasted in my ears at the top of his lungs.
Completely unnerved, I can recall cupping my hands around my red knit
hat and running toward home as the cold wind nipped and stung my
tear-filled eyes. Such alarming treatment filled me with terror; I was
worried that my fear alone would tempt the bully to commit further
torment. The instance also made me despise the boy; his unfair
treatment did not serve to heighten his image in my eyes. Abuse did
not merit respect; however, it swept the disillusionment from my mind
regarding the idolization of an individual for his age or his
popularity, for too often an individual was placed on a pedestal, only
to evoke disappointment. Smiles and genuine kindness won infinitely
more respect.
Few grade school students possessed the maturity to develop and
maintain a true friendship. Many were too concerned about pleasing the
popular crowd to reserve definite bonds for another individual,
because, if the popular crowd was mad at someone, most of the others
desired the same opportunity.
I learned about the existence of false friends, individuals who
virtually ignored the less popular students until three days prior to a
test. This type of person would then take pains to be sweet and gush
with special affections, adding to his repertoire a request for one's
notes or the answers to certain homework assignments. Disliking a
farce, I always refused, whereupon I would be incinerated, reduced to
ashes by the fire in the individuals eyes. The flame-thrower did not
burn me, however; as he'd never liked me anyway, I suffered no loss.
I discovered, also, the distastefulness of playing the "second fiddle."
Having my pride, I did not accept after-thought invitations unless I
felt that my time would be enjoyably spent. One girl who was
particularly noted for her "use" of others would often call as a last
resort; a mannerless individual, she made the mistake of rambling off
the names of her refusals when asking another person to accompany her
on an outing. A classic phone call ran as follows: "Laurie? This is
L. I was wondering if you could go to the fireworks tonight...I
already called D, J, L., etc., but none of them could go...aw, come
on!..." Sometimes it was fun to say "no." Moreover, I had better
things to do.
When not haunted by the need to achieve popularity among peers, many
problems disappear or simply fail to exist. Friendships are realistic
interactions of individuals rather than acts performed to satisfy the
specific requirements of a group. Because it was more important to be
myself and follow my own beliefs, "peer pressure" had no affect on me.
If I was to be ostracized for refusing to go along with another's idea,
no friendship existed and I could easily walk away. Aloneness, for me,
was no problem; compromising my standards, however, was a problem.
Generally, I never experienced pressure from a group or an individual
to do something about which I had already expressed a negative opinion.
Perhaps the knowledge that further prompting would have no effect on
my stance impeded harassment of any kind. I was free, imprisoned by no
ideas but my own; I bothered no one, and received the same respectful
treatment.
I recall a day in which three classmates and I were shopping at a drug
store when one suddenly decided to buy a pack of cigarettes, giving the
cashier an assuring, "They are for my Dad," in response to the
skeptical appraisal of my friend's age. Wordlessly, the woman accepted
the money and bagged the cigarettes. My friend smiled heroically as
the four of us ushered from the store. After obtaining a book of
matches, we strode down to the woods behind my house and followed the
trails until we were deeply beneath the cover of the leaves and beyond
all source of detection. The pack was opened with the gleeful
anticipation which only came with the breaking of a rule. Two girls
eagerly lit up and puffed smoke into the clear air. The pack was
presented to me. "No thanks," I shook my head. I had no desire to
start a habit which not only was a risky endeavor in terms of
maintaining health, but also reeked in an offensive manner. "Besides,"
I thought, "it doesn't even look cool." I envisioned a woman with a
white stick drooping out of the corner of her mouth and an old man
sucking pathetically on the smoking stub of his cigarette. "You sure?"
someone asked, offering the pack again. "No thanks," I replied and
started walking toward home. One of the girls joined me, and, as if we
had been unexplainably spooked, ran back through the woods to my yard.
Out of breath, but glad to be rid of the odor of the cigarettes, we
stood silently below the house and waited for the other girls. Upon
reaching the top of the hill, the two asked why we ran. Bending the
truth, my friend said, "We thought we heard someone yelling for us..."
Personally, I don't know why I ran. My refusal and dismissal of the
scene had been sufficient, for I had felt no antagonism from my
companions; yet, beneath the canopy of leaves, I felt trapped and
scrutinized by unseen eyes. Flight seemed to be the natural course of
action. If my tactics failed and I was repeatedly urged to do
something that I had no intention of doing, I too, would use "Mom" as
the rejoiner to a simple "no." Mom never worried about having a "mean
old lady" reputation among her children's friends, especially if it
saved them from performing undesirable actions. Packing an excuse like
"Mom" was ammunition so powerful that I never felt alone when faced
with a difficult situation; if I could not handle it, "we" could!
By sixth grade I had accepted the fact that, as one of the tallest
students, I would always be seated at the back of the class and stand
at the end of the gym line. Each year, I remember wishing that the
lines and rows would, for once, be arranged alphabetically, allowing me
a change of scenery from the backs of people's heads. I never had the
chance. The policy remained the same and the students grew in
height...but so did I.
My last year of grade school was also a year through which I spent
pleasant noon hours, lunching at the home of a lady whose family
attended our church. I shared lunch with Vera's youngest son, Todd,
and two other boys whose names no longer exist in my memory. Vera was
great. She rarely smiled, yet she had a terrific sense of humor which
fell somewhere between "dry" and "sarcastic." Her laughter was a
reward in itself, for it was easy and genuine. Within her sober face
was more humor than most people could fathom because she had the
ability to see humor in life.
Sixth grade left in me a good impression of my early school years...I
remembered the good and the bad, for the two elements were inseparable.
I thought of the holidays, from Halloween's dress-up parade followed
by a night of trick-or-treating, to Valentine's Day parties, and
Yuletide paper chains. I reflected upon the fall carnivals and ice
cream socials, the frantic chaos of recess and the joy of art projects.
I smiled at the science jingle which, through the attacks of several
boys and myself, suffered a comical change of wording to "The sun is a
mass of undigested GAS, a gigantic nuclear TOILET..." and perhaps as a
sort of revenge for so dissecting the lyrics of the educational song, I
encountered my first migraine headache in science class, during the
middle of a test.
I thought of the teachers, and the quiet spoken janitor, Mr. Ed, who
faithfully polished the halls to a sheen and silently cleaned the floor
after someone threw up.
I considered the principal who was feared, yet respected, for his
ability to control the school in an orderly fashion. He had the type
of stern glance which turned one's lunch into a mass of lead; a rumor
that he possessed a spanking machine in his office persisted in my mind
until the second grade. I never sought to disturb him; thus, when I
was instructed to report to his office, my throat became the victim of
muscular strangulation. Once stationed before his desk, the principal
reprimanded me concerning a book which had disappeared from my desk.
The librarian said it was still missing; if it was not returned I would
be obliged to pay for it.
I could barely speak. I had borrowed the book from the library, yet
someone else had stolen it from my desk; it was not at home, nor was it
in any other desk. In vain, I questioned the boy who sat at my desk
throughout English class, a renowned trouble-maker, who admitted that
he had, without permission, opened my desk and "looked at the book."
This was of no consequence to the principal, however, and since it was
never recovered, he made me pay the entire cost of the book. I had
suffered an injustice, blamed and punished for that which I had not
done. I reflected grievously over the situation, and remembered the
only time in my life that I had contemplated stealing. I was in an old
drug store, gazing at the jewelry spread upon the counter top and
spilling from bins of miscellaneous content, when I spotted a tiny
cross which had fallen from it's chain. It belonged to nothing, and
would one day be discarded among an array of damaged goods. No price
tag fluttered on the tiny shape; and it was the only one of its kind.
I picked it up and placed it in the palm of my hand; the small cross
would not be missed. I stared long and hard at the bright gold
trinket, feeling as if I was in a vacuum. I heard nothing but the
chaotic ramblings within my mind, the rationalizing manipulation versus
the over-powering guilt which lashed viciously at my temptation to
steal. I felt suddenly as if my thoughts were naked and replaced the
cross in the bin of jewelry. As I walked from the store, I saw the
irony in my stormy, inner confrontation; I was going to steal a cross,
the sign of goodness, purity, and love. My internal suffering was
terrific, although I resisted the compulsion; the thought would never
be purged from my memory, for with it, I learned a great lesson.
I slipped back to reality. Great lessons did not shield an individual
from shouldering blame that belonged to someone else. Goodness was not
always rewarded in life, for despite a personal history of moral
decisions and ethical choices, an individual must exist among people
who, through their hurtful life styles, obliterate the rights of
everyone they touch.
I paid for the book, having nothing to show for my expenditure but a
hoard of futile self-pity and the knowledge that I was innocent of any
wrong-doing. School came to a close as the summer ripened into its
classic heat at noonday. Desks were emptied and scrubbed. Homework
ceased. Anticipation flooded the classrooms. The students bid their
teachers good-bye, vowing to visit in the future.
Some returned, but I never did. The present traversed the old
hallways, while the past would never live again except within my mind.
I had no place there among the youthful faces and shrill voices; the
building belonged to the present...it belonged to them.
The Mountains
When I dream I think of them,
Majestic peak and Aspen hem;
And in climbing them,
The flowing slopes,
It brings to me
A world filled with hopes.
The rain and thunderheads up there,
With lightning they come, fast as a mare.
I love to watch all the life that they keep,
The wolf, the fox, the hawk, and wild sheep.
Filling it's crannies, streams can be found,
In their tossing and turning, they're thrown to the ground.
So please, oh, please, come and see
This mountain paradise along with me.
Lauren Isaacson - 7th Grade - 1975
PAGE 38
Chapter 9
Discovery of Tumor
"There is always too much time before an unpleasant event; too much,
yet not near enough."
CHAPTER NINE
Discovery of Tumor
By the end of seventh grade, Jr. High no longer seemed an immense
edifice, and my confidence, as well as my acquaintances, grew. Each
day, before or after lunch, depending on one's lunch schedule, we would
assemble in our respective "homerooms"; here we could talk among
ourselves if we did not become noisome or in any way obnoxious. I made
two acquaintances in the room, and between the three of us, idle
chatter abounded. One day I remember above all others. I was involved
in conversation with the two girls when I looked down at my stomach and
noticed that it was definitely lop-sided in appearance. I called their
attention to it so that they also could share in the humor of my
distortion. We all laughed in simultaneous bursts of wonder at the
spectacle, then moved on casually to other things. I figured that my
stomach was bloated from gas. "No big deal." However, for the next
several weeks, I maintained a vigil on my stomach, and to my
perplexity, the odd "lop-sidedness" persisted. Eventually I decided
that I should divulge the discovery to my parents.
It was summer vacation, and school would be in the past for three
beautiful months. The annual family trip was only weeks away, and I
could barely wait. When Mom said that I would have to go to the
doctor, I felt an eerie certainty that something was drastically amiss,
and therefore requested that we first go on our trip to Colorado; I
knew that if my sensation was correct, I would never be able to see the
mountains...at least not that year. The trip, I felt, could not be
postponed.
A brief time later, I found myself in Colorado. The unchanged beauty
was without flaw, yet to my dismay, I was unable to fully enjoy it.
Even small trails, which I had previously made with ease, I could not
manage without an overwhelming urge to vomit. The thought of food was
not at all welcome nor appealing, and my energy waned; I felt as if I
had another mild case of stomach flu. My sister who, along with her
family, had accompanied us on the trip, confided to Mom, "Laurie looks
so fragile..." My weight loss was more apparent to her since she saw
me on fewer occasions. My appetite had slowly declined, and I had
complained of stomach discomfort, prompting me to squeeze a pillow
through the night. Occasional bouts of stomach flu would evoke such
violent stabs of wrenching pain that I could only stand with my stomach
tucked in, my back bent at a 45 degree angle to my legs. We never
suspected that anything was wrong until I discovered the unusual
appearance of my stomach. Even those with keen eyesight can be blind
when gazing into a mirror, especially when the changes seen therein
have occurred gradually, over a period of time. Moreover, I was always
a rather finicky eater and found mealtime to be one of those obligatory
necessities of survival. I was also quite prone toward nervousness,
which wreaked havoc on my stomach as well; certainly my pangs were not
abnormal, as I'd experienced them as long as I could recall, and they
inevitably would render me without an appetite. A lack of interest
with regard to food on my part was nothing new; for years Mom urged me
to finish my food or eat my vegetables, coupled with a lesson on
nutrition or a threat that would not allow me to partake in later
treats, such as cookies or ice cream. Feeling that I was healthy
enough, I cared little about "sound nutrition" and "balanced diet" yet
Mom's "cookie clout" sometimes carried a fair impact, (depending on the
vegetables I was to choke down, as well as the type of dessert which
taunted my eyes and tongue). No threat however magnificent was
sufficient for me to make beets or spinach disappear; that was asking
too much, and I gladly relinquished my treat. My appetite posed little
cause for worry and, as before, the symptoms of stomach flu soon were
but a memory. The lump remained, however, glaring suspiciously from
beneath knit shirts; the appointment with the doctor could no longer be
delayed.
It was a sunny day when we pulled into the doctors parking lot, and I
was in good spirits despite the natural qualms one encounters upon
venturing into the typically noiseless waiting room. I was
characteristically happy, and although I knew not what news my physical
exam would unveil, I felt no need to punish the doctor for doing his
job; he deserved a smile too.
Dr. Murrell was a man of few words, who wielded an aristocractic air
with the unimposing quality of a true gentleman. He appeared to own a
sense of inate calm which allowed him to divulge even the worst
verdicts with unruffled dignity and composure; he transmitted ease to
the waiting patients and relatives as if through a sort of osmosis and,
I'm sure, avoided many hysterical outbursts as a result.
As he methodically inspected my stomach region I found it extremely
difficult to refrain from laughter. Ticklish and quite unused to being
touched, his various pokes evoked embarrassing jolts of muscle spasms
as I tried, without success, to squelch my chuckles. When he had
finished, he announced that he wished the opinion of his associate
doctor and departed for several minutes. Arriving once again with Dr.
Errico, who then took a turn applying pressure to various points on my
sensitive stomach region, they asked whether any specific areas brought
about pain when touched. I replied that I had experienced none, and
they nodded in silence.
As the two doctors prepared to leave the room to privately confer the
meaning of my symptoms, Dr. Errico extended his arm to place a fatherly
pat on my shoulder. As he did so, I felt my spine turn to ice in an
unexplainable sensation of pure dread; it was as if his gesture
foretold doom and I recalled the persisting thought which had echoed in
my mind since the moment I discovered the lump. The news was not going
to be good; I knew it now.
Dr. Murrell returned to the room alone, seated himself before the desk,
then turned to face us. He was unable, as yet, to draw any
conclusions, but desired me to check into the hospital for tests as
soon as possible, and the preparations were made. I can no longer
remember how I felt when I departed that day from the office drear to
the bright flood of sunlight; I cried no tear, and spoke no words of
resentment or anger, for those I would have recalled. I knew only that
I had to discover the truth about that mystery which lurked behind a
mask of skin.
The hospital, I found, was no place to be unless one was horribly ill.
I was not quite certain of my status in that regard, but knew
immediately that my health declined the instant in which I donned the
hospital gown. It was depressing; I blended so well with the room that
I thought I would disappear in the ethereal whiteness. To my later
dismay, however, I was easily distinguished and forced to submit to
various manifestations of barbarism; never having stayed in a hospital,
I had no idea of the rigorous torture treatments which were actually
only routine and lawful tests. I write the above with an air of
sarcastic jest, for obviously not all of the tests incurred techniques
of bludgeoning, prodding, or other undue discomforts for the patient;
an X-ray, for example, has never once evoked the slightest twinge of
pain. There are tests however, which disrupt one's level of comfort
substantially, and unfortunately, those which can prove fatal. For my
part these latter tests always spurred the reflective statement, "There
must be a better way!" coupled with the hope that one day there would
be a technological breakthrough in the field of medicine, wherein one
merely stepped into a box and, after manipulating several buttons, he
could step out again and the doctor would know immediately whether
anything was wrong with his patient. (My mind later devised a second
box into which one would step, and after several minutes, step out
completely cured of all the ailments discovered by Box #1. This
transformation occurred without pain, of course. Although I could
endure pain, usually without protest, I was always eager to avoid it
whenever possible.) To my knowledge, no such boxes have ever been
invented; but it would be a grand idea...or maybe only a wistful
thought.
Of the tests taken while in Moline, the stomach X-ray utilizing barium
was my worst. Although the "chalk milkshake" was a displeasing effect
on the taste buds of even the most starved individual (for one
undergoing the X-ray must have an empty stomach), the degree to which I
abhorred it was augmented by the fact that my stomach had been quite
prone toward nauseousness of late. When I was told to sit in a nearby
waiting room until I drank the last of the abominable shake I came
fearfully close to vomiting; I hung my head and began to cry, knowing
that if I did drink the liquid it would be spewed onto the floor and I
would have to go through the entire process again. At the sight of my
tears, a nurse quickly ran in search of my mom (who was left in an
altogether different part of the hospital) and returned with her,
sporting the hope that a mother could persuade more of the chalky fluid
down her daughter's throat. The nurse's hope was in vain, however, so
the staff quickly ushered me into the X-ray room again to complete what
work they had begun. First standing against the platform, the X-rays
commenced; soon I found that the platform was actually a movable
examination table, to which I was securely strapped, and it began to
recline toward a prone position. To my surprise, it did not stop when
it leveled, but crept backward until I felt I was dangling from the
ceiling and the entire world was reversed. I gawked at my hapless
predicament, throughly amazed. Had my stomach been more cordial, I
might have enjoyed myself. It was not unlike taking a carnival ride
after consuming a greasy hotdog and an ample dose of cotton candy.
I was joyous upon returning to my room, even though the moment I
arrived another nurse popped in, bearing a fluid which its creators had
tried desperately to make resemble prune juice; yet prune juice this
definitely was not, for no juice could taste so horrid. Despite
threats that I must drink the laxative solution or the barium would
transform into cement while yet in my intestines, I refused to drink
the awful liquid. It was utterly repulsive to my stomach, and again I
knew what the future would have in store if I forced it down.
With all the tests behind us, I could now relax throughout the rest of
my stay at the hospital. The part I most enjoyed was filling out my
daily menu cards, which arrived with each preceding meal; while
munching on my morning toast, I could choose the items I preferred at
lunch. It was enormously entertaining, and sparked my day with
anticipation.
As usual, Mom strolled into my room and watched while I explored the
contents on my breakfast tray; her appearance punctuated the beginning
of another hospital day, and she made certain that I consumed a
nourishing breakfast; without prompting I had done so, for I was
delighted with the realization that I could have an egg and Rice
Krispies and toast merely by so indicating that desire on the menu
card. The array of choices seemed endless, no preference was greeted
with questioning eyes or poorly concealed mirth as often can be the
case in a restaurant.
Some time after the breakfast tray had been whisked away, Dr. M.
entered, saying that the test results had been analyzed and therefore
wished to speak with Mom candidly about the indications which they had
revealed. They departed, accompanied by a nurse, and entered a room
which Mom later described as being very long and narrow, containing
only a table of similar description, and covered completely with an
ample thickness of cushion. The doctor and nurse placed themselves on
the opposite side of the table from Mom, and he began to relate the
fact that the barium X-ray showed a sizable mass in the stomach region,
and though he could not be certain, it held the possibility of being
cancerous. It was a hideous impact for my unsuspecting mother, and she
felt that her body had been engulfed in a searing, internal fire; she
placed her arms on the cushioned table before her and bent her head as
one reacting to a heavy burden that must be endured and said, "Life can
be so long."
Dr. Murrell who knew quite well our family history and its motley
assortment of dread diseases and dysfunctions, could empathize with my
mom's sole comment of numb disappointment; the nurse, however, scanned
Mom's face after each successive statement made by the doctor. Mom
felt scrutinized under her persistent gaze, and it was now obvious that
the cushions covering the room were so adhered for those who, after
receiving bad news, literally bounced off the walls for a time until
their energetic madness diminished to a state of mild panic.
Feeling that my health problem was one which had risen beyond the
hospital's capacity to manage properly, Dr. Murrell thought that it
would behoove us to travel to one of the larger clinics in the region;
without a moment of indecision Mom expressed her preference for Mayo
Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and the doctor gladly hastened from the
room relieved by the knowledge that his subsequent phone call would at
least be progress of a positive nature.
As Mom gradually regained strength, the nurse continued to remind her
that it was too soon to tell whether the growth was cancerous, yet
soothing words could not dispel the lecherous threat and uncertainty
which she carried with her. In a further attempt to comfort, the nurse
suggested that Mom first settle the hospital account at the billing
office to assure that her composure was intact, and then return to my
room. Mom took the nurse's advice, feeling relieved that she could
delay our reunion through a valid excuse; yet as she rose and walked
toward her destination, she felt as if she was under the unsteady
control of a novice puppeteer who guided mockingly and without
precision until she was seated once again.
By the time Mom returned to my room, my lunch tray was already poised
in front of me on the portable night stand. She had somehow managed to
persuade her face to don a cheerful countenance as she entered and
remarked, "You can go home now." An elated smile spread across my face
upon hearing those precious words, and my interest waned toward the
contents of the lunch tray. I knew that I hadn't heard the entire
story, however, because Mom had been absent so long; if nothing was
wrong, the doctor would not have wished to discuss my health in
private. Suddenly I became annoyed; I wanted to know the facts. The
few facts were that I would have to go to Mayo Clinic for further tests
because of an abdominal mass; though Mom said nothing about cancer,
that possibility was not yet a fact, and she hadn't actually lied by
withholding any related remarks. Her answers satisfied my curiosity,
yet simultaneously fueled the fire of dread in my mind which had begun
as a mere spark several weeks before. It seemed that my earlier fears
were justified as time progressed.
With quiet resolution, I knew within myself that I must face whatever
adversity would befall me head-on; I could not march backward into the
darkness. Once home, my Mom led me into the living room where we
seated ourselves side by side on the couch. I looked at her face,
steeped with anxiety for me, yet trying desperately to feign a degree
of happiness for my benefit. It was evident that she knew more details
surrounding the situation than she cared to confess. "You can cry if
you want to...it's all right to cry," she said. "I can't," I replied.
"I've nothing yet to cry for!" She hugged me and we sat in brooding
silence. Since my health was a mystery, I felt no urge to cry; and, I
thought, if I knew, what difference would tears make? The problem
would still exist. Tears, I felt, demanded a tangible impetus to be
worth their salt; like pain or horrendous fear. As yet, I felt
neither; but perhaps I would experience both soon enough.
I knew the trip to Rochester would be no pleasure excursion, but I
maintained high spirits despite the purpose behind the journey. It was
a beautiful drive, and I dearly loved to travel; besides, what better
reason could one have for dining in restaurants?
Because of our late evening arrival into the city and the fact that my
appointments were scheduled for the latter portion of the week, nearly
all of the motels posted "no vacancy" signs, and we found ourselves
humbly situated in one of the older, run-down hotels in which the
bathroom was located "down the hall." I was not overjoyed at the
prospect of week-ending in the hotel, but I had little choice in the
matter. The depressing mood of the place was over-shadowed in part,
however, by the many attractions of the surrounding area; we learned of
parks, shopping malls, movie houses, etc. from the local residents, and
planned to do as much as I wished after and between my various tests.
Rochester was a quiet city; it was geared for the convenience of its
many guests, of which the majority were patients or the family members
of the former. There was an entire network of underground corridors
which connected several primary clinical buildings, hotels, hospitals
and various businesses. With cleanliness an obvious objective, the
maintenance crews made perpetual rounds through the marble columns and
artistically tiled floors. Excepting few, the employees and staff were
friendly and approachable; even the doctors radiated character rather
than the cold indifference sometimes prevalent in large or impersonal
institutions.
My first appointments were to report to "desk C," which was located
underground. The entire lobby was decorated with colorful seats and
healthy plants, as well as people whose faces revealed moods of many
different hues. At varying intervals, a nurse would step in front of a
brightly painted door, grasp a microphone and bid those persons whose
names she announced to come to the "blue section" or the "red" or
"orange," as the color near which she stood indicated. When my name
was called I heaved a nervous sigh, walked to the appropriate door, and
was dispatched to a smaller waiting room in which those already seated
appeared glum and apprehensive. The place reeked of alcohol. Again I
waited until my name was called, watching as each "victim" reappeared
from behind the curtain which housed the inevitable needles and
syringes, sporting a bandage in the crick of his arm.
"Lauren Isaacson."...I swallowed hard and stood up. "Oh...I was
expecting a boy." I smiled as pleasantly as I was able, and reminded
myself that this was the person who would extract my blood, the needle
wielder. "Most people just call me 'Laurie'," I replied. I was seated
and told to make a fist as the nurse applied a tourniquet above my
elbow. She prattled on, simultaneously producing a needle attached to
the largest vial I had ever seen; it must have been five inches long
and the diameter of a 25 cent piece. "Where are you from,
Lauren?...You'll feel a stick..." "Moline, Illinois," eyeing the vial
as it plunged into my vein. "Have you had your blood drawn before?"
"Yeh...a few days ago..." The vial filled and an assistant handed her
another of the same size. "Uh...how much are you gonna take, anyway?"
I asked, feeling strangely self-protective... "Just a little
more...you have many tests scheduled..." She popped out the second
vial and handed it to her assistant, replacing it with yet another,
though shorter and about the diameter of a dime. It filled more
slowly, almost unwillingly, perhaps. Eventually the nurse decided that
she had drawn enough and whisked the needle from my vein, binding my
arm securely with the gauze. "You can go to the green door now,
Lauren." I smiled and departed, happy that I had one test behind me.
The green door housed another form of blood test in which one "merely"
had his finger pricked. I said "merely" because, in my opinion, the
prick hurt much more than did the former blood test, because one's
finger tips contain so many sensitive nerve endings. After having my
finger stabbed, its bright red blood squeezed onto multiple slides and
in miniscule vials, I was free to take my leave. As I returned to my
parents in the lobby, I found the nearest trash receptacle and disposed
of my reeking, alcohol-doused bandages; I disliked the odor for its
strangely lingering overtones. It was amazing to me that the nurses
could draw blood hour after hour; I would detest such a job; yet it was
comforting that there were those who could aid humanity in such ways.
Walking to my next appointment, I wondered casually whether they ever
felt like mosquitoes!
Holding the various appointment cards I noted that, of the remaining
tests, all were X-rays except a suspicious card which read "Bone
Marrow." Marrow, I knew was located inside the bone, and dreadful
thoughts danced nervously about my brain. When we finally reached the
desk behind which lurked the mysterious and disconcerting test, we
found ourselves amid stately decor, closely resembling the impeccably
correct taste of an Old English library. Hues of rich burgundies and
browns, accented by marble floors and columns, marched down shadowed,
slightly ominous hallways and beneath closed hardwood doors. It seemed
appropriate to whisper, as even footsteps echoed through the corridors.
I was very ill at ease. My name was called and I hesitantly strode
forward, accompanied by my mother, who was actually beckoned to follow.
"The doctor's real good-looking," the nurse said confidentially. I
didn't really care; I was far too nervous to be impressed, for I knew
the test would be painful if they wanted my mom to come; generally
speaking, parents took up too much space if they became shadows.
Moreover, parents can actually impede the efforts of the doctors and
nurses through outright intervention, or, due to their presence,
transform even an adolescent back into a child.
The nurse was correct in her analysis of the doctor's appearance. He
was a young man of Irish descent who spoke with a delightful brogue. I
was cordially greeted and then instructed to lay on my stomach; the
section from which he would extract the marrow and a small sampling of
the bone was located somewhere on my back, to one side and slightly
above the buttocks. I disliked the process before it commenced since I
was unable to see what the doctor was going to do; it helped if I was
aware of an imminent jab, rather than being taken by surprise. In this
I had no choice, however, and the process began.
Mom stationed herself near my head, over which she gazed as the doctor
applied a local anesthetic to deaden the area. "You must stay very
still," someone said, as the pain crept from a mild ache to a splitting
level. Gritting my teeth, silent tears welled up in my eyes and fell;
with muscles taut and rigid I clenched the upholstered table with a
vise-like force until I was told that the brutal pain would come to an
end.
The test was over. Relieved, I slid myself off the examination table
to pull on and zip my pants; the wound throbbed at varying intervals
above a constant, underlying ache.
"You're a very brave patient," the nurse said. I smiled knowing that I
was too cowardly to undergo that type of hell again, for it was no
longer a mystery what the words "Bone Marrow" on an appointment card
implied.
Before exiting I asked the doctor if I had healthy bones. "Yuv' gut
fine bunes, Laaren," he replied, giving me an excellent, unforgettable
sample of Irish-flavored English. He seemed to be a very amiable man,
and, now that I was turning to leave, I was better able to appreciate
his undeniably good looks. For my part, I was sorry that he was not an
X-ray technician.
Whether walking or sitting, I experienced twinges of pain, a constant
reminder of my last test of the day; but that did not hinder my
fascination for gift shops, and I eagerly plunged out of the confines
of the clinic walls to the beautiful July morning. We were famished,
as none of us had eaten due to the fact that I was instructed to have
an empty stomach for many of my tests. Since the next few hours
belonged exclusively to us, we decided to eat and then mill about the
stores until it was time for my mid-afternoon consultation with the
doctor in charge of my case.
When our afternoon of leisure had come to a close, we made our way to
the Mayo building and took the elevator to the designated floor. By
now we were quite used to waiting, and after registering my name at the
front desk, seated ourselves in the expansive lobby.
The test results would have been scrutinized and second opinions heard.
We now awaited the doctor, and, in certain respects, the future; each
of us sat in silence, nurturing one's own worries, until my name was
announced. The three of us rose in haphazard unison, glad to have a
reason for shifting our position, and were guided down a hallway to a
private room. Again we awaited the doctors arrival, yet felt more
inclined to engage in conversation now that we were removed from the
stifling quiet of the lobby.
Finally I heard footsteps outside the door. The feet paused, while a
faintly audible rustling of papers issued beneath the closed door.
Silence again. Then suddenly, as if uncertainty had been washed away,
the door knob turned and a doctor burst into the room, extending his
hand to my father and offering a friendly "hello!" to us. We all
stood; I smiled. I had no fear of doctors; the fear stemmed from that
which they knew, and I the patient, as yet, did not.
We seated ourselves once again, and the doctor began questioning me
about the way in which I felt, physically. To nearly all of the
disconcerting questions, I replied in a positive fashion, which to my
parents was a "good sign" and indicated that my health problem
"couldn't be that serious if everything seemed so promising." Then the
doctor asked the color of my bowel movements. I started to laugh.
"Brown." "But what color brown?" he persisted. I laughed some more;
turning my face to the floor, I noticed that the tiles ranged in color
from yellow to the deepest brown, and wondered if the staff had
requested that particular tile for the express purpose of color
clarification. I smiled, and selected a nice, warm brown. "That looks
about right." Then he inquired whether my stools had ever been black.
My eyes flew open. "BLACK?!!" I lost control...to me this was a
horrendous joke. He had his answer, and quickly scribbled "no" on his
note paper.
I was having a grand time, under the circumstances. After the question
and answer session ceased, I was instructed to lay on the table; he
wished to take a look at my stomach region. Applying pressure to
various areas, and gently tapping others, he asked if I felt any pain.
I did not, so he invited other doctors into the room, creating a troupe
of seven in all, who took turns prodding my stomach, and in my opinion,
tickling me to death. I flinched as each new hand poked my bare
flesh, and embarrassed, tried desperately to control my convulsive
muscles and fits of laughter.
When they had seen, or in my case, felt enough, the doctors filed out
of the room to "gossip" about me beyond earshot. Eventually the first
doctor reappeared and began to divulge the conclusions rendered through
the tests and consultation. It was clear that I had a large abdominal
mass in the vicinity of my stomach, yet its composition was uncertain,
and he would therefore offer no statement either way as to it being
cancerous or benign. The bone marrow was unaffected and healthy, my
blood count was good, and the chest X-ray showed no signs of
abnormalcy. Aside from the mass, I had every reason to believe in my
health as a matter of fact.
The mass would have to be removed; that, also, was a matter of fact.
An operation was inevitable. Since it was the beginning of the
weekend, however, I would not be admitted into the hospital until
Sunday evening. Monday morning I would undergo an arteriogram to chart
my veins in preparation for surgery, and the following day I would find
myself in the operating room. Relieved that I had two days of freedom
before having to exist in the confines of a hospital, I found the
arrangement as agreeable as the situation allowed, and my parents and I
determined to make the most of it!
The only hindrance I was obliged to endure was the weekend urine
sample, which stated that the bounty of each trip to the bathroom had
to be collected, rather than flushed away. I was given a large plastic
canister, a small cup and a handy-dandy green tote bag in which to stow
the former for reasons of discretion.
I was embarrassed at the prospect of hauling the green tote everywhere
throughout the weekend, but my dear mom volunteered without a single
flicker of disgust, and shouldered the responsibility just as easily as
she would have taken the smallest piece of cake or the burnt piece of
toast. I really need not have worried, however, for I was not alone in
my strange occupation. Dotted here and there, as we traveled about the
parks and shopping malls, were similar green tote bags borne by smug
faced patients, or conversely, those who would recognize the kinship
and smile knowingly. I soon discovered that, actually, I might have
carried the tote myself, for everyone who was familiar with its purpose
seemed to know that it truly belonged to me; teenage self-consciousness
is alien to no one, and remembered by all.
The weekend was memorable. I tried to take in the landscape as I
walked freely under the mid-summer sky. The Canadian geese were
numerous on the shores of a small lake, and had grown haughty from
delicacies thrown to them by passers-by; they pecked with idle
disinterest at the corn we placed on the ground for their inspection.
They had developed a taste for the refined; mere corn would no longer
suffice. Though the geese were considered tame by most standards, they
yet held a firm bond to the wild which no human bribery could erase. I
was drawn to this quality, for in their willowy black necks I saw the
northern wilderness and inevitable flight; they were not prisoners of
the city, but came and later departed through a will of their own.
Unlike the lazy human who clings fiercely to a generous hand, the geese
were drawn in, but then drifted away to distant shores where life was
hard, yet sweeter still than risking to the malicious child a twisted
neck for scraps of bread. It had been said that nature is cruel; no, I
thought, only people are cruel, for they alone can pervert that which
by nature's intent was beneficial in moderation. Food, pleasure,
death...man could leave nothing alone. I turned away from the geese,
which were milling about and shifting their weight, first balancing on
one leg, then the other, vigilant yet restful. I carried the tranquil
image with me, and return to it still. Eyes focused through the glass
of the car window, I stirred as Dad turned the key of the ignition and
the car moved slowly forward. It was evening and the lake began to
fade into an obscure haze; the hum of the engine gently brought my mind
to the present and the distractions thereof. The darkness gradually
melted away beneath the city lights, and I awoke to the startling
realization that I was hungry. Under the glaring neon lights, one
cannot long remain apart from the harshness of the city; neon lights
invade one's senses and disrupt one's dreams.
Saturday morning, after breakfast, we decided to find our way to a
small town nearby that was holding a summer festival; once there we saw
booths and tables housing various crafts or topics of interest, as well
as food and drink. Weaving our way through the smiling, jovial faces,
time slipped casually by. Mom purchased a rooster made entirely of
dried seeds, while I inspected the tables of antiques. Nothing sparked
my interest enough to pry into my wallet, so I quietly moved on.
We decided to await the afternoon parade, in which Dr. B. of
yesterday's consultation said he would appear, playing an instrument in
the band. It was he who had informed us of the small town festival,
and we could not help but wonder if we would recognize him in a red
jacket and cap. The band members were seated in trucks; blowing
earnestly into their instruments, the musicians eyes sparkled behind
puffed up cheeks. It was no use; they all looked like perfect images
of each other.
Still quite early in the afternoon, we concluded that it would be nice
to find a park which was in the area, and had no difficulty in its
pursuit, for the road signs were plentiful and doubtlessly placed out
of respect for the patient-tourist. It was a gorgeous day. The leaves
were emerald green and at their foremost beauty; strong and pliant from
spring's ample rain, and not yet touched by the autumnal sun...the
drying kiln, the blistering gaze which ages all.
The leaves swayed in the wind, playing with the rays of sunlight which
danced in countless patterns on the ground. Despite the beauty
surrounding our every step, none of us could forget the reason we came
to the park; we came, of course, to forget. The business of
forgetting, however, meets with few actual successes; the more one
attempts to forget, the less likely he is to accomplish his goal; but
in trying the object of one's trial forever torments the mind. It is
better to let the job of "forgetting" take care of itself.
That evening, following our meal, we decided a movie would create an
exciting climax to the day, especially since our hotel room boasted no
TV. The movie-house featured "Jaws" and I eagerly bounced down the
aisle and selected a seat fairly close to the screen. My parents found
two more agreeable seats toward the rear.
As the theater began to fill, I glanced about nervously, hoping wildly
that no one with a spherical or bee-hive-shaped hair style would seat
themselves directly before me. With good fortune on my side, I
breathed a sigh of relief as the lights were dimmed and the curtain
slid aside.
I had landed an excellent seat; the story drew me in, as my senses were
unimpaired, and I slowly left Rochester, and hospitals behind to
immerse myself in the image captured through my eyes. The movie was
horrifying; the people in the audience screamed and jumped in unison.
As the actors pursued the vicious shark, and more unsuspecting
individuals fell prey to the maniacal monster, one began to feel
helplessly self-protective, as if caught unaware, one might be torn
limb from limb. Then, in a brutally raging climax, the shark was
overthrown, and a tumultuous sigh escaped from the lips of on-lookers;
everyone was safe at last.
When I rose from my seat to file out of the building, reality slapped
my face. I was not in Moline, I was in Rochester. Tomorrow night I
would admit myself into the hospital, and Monday would be inescapable;
by Tuesday I would sleep beneath the surgeon's blade and awake to the
answers of unfulfilled questions. Yet I was pleased that, for two long
hours, I had, without prompting, laid my worries aside; forgetting was
a business best left unto itself.
Sunday was spent musing through shops in the local mall. I delighted
upon finding several pairs of pants and two knit shirts; it was a chore
to fit clothes, since I was tall and, admittedly, too thin. So happy
with the new purchases was I that I asked the clerk to remove the tags
on two articles and reappeared from the dressing room feeling very much
in style.
In another store I spied a purse that looked nice, but cost fairly
little. I looked down disgustingly at the worn bag which dangled
lifelessly at my hip, and felt the purse would be a worthwhile
expenditure. Digging into the old one for my money, I finally
extracted a disintegrating leather wallet; it's appearance so shocked
my mom that she immediately offered to buy me another.
Generously outfitted, I dismissed the mall with my parents for the more
pleasant atmosphere of the city park. The afternoon was disappearing
rapidly, and we no longer tried to rid our minds of distressing
thoughts, for they were altogether too prevalent to wish away.
Strolling through the grass, we did not often speak; we merely waited
for evening to descend. There is always too much time before an
unpleasant event; too much, yet not near enough. The afternoon
stalled...it seemed never to end...and our conscious minds sustained
heavy blows.
We walked near the lake, where geese stood craning their necks and
bickering among themselves. I looked away; the sight offered little
solace to my restless mind. I longed, almost, to fling myself upon the
hospital steps if I could but in that way escape the awful
waiting...waiting...waiting.
Dad glanced at his watch; five o'clock, suppertime. Eating; it was
something to do, so we welcomed the thought wholeheartedly. Our
therapy consisted of such occupations; as long as one remained busy,
the job itself mattered little. Thus, the main objective of the hour
encircled the procuring of sustenance.
I knew that the meal that evening would be the last I would share with
my parents for several days, yet I no longer remember what I ordered or
if I ate well. I recall only that I had been told to finish eating
before a certain hour, so that the following morning the test could
begin early; under the strict instructions, I lamented that I would not
be able to partake of the customary late-night snack.
We did not linger over our dinner plates. The tension had become too
great; I wanted the hospital to be our next destination. I carried my
few belongings for I needed no suitcase; my underwear I stuffed in my
purse.
PAGE 49
Chapter 10
Preparation and Surgery
"If only one did not have to think during the long periods of
uncertainty and ignorance, and could somehow benumb the senses until
the hours of darkness had passed!"
CHAPTER TEN
Preparation and Surgery
At the admissions office, forms were completed; it was much more
complicated than registering for a motel room. I sat nearby, watching
the wearisome process.
There were no rooms in the pediatrics ward. I was led to a room which
was quite old and depressing, and found to my disgust that my roommate
smoked. "I hope this doesn't bother you," she said motioning to the
hand that held her cigarette. What did it matter, I thought; she would
continue smoking regardless of the way I felt about it. From
experience I had learned that, although many people who fostered bad
habits did not want to be overly offensive, most never possessed enough
genuine concern for another individual to refrain from their habit. I
waved off her question, and hoped for adequate ventilation. Is this
the bittersweet price for societal living?
My few belongings were stowed in a closet, then I went back to my bed
and sat on the edge of it, uncertain of what I was supposed to do;
during these periods of anticipation, had I been a smoker, I might have
lit up. I did not wish to spend the night there; anxiety clawed at the
walls of my stomach.
Through the window across the room, city lights twinkled like hundreds
of stars which had been hurled to the earth, spreading toward the
horizon in a grid-work of interesting lines. Soon my parents would
return to their hotel; I almost wished that they would leave, so I
could adjust to my new surroundings, for I would face tomorrow's test,
and the following operation; I had to find comfort within myself.
Mom and Dad kissed me goodnight, amid their internal struggle toward
leaving their little girl in the hands of strangers. Once they had
gone, my nervousness began to subside; anxiety breeds anxiety, and
lacking two generators, I now bore only my own.
Seeing that I was quite alone, a nurse entered the room bearing the
essentials of hospital life, issuing to me a gown, and placing kleenex
tissues and a thermometer and styrofoam water pitcher on my nightstand.
She routinely popped the thermometer into my mouth and took my blood
pressure and pulse rate; removing the thermometer from my mouth, she
glanced at the reading and made notations for her file. Before bidding
me goodnight, the nurse reminded me that I should eat nothing, nor
should I drink water after 6 a.m. the next morning; I nodded in
comprehensive agreement, and climbed beneath the sheets to stare at the
ceiling.
At first it was difficult to dispel my restless thoughts, and I fought
to find a comfortable position amongst the stiff sheets and unfamiliar
pillow. Yet at some unknown point in time, disquietude was overruled
by fatigue, and I was claimed by the obscure world where conscious and
unconscious thought are united as one. I drifted into a pleasant,
untormented sleep.
In the morning, quite soon after I had been awakened a nurse
administered a relaxant which quickly chased away negative emotions
that would have otherwise clogged my mind. I felt blissfully content
and agreeable as my senses numbed and were encircled by an unearthly
calm. I smiled dreamily as my parents descended upon my heavenly state
of awareness, speaking and receiving words which sounded distant and
muted, as those heard by one while swimming underwater, or standing
behind a heavy door.
Two interns arrived, wheeling a cart intended for my transport to
places unknown. They skillfully guided it past my parents with minimal
conversation, and easily hoisted me from the bed onto the
unquestionably hard surface. I waved goodby to Mom and Dad, who stood
dubiously watching as the men wordlessly rolled the stretcher down the
hall, and finally, after a fair amount of travel, found myself in an
expansive room, surrounded by gauges and meters by which a staff of
doctors and nurses stood awaiting my arrival.
The room itself was rather dark, which blended fittingly with my
semi-consciousness. While the staff worked about me, I remained awake
although my body was as limp and motionless as one in a coma. The
doctor injected a liquid dye into my vein, watching a monitor as it
slowly spread from the point of entry at the union of my leg and trunk,
and I began to feel weaker still. With markers, the doctor charted a
map on my stomach under the beam of a spotlight; I looked on
maintaining awareness through a power that no longer seemed to be my
own. It was crazy that people concerned themselves about death; I felt
more than half-way there; whether I drifted closer to life or to death
made no difference to me, then, for in all things existed only
tranquility...and that blissful unearthly calm.
Gravity tied me to the bed, and I laid like a dead thing, bound by an
invisible, unyielding weight. All afternoon I slept, and into the
deepest night; morning came, Tuesday morning, but I knew it not.
Though numbered words to my parents I spoke, I can recall nothing. In
my mind's hoard of memories, that morning never dawned before these
eyes.
For my parents, Monday, the day of the arteriogram, was spent primarily
in my room. They did little but watch in silence as I slept, breathing
quietly as dream after dream filtered through my subconscious mind.
Aside from mealtimes and occasional strolls to exercise their legs, my
parents remained near my bed until the ripe hours of the evening. Near
8 p.m. Mom was paged on the hospital intercom. Receiving the phone at
the Nurses Station, she found herself conversing with Dr. T., the
surgeon who would lead a team scheduled for my case the following day.
The operation would be of great consequence, and he wished Mom to fully
acknowledge that fact before it commenced; to all operations, a risk
was involved, and regarding the seriousness of the situation was of
utmost importance. Since the mass had so thoroughly encroached upon
the stomach, they would have to remove most of the stomach itself,
thereby reducing its overall size considerably; though the stomach
would stretch with time, it would never return to its original size.
The conversation came to a close. It seemed awful that a young girl,
Mom's little girl, should have to endure so much, so massive an
operation. She returned to the hospital room where I still breathed
steadily in a tranquil repose; while Dad received the portents of the
previous conversation, I was adrift on a sea bereft of anxiety or pain,
and ignorant of their anticipation, I did not stir when they stood to
return to their hotel.
The day of the operation had dawned amid countless hours of waiting,
yet the waiting for my parents had not ended; the minutes would drag
while I laid beyond their sight, and a doctor kindly advised that they
leave the building, for the operation would most surely prove quite
lengthy, and the hospital atmosphere had less to offer than did the
beauty of the nearby sanctuary on the hospital grounds. They
nodded, numbly deciding to try his remedy for over-wrought parents.
Mom and Dad found their way to the garden, their legs propelling leaden
bodies through some distant, unknown source of power. Ambling through
the sunlit passages like automatons, their eyes would focus, yet they
did not see. Finally disposing of the useless suggestion, they checked
their course and wheeled around to return to the hospital once more.
They felt compelled to be nearby, even though there was nothing with
which to occupy their senses; the operation so filled the capacity of
their thoughts that no other form of diversion was required.
I was in surgery for six hours. My parents were anxious, at times
pacing the hallways, and then sitting once again; despite the
voluminous weight which seemed to claim their energy and tax their very
soul, they were always watchful, ready to receive any news of the
progress from the operating room. Staring dismally at the various
activities that were going on about them, Mom suddenly noticed two
nurses wheeling a cart past the lounge where my parents were seated.
"Those are Laurie's things!" she exclaimed; suddenly overwhelmed by
the thought that I had died, and they were removing my personal effects
from the room. On rubber-like legs, she raced down the hall, adrenalin
giving her energy which seconds ago she had not possessed. Rushing up
to the nurses, she again cried out, "Those are Laurie's things!"
displaying fully the horror of her panic-stricken assumptions.
"Oh. . ." they replied "we're so sorry! We never would have moved her
things without telling you first if we knew you were sitting there.
You see, a room is vacant in the pediatrics ward, and we're taking her
things down there." The explanation heralded unspeakable relief,
and Mom returned to her seat, an older but less fearful woman.
Resuming their stationary poses, my parents waited, each fostering
thoughts of dread and flickers of hope. If only one did not have to
think during the long periods of uncertainty and ignorance, and could
somehow benumb the senses until the hours of darkness had passed! The
truth can burn the heart like a smouldering ember touched lightly to
the flesh, but waiting. . .waiting is the relentless torture of unseen
phantoms, made more hideous through one's blindness as the seconds
slink by, without an end.
A door opened, and Dr. T. strode toward my parents, who immediately
rose, brimming with questions. The doctor ushered them into a
conference room, and closed the door behind him. Already present were
Dr. M. and W. who had assisted him with the operation. The doctors
said that I was in the Intensive Care Unit, and would remain there for
several days until my condition had stabilized and I had regained some
strength. It had been a long and grueling operation; Dr. T. confessed
that when he first looked at the incredible mass in my stomach, he did
not believe that they would be able to remove it. The growth was
cancerous and severely advanced; having one baseball sized tumor and
several smaller ones in the stomach, it had begun fingering into the
pancreas as well. Nevertheless, they decided to work, the minutes
fading into hours, until their degree of progress flooded them with
hope. By the time they finished the operation the doctors felt quite
confident that they had removed the growth entirely.
Understandably pleased with their efforts and apparent success, the
doctors continued to further explain the cancer which had invaded my
stomach. The type that I had developed was called a "leiomyosarcoma,"
which was considered a low-grade cancer and one quite slow to spread.
Ninety-eight percent of those having that type of cancer were cured
simply through an operation alone. A factor which mystified them about
my case was that most leiomyosarcomas occurred in older women; why a
young girl of 13 would produce such a cancer seemed baffling.
Visitation time in the ICU was strictly monitored, and limited to
several minutes out of each hour. My parents were anxious to see me,
however, even if they could not long remain at my side. After the
conference had ended, they were guided into the dimly lit room which I
shared with others demanding close attention. Their eyes were greeted
by an alien spectacle, quite changed from their little girl who tromped
through the woods and gleefully rode her bicycle. A tube exiting my
nose was attached to a machine which suctioned out the contents
(acids, fluids, etc.) of my stomach while it healed. An intravenous
bottle dripped some unknown fluid through a long tube which trailed
down several feet and then disappeared under an ample wrapping of
cloth. The incision itself was hidden beneath my hospital gown, a full
six inches in length. Also concealed beneath my gown was a tube
connected to a small bag taped to my skin in which the seepage near the
wound would accumulate; called a "drain." It operated through gravity
alone.
PAGE 53
Chapter 11
Diagnosis and Recovery
"It was a word which bit the tongue like the crab for which it was
named. Cancer. It was not a word which rolled off the tongue, and
once in the air it remained there. . .cancer maimed. . .cancer killed."
"I had far too much confidence and hope to fly to the arms of despair,
for in despair, one finds no warmth or comfort."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Diagnosis and Recovery
I opened my eyes to a throbbing pain, and saw that my parents were
standing nearby. Blinking at them idly, my mom inched closer and ask,
"Honey, do you know us?"
Suddenly I felt as if I was an actress in some ridiculous soap opera;
the elements were all there, from the tragic figure of the patient to
the damp-eyed parents. Do I know them, I thought. "Of course I know
you!" I spat the words at them in obvious rage. They smiled at my
fighting spirit; it was a good sign. Had I been too weak, I would
have been incapable of such an emotional outburst. I suffered no
delirium, only intense pain. I despised pain, but more than that, I
was infuriated by phrases which at the time seemed to be idiotic
cliches when words do not easily yield to the tongue. Not impeding my
rapidly surfacing thoughts, another jolt of pain opened my mind. "I
wish I was dead!" My ill-chosen words were daggers to my parents,
whose faces were wrinkled with pains of their own. "Don't say that,
honey," responded Mom, hurt by my instantaneous verbal combustion.
Speech is something which, once flung into the air, cannot be repealed;
language is a component of memories, at times forgotten, but more often
returning to the mind. So it was that the life of my last phrase
during the visit has not yet reached its end, and lives still in our
recollections, a youthful tongue which dared to speak of death, indeed,
to welcome it, was that which emblazoned the imprint with such
permanence.
I was tired, and after gratefully receiving medication to ease the
pain, sank my head into the pillow. Mom and Dad had taken their leave;
there was not a great desire for small talk, even if they could have
produced it.
The following day found me in a much more civilized mood. All
post-operative grogginess had long since disappeared; my exhaustion
resulted only from my body's mad attempt to heal its scars. I was
constantly under observation, and soon adjusted to the frequency of the
temperature, pulse and blood pressure readings; those simple matters
were not disruptions at all.
In the morning I was introduced to the bedpan, and although my ego did
not merit any cruel blow, I found myself further humbled. With a
deplorable lack of skill, I managed to dampen myself and the bed
considerably; I was miserable. Fortunately, in that respect, it was
time to be weighed, and the nurses lifted me onto a table-like scale; I
remained there until my bed had been prepared anew, then was happily
replaced despite the agonizing trip to and from the bed.
Any extensive movement seemed to evoke pain, and I readily understood
the reason for my discomfort when I was bathed. In addition to the
regular routine, the nurse also changed my bandages. Seeing the
incision for the first time, I gawked in amazement, thoroughly
repulsed. The seams of the long gash rose above the surrounding skin,
and with the multitude of black stitches, resembled a rail-road track.
It seemed to me that it would leave a scar of monstrous proportions
looking, at the time, so hopelessly grotesque. Then I noticed the
drain located to the side of the incision, and was shocked to discover
that the soft rubber tube extended to my interior regions through an
open slash in my side. I'd not have thought it possible that one
could entertain such an opening without risking complete loss of one's
blood. I was learning new biological facts with each passing hour.
My parents visited each hour, sometimes speaking with the family
members of other "unfortunates" when I was not awake. It is in the
confines of a hospital that one learns he is not alone in his pain.
The boy who laid in the bed next to my own would literally "poop
himself out" during a bowel movement, losing his insides as well as the
excrement, while a child across the room had a valve on his head which
he could push when water accumulated, thereby releasing the pressure
and accompanying pain. I wondered how those children could ever lead
normal lives with their present situation appearing so dismal.
Although I existed in the present, I lived for the future and my return
home; accepting each moment, I fostered no suspicions that I would die,
having tumors removed; I knew nothing, as yet, of my tumors being
cancerous, for the grave seriousness of the operation I gathered
slowly, as I gained physical strength, since spirit I never lacked.
The business of getting better was simply a matter of time; "whether or
not" I would improve did not enter my mind. Feeling sick, followed by
recuperation and health were as inseparably linked as popcorn and salt.
I always "got better."
Later that evening, I announced that I had to use the bathroom. After
two subsequent failures earlier in the day, I rejected the bedpan with
obstinance; the contraption was immodest and impossible to operate
without the patient feeling horribly unclean. Moreover, I preferred a
dry bed to a wet one, and having twice illustrated my inadequacy for
the nurses, who then had the extra chore of changing my bed, I found
them more than agreeable toward the idea of escorting me to the
bathroom.
As I was helped to a sitting position, my mom looked on in unconcealed
surprise, thinking that I would certainly cry out in pain. With an
inquiring glance at one of the doctors, who happened to be making his
rounds, he smiled proudly and explained that, although it was more
difficult, they had worked around the stomach muscles during the
surgery, rather than severing them. Thus I was spared the excruciating
pain which further cutting would have wrought.
The adventure across the room was a success, and from that triumphant
hour, I no longer necessitated a bed pan; I had secured a far better
means of relief.
Although most of my hours spent in ICU consisted solely of rest, there
were those aspects of each day which I learned to abhor. The most
objectionable was the routine of pounding my back, enacted by one of
the hospital staff, to insure that I would not accumulate fluid in my
lungs. It was an obligatory function, I realized, yet it hurt
dreadfully. As I was instructed to lay on my side, the ruthless
process would begin, thereby releasing my protests as well. I remember
that I would beg them to stop; angry that I had to endure such hostile
treatment; I feared that the incision would burst open midway through
the ordeal, spilling my organs onto the bed sheets; that frightful
thought never materialized.
After a week of this stomach-wrenching routine, I was given a
contraption which was composed of two bottles, connected by four
plastic tubes, two of which were mouthpieces. One bottle contained a
blue solution, while the other was completely empty. This, I was told,
would be a substitute for the back-pounding if I would promise to use
it often throughout the day. The object of the device was to blow
through one mouthpiece with sufficient pressure as to transfer the
contents of the full bottle into the empty one. Then, once completed,
one would take up the alternate mouthpiece and repeat the process to
return the fluid to its original canister. Even though this procedure
was rather slow from the outset, I welcomed it if it would spare my
incision the pain which resulted from the blows to my back.
Among my other daily routines were shots, administered twice to my
thigh, and the blood profile, in which blood was drawn in the morning.
Those who drew blood were quite practiced in that area and rarely
created any unpleasant moments; when the veins in my arms became
uncooperative through constant use, their faces did not waver in
protest at the thought of probing my feet or ankles, which were in
better condition and actually quite accessible.
On Friday, the IV which had been in position since Tuesday began to
infiltrate, wherein the IV solution no longer ran only into the vein,
but into the surrounding tissue as well. My hand started to puff,
swelling into a spectacle which was twice the size of my other; with
all of the misdirected solution seeping into the tissues, I also began
to feel an annoying tightness which pained me when touched. I hoped
that something would be done to alleviate my discomfort, without the
expense of additional anguish, for at times, a remedy invited
unforeseen unpleasantries greater than the one with which a patient was
currently battling.
Dr. W. was called in the room to start a new IV in my other hand. I
hoped it would not be an ordeal, and remained silent as the probing
began. Aiming for a vein, the doctor edged the needle through my skin
and missing his target, attempted to strike it again and again by
manipulating the direction of the needle. I looked on, wincing, trying
desperately not to think at all. His method was not succeeding, and
he withdrew the needle to make ready to try another vein. Shifting his
position, he pierced through the flesh, striving for another site. The
vein rolled about, eluding the valid efforts of the doctor, and once
again, he pulled the point from my hand to ready himself for his third
attempt. I was holding my breath, uncertain how long I could withstand
the slow, methodical jabbing. The needle was again thrust beneath my
flesh, poking back and forth as each try was foiled; in exasperation,
Dr. W. pulled the needle from my hand, stating resolutely, "I'm not
going to hurt you again!" and fled the ward in search of another doctor
to fill his duty.
Several minutes passed, and then a bearded doctor strode toward my bed,
introducing himself as Dr. A. I greeted him politely, though quite
wary, now, at the prospect of having to possibly relive the previous
experience. My fears were groundless, however, for he quickly guided
the needle into a vein and wrapped my hand to secure its position. I
thanked him gratefully, branding his face and name into my memory. The
following day I was transferred to the pediatrics ward, no longer
requiring constant observation. It was a pleasing change; the rooms
were light and cheerful in comparison to the ICU, and the hallways were
brightly painted, having here and there, small lounges for the benefit
of both the young patients and their families. The room boasted a TV,
which, after four days of silence, was welcome entertainment. As an
added bonus, I was now able to receive mail, as well as several lovely
flower arrangements, which had not been allowed in the unit, and as a
result, spent their first days at the nurse's station. The flowers and
plants brought life and color to the room's overall whiteness, and
reminded me of the genuine concern which, initially, I had been too
alienated by pain to realize. The most important part of my day was
the mail delivery; the majority of my cards and letters came from
members of the church and my family. The church response was utterly
amazing, and my days would have proven quite dreary had it not been for
their continuous demonstration of awareness regarding my condition.
I learned the full story behind my operation after my transferral to
pediatrics. "A base-ball sized tumor. . . ," I marveled. "Did they
keep it?" Mine was a question spurred by outright surprise and wonder.
I had no real desire to see the ugly mass. I remembered how the
various organs looked floating in a pool of formaldehyde on the shelves
of the biology room, and shuddered, not caring to see something which
was, most likely, far more grotesque to the eye. "It was a low-grade
form of cancer," Mom continued, "but they feel quite sure they got it
all . . ."
"Quite sure. . ." my mind echoed. Somehow that did not seem proof
enough. Cancer. I had heard of it before, everyone had. It was a
word which bit the tongue like the crab for which it was named.
Cancer. It was not a word which rolled off the tongue, and once in the
air, it remained there, like the seeds of a ghastly plague which was
feared with revulsion. Cancer maimed. Cancer killed.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I drank in the magnitude of my
hospitalization and the many implications of having reared such a
growth in my stomach. Although my progress appeared good and the
doctors believed in their operative finesse with pride and confidence,
I could not embrace the idea of my health as a steadfast quality; I
possessed an elusive disquietude in the recesses of my mind which would
sound an alarm and shield my heart from the brutal disappointment of
having placed my dreams in an unattainable void. My voiceless
apprehension would create no problem, housed as it was, in the back of
my mind; remaining mute, except unto myself, it would hinder no one's
happiness should the doctor's certainty and everyone's hopes
materialize, least of all my own. A positive result contrary to one's
innermost beliefs is a most precious one, indeed.
The days passed within the exacting boundaries of the hospital routine.
Each morning I was weighed, given a shot in the thigh, and then held a
thermometer firmly between my lips while the nurse took my pulse and
blood pressure readings. The drain was checked and sometimes emptied,
as was the canister into which my stomach contents were suctioned.
Several hours later my parents would arrive after eating their
breakfast. We talked a little, and then Dad would stroll casually out
of the room while Mom helped me to bathe. One of the doctors made a
morning visit between 8:00 and 10:00; usually Dr. W. or M. were
assigned to the daily rounds, although Dr. T. did occasionally stop to
examine the scar and inquire about my general health. It mattered
little who stopped in; I liked them all for their various qualities.
Dr. T. was strong, yet compassionate; he understood and empathized with
the concerned patients and family members, utilizing tact and
well-chosen words throughout all conversation. He made the patient
feel comfortable, in good hands; if he did not feel for his patients,
he made a fine performance.
Dr. M. reminded me of one of my cousins, with dark hair and kind, dark
eyes which were a compliment to his character. Younger than Dr. T. ,
he was efficient but gentle in his work, and had an easy personality
which won my trust and admiration.
Dr. W. had a character quite separate from the other two, which
demanded time to appreciate. W. possessed an incredible air of
confidence almost akin to haughtiness, which made any failure a black
eye. There was an inexplicable humor to his manner, however, which
redeemed brusque behavior, for he was not too proud to, in some way,
admit defeat.
A few days after my transferral to the semi-private room, I decided
that it was time to remedy my poor vision and insert my contact lenses.
An occasional lens wearer himself, Dr. W. proclaimed that I would
never be able to wear them for the entire day after not having inserted
them for over a week's time. I shrugged, saying that I was still going
to try, as W. dismissed himself from the room. With an IV in one hand,
and my other free, I manipulated the bottles of solution and the
contacts until I succeeded in their insertion. Pleased that I had
accomplished the feat, one-handed, for all practical purposes, I sat
back in my bed and delighted in my ability to "see" once again. The
nurses' faces were recognizable at a distance, the TV shows gained the
added impact of facial expressions and the flower arrangements stood
against the wall with a new clarity. I could even peer from my window
and watch the pedestrians milling about in front of the hospital steps
and the fluid movement of the traffic through the streets.
At night, Dr. W. stopped again. "I'm wearing my contacts," I told him
with a smile. "You wore them all day?." he asked, rather awestruck.
"Yeh, I did!" He was speechless, shaking his head in disbelief as he
walked out of the door. When I was alone I marveled at the beauty of
the city lights, which had only yesterday seemed a hazy melding of
fluorescent tubing, stretching toward an unknown obscurity; the lights
became sharp points of white before my eyes, mingled now and again with
the red flash of a car's tail lights or the green glow of a traffic
signal. I stared out the window, picturing the night in my mind,
wishing I was bound northward in one of the streaming points of light.
As the traffic raced by, lost, finally in the darkness, I wondered if
they knew how lucky they were, OUT THERE; I really wondered if they
knew. . .
With my stomach on a slow route to recovery, I had not eaten for many
days, nor would I hope to eat for many more. The pancreas needed to
heal as well, and the doctors would not allow food to pass through my
lips until it had shown signs of improvement. I did not have a
breakfast tray to look forward to each morning, so after one of the
doctors stopped by, I would roll off the bed, and, escorted by my
parents, walk down the halls, leaning slightly from the tightness of
the incision and grasping the pole on which my IV hung suspended, still
dripping a tasteless breakfast into my vein. During these strolls, my
"nose hose" was detached from the suction mechanism and clipped to my
gown like a hideous corsage. At first I was embarrassed by the
decidedly gruesome appearance of the hose, filled as it was, with
mucous and blood, but eventually I grew accustomed to the people on the
floor and discovered, also, that others wore my unusual apparatus as
well. Perhaps misery does not love company as much as it loves
compassion and understanding. Thus I would skirt the corridors in both
directions, heading "right" toward the craft room, or "left" which lead
to the canteens. Usually taking a left turn out of my room, I would
amble down the hall to contemplate the vast selection of cold
sandwiches, snacks and candy which could be had simply through feeding
one's pocket change into the coin slots. I stood wistfully before the
machines, pointing out to my parents what I would choose when I could
eat food again.
Although the stomach suction prevented me from feeling hunger pangs, it
was the taste of food that I so horribly missed. Moreover, mealtime
broke the monotony of a bland routine; it was something pleasant to do,
exercising the mouth. It disturbed me to see someone jawing his food
disinterestedly or poking at a meal which, in his opinion, lacked
aesthetic appeal. Meal trays would often be returned sporting a
delectable piece of dessert or fruit; I would peer at the specimens,
sighing that I could not save the morsel from the trash heap.
Food became my favorite mind-game as my stomach gradually healed. We
pursued the canteen route quite frequently throughout the day, and each
time I would gaze at the treats, yearning for a taste of something. . .
anything. . .besides the mint of my toothpaste.
I was not allowed to swallow food or liquid of any kind; even water was
forbidden. My throat became dry, despite its occasional rinsing, and
the tube which ran from my nose to my stomach only hindered the
situation. I decided to test my luck and ask for ice, reasoning that
the excessive coldness might aid my throat to a degree, even though I
could not actually swallow any of it. Since my saliva would become
frigid through the presence of the ice, perhaps the throat would
benefit from the slight trickling of cold moisture. To my amazement,
they agreed to give me a glass of ice chips at various intervals
through the day providing I would only chew the ice, and then spit it
into a metal bowl for that specific purpose; I shook my head "yes" in
vigorous excitement at the proposal. In time, I was even allowed to
swallow one or two teaspoonsful of ice each time. It was a small, but
significant favor, for which I was exceedingly grateful.
As I improved, I sought other forms of entertainment aside from
watching television, which included the use of my hands. In my
opinion, the hospital craft room was an ingenious installment. I had
always loved art, and in that room, one could purchase various kits
which were self-contained, having all the necessary tools and
materials, for a minimal price. It took no time at all before I had
selected two kits, and dispatched myself to my room to begin the
projects. I also enjoyed drawing, and having remembered my sketch book
from home, I made several drawings from the items in my room and the
objects I saw in magazines. When I was not involved with drawing,
however, I lusted at the food photographs and greedily read each
mouth-watering recipe. It must have seemed a curious endeavor, for my
parents would watch me in good-natured humor as I sat enthralled, a
mere twig propped between numerous pillows, lingering over pictures as
if I was haunted by food's memory.
Mom and Dad would eat lunch outside of the hospital, and often walked
about afterward to exercise their stiff limbs. Neither of them were
idle folk, and the long, exhaustive hours spent with me were difficult
for that reason, as well as many, more obvious ones. It was fortunate
that I happened to be hospitalized during August, for the weather was
fine and conducive to jaunts through a park or the city streets. A
shopping mall was located in the area, and they would often stop there
to buy a small gift, which they would present to me upon their return.
As the weeks progressed I had collected a menagerie of small clay
animals which I displayed on a nearby nightstand; it was affection made
visible. When my parents were gone, the treasures were a reminder of
their love throughout the night; staring vacantly out the window, I
knew that despite the impersonal glare of the city lights below, two of
the people out there cared for me.
Mail delivery was an exalted highlight of the day, arriving sometime
after the lunch hour. I had always loved mail, yet this lavish
assortment of cards and letters was a recipe for happiness, and helped
to alleviate the disappointment of not having received a lunch tray.
The opening of mail was a tremendous pastime, bringing rhyme and
laughter to the afternoon. After reading the cards, I would reread
them, picturing the individual or family who took the time to send the
cards. The familiar names written at the bottom of a card or note
conjured images of home... and of friends, which instilled my parent's
day with warmth, even as it had enlightened my own.
Two weeks had passed since Dr. A. had started my IV in the ICU when it
began to infiltrate. Hating to remove it, the nurses would fiddle with
the needle's position, pushing or pulling, and try to ignore the fact
that it, like all good things, must come to an end. I tried to bear
up to its failure, but also hoped wildly that the IV would function for
one. . .more. . .day. The trials I had endured before Dr. A.'s success
were still fresh in my memory.
Despite repeated attempts to save my two week old ally, its rapid
failure demanded attention as my hand swelled like a balloon and the
vein in which the needle resided stung intensely; it could no longer
remain unnoticed in my distorted hand. The needle was pulled, and the
nurses went in search of a willing person to "install" another.
As a replacement for my duo-purpose IV, which dripped nourishment as
well as an anti-infection drug into my system, I somehow found myself
with an IV in both arms, one for each purpose, leaving my hands
virtually immobile and completely useless for any sort of craft that I
might have desired to undertake. This certainly was a lousy state of
affairs, I thought, contemplating the television rather sullenly amid
my twisted array of tubes. Dr. W. entered the room holding his
clipboard and beheld the new entanglement which extended into both
arms. "Well, looks like you won't be putting in your contacts
tomorrow." I thought I detected a note of triumphant glee in his
voice. "I don't know. . ." I answered, my voice trailing off into
nothingness; the new day would reveal what I could and could not do.
With the dawn I found that many things were considerably more difficult
to accomplish. After bathing, with Mom's assistance, I succeeded in
the insertion of my contacts, however, even though the process required
more time and effort than it had previously. Shortly thereafter Dr. W.
pranced into the room. "Hi!" I said cheerfully, eyeing him with
obvious mirth and unaccountably good spirits. He looked at me from
behind his clipboard. "I put 'em in!" He gazed at me with dumbfounded
astonishment and self-consciously adjusted his glasses. "I didn't think
you could possibly do it with IV's in both arms. . ." he said, his voice
shedding its tone of superiority and knowledge.
I grinned at him widely from my bed.
The following day, Dr. W. wore his contacts.
After Dr. W. had departed, blinking with stolid determination due to
his brave and noble undertaking, Dr. T. paid me a visit. Asking about
my condition, I could not refrain from lamenting my lack of mobility;
I no longer was able to draw or take up a craft, among other
difficulties. He easily perceived my frustration and proclaimed,
"Well then, this won't do!" and made plans for an alternate solution;
I beamed with joy to think that I would be able to resume my former
activities.
That afternoon, I was greeted by Dr. M. who had received instructions
to replace one of my IV's to a vein located slightly below my neck,
which would be a more permanent, as well as a more comfortable
position. He asked my parents to leave the room; I began to panic! If
the insertion of the IV was going to create a lot of pain, I wanted no
part of it. I was suddenly stricken with fear, as if all of the events
of the past weeks were thrust upon me at once. I could bear no more,
and tears welled up in my eyes in apprehension for the relatively
simple procedure; I had already withstood much worse, yet my emotional
limit had been reached.
I sat, set-eyed, while Dr. M. set to work. Trying to anticipate a stab
of pain, I watched him nervously as the minutes sailed by. "There," he
said, leaning away from me. "You're not done, are you?" I asked, quite
certain that the worst was yet to come, for I had felt no urge
whatsoever to flinch or grit my teeth; I had felt no sensation at all.
"I'm all finished," he said with a smile. "But it didn't hurt at all!"
I said incredulously, nearly wanting to hug him. "Like," I said,
"sometimes people feel pain, and other times they don't." I looked at
him in admiration.
After the episode with the IV, Dr. M. won my undiluted and devoted
trust; he was the doctor who actually performed the bulk of the work
load in my case, and as the weeks passed, I knew it was he who I would
miss, more than anyone, when I had shed my hospital gown for street
attire. Whereas Dr. T. seemed rather like a paternal figure, and Dr.
W. a sibling rival, I came to look upon Dr. M. as a friend. It was a
shame, I thought, that some patients never regard their doctor as a
human being, seeing only the suit or white jacket and ignoring the
features beyond.
As the days wore on, feeling myself to have become a permanent fixture,
I developed a friendly relationship with one of my numerous roommates.
She was slightly older than myself, fifteen perhaps, and had come to
the clinic from a southern state. As we rattled on, I found myself
unintentionally mimicking her accent, as I often would do when engaged
in conversation with one boasting a heavy accent. I always tried to
control my propensity, and succeeded when speaking to someone else, yet
to her I would inevitably twang the words off my tongue with a hint of
a southern drawl; she did not appear to notice, however, and I am sure
that if she had she would not have been insulted.
Julie resided across the room for more days than anyone else, for her
condition quite perplexed the physicians. She, as well as her entire
family, suffered from acute fatigue; throughout the better portion of
the day she felt sleepy, and could nap at any time the order was given.
Eventually they released her from the hospital's care, unable to
pinpoint the problem after countless tests, both mental and physical.
Julie accompanied me on my trips through the halls, and grew accustomed
to standing beside me as I stared dreamily at the canteens. Her
companionship helped to stave off monotony as the month of August
limped along. Even after she was dismissed, Julie still came to visit,
as she was staying in the city while tests on other family members were
run.
Perhaps there were those who were lonely in the hospital, yet I seldom
felt so myself. Having my parents throughout the majority of the day,
augmented by patients that one would inevitably begin to recognize and
the friendly staff of doctors and nurses, I lacked no conversation.
The hospital was quite populous. At night though, when the bustle of
the day had diminished and the corridors fell silent except for the
rumbling of an occasional cart, and the muffled steps of the nurses
performing their nightly rituals or answering a patient's light, I
would often lay awake and think of my home far away or watch the people
hurrying along the sidewalk below my window, disappearing into a car or
stepping from beneath a street lamp into a pool of darkness. How I
longed to be out there. . . to feel the breeze, cool on my face, and
hear the faint scraping of my footsteps resounding on the cem
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/37060