May 30, 1976… Had chemotherapy at home. It took a long time to get all of the things situated. It was injected, I threw up, etc., and then we went home.
May 31, 1976… Had Chemo. It took an awful long time today. Home.Watched T.V.
Chemotherapy, administered at home in Moline was an improvement which boosted my morale. For the first time my diary entries did not consist merely of sad faces and hurriedly scrawled "BLAH'S." I didn't feel "good," but I seemed to feel "better." I could breathe fresh air instead of the motel's stale stagnancy of bygone cigarette ashes. I could even throw up in my own toilet. Home treatment was indeed a delight.
June 2, 1976… I got sick tonite. I guess it's just the chemotherapy doing its duty! I made myself barf at 10:00 p.m. I should have barfed sooner.
Summer 1976
Summer was always a time of change, and many transformations touched my life with the coming of the month of June. School was out of session, and consequently, my tutor's last day was the 3rd; I now shared more in common with the other students in that a three month recess from education had just begun, and the fall semester would find me, like them, returning to junior high.
Mom, too, closed the door of her Kindergarten classroom for the summer, although she still persisted in pursuing various projects which related to her employment during her free time. She was home, however, and that was the most important thing. It seemed to me that life was returning to normal and I felt less alienated from society since there was more activity surrounding my home. Despite other changes I still looked forward to mail, especially with the advent of my subscription for pen pals; however, I also found my other mailings to be of great interest, and appreciated each envelope with my name on it. An advertisement for the sale of Christmas cards found its way into my hands one morning, and after reading all of the information, I wondered if I should try to sell the cards door to door for added Christmas income. As I mulled over the idea, Mom noticed the pile of literature scattered upon the kitchen table, and briefing herself slightly, proclaimed that it would be a wonderful way to "present myself to people" through my own initiative and heartily applauded the idea.
Several days of thought ensued before I decided to sell the cards; the profit eventually cinched the matter, overshadowing my fear of knocking on doors and being rejected by potential customers. It was fun to see my neighbors, and I felt comfortable standing outside their doors even if my visit was basically business related. I walked up and down my block, collecting orders and trying to gain courage through the sales which I had already enlisted, for I would soon scout further territory wherein I knew few names and equally few faces.
As I had suspected, my sales declined rapidly once I ventured outside of the neighborhood, and my bravery and spirit departed "en masse." I had detested trying to sell Girl Scout cookies, and I strained to find a reason why I felt that selling cards would prove to be any different. It was different, however, because it was worse; no one recognized the company whose cards I was attempting to sell, and furthermore, I had to collect the money and make the necessary change (which horrified me) at the time of the order, rather than the delivery of the cards. I soon had more than enough refusals to warrant my dismissal of any idea of making further sales.
June 25, 1976… Got dressed and went out on 53rd St. selling (or trying to sell) my cards. No one bought a thing. A lot of 'em gave excuses like, "I just got home from the hospital" and "I buy from a girl down the block and don't want to hurt her feelings" ETC. !! What do they think they're doing to me?
July 1, 1976… This week has seemed endless. I wake up and Mom says, "You'd better start selling your cards, hadn't you?" and so I do and I come back half zonked and then I do some chores around the house and then write letters. I feel real depressed… I didn't sell any cards today. . . didn't feel like it. After some persuading I went to (the mall ) with Mom. Ate supper. Did dishes, piano, wrote letters… the same old grind! I'm taking a bath and I wish someone would buy me some bath oil… I think I deserve it after this week!
July 3, 1976… Counted my money for Xmas cards and I came out $17.00 short. After all that work! I cried for at least a half hour. I was really broke up. I did a lot of change making wrong.
Salesmanship was definitely not my station in life, and not understanding how to make change supported that belief. If, for each sale of a $4.95 box of cards, I was given a five dollar bill, my notion of making change concluded that, since it was under five dollars, the person should receive one dollar, plus five cents to bring the 95 cents to a dollar. My only salvation came by way of checks or a patron telling me the amount of change he was due; otherwise, my blunders rampaged unnoticed, or at least, unrevealed.
Had I been of stout health, my disappointment would not have settled so deeply on my heart, but the embarrassment and mental fatigue doubled with the recollection of the energy I had expended… I felt used and humiliated "after all that work!…" and the tears flowed unrestrained.
Unasked, Mom and Dad made up the difference in the end, thus rescuing me from the depths of self-wrought despair. My work had not been in vain after all.
July 29th was my dad's last day of work as a tool and die maker at John Deere Industrial Equipment after 17 years of service. The following day, a Friday, he appeared at the shop for a final farewell.
Retirement for my dad was a rather melancholy affair; it was the end to an age, and the commencement of a new and different lifestyle. He had worked since he was 18 years old with the idea that work… productiveness… paralleled one's self-worth, which, in a society that is inter-dependent upon each other's conscientiousness, is quite useful… until a good worker retires and considers himself to be of no more importance than a bald tire. A full life of integrity on the job is all that society requires of anyone; retirement viewed in this scope is justly earned.
Dad's party was an acknowledgement of his worth to us, which grew only greater with the passing of one year to the next. His labors around the house amplified his presence, and it seemed that all he did for us were reflections of his love. Dad most certainly did not waste away in front of the television or newspaper in his retirement; work was more than ethical… it was a welcomed pastime.
We departed for Colorado the day following Dad's retirement celebration, and for awhile, it seemed as if nothing of such consequence had occurred in the family. Vacations were a summer-time tradition which, that year, meant a ten day absence from home while we skirted the southern Rocky Mountains and climbed about ancient Indian villages, nestled under precipitous overhangs in cliffs. I eagerly tested my new camera, a purchase of several weeks earlier and harvest of many months of saving, as each new scene presented itself. Initially battling with the aperture and speed controls amid haphazard focusing, I eventually began to understand the mechanics of my machine and concentrated on the actual making of photographs. Scenic vistas and close-ups became my favorite subjects, since people often cringed at the sight of a camera and I did not desire to fight derision with obstinance; flowers were far more cooperative, especially on a calm day.
A trip from home always made me appreciate the routine which was temporarily discarded. As we began to find eastbound routes, my excitement rose almost to the point it had reached upon our departure; and while I was happy that we had gone west, I delighted in the knowledge that my own bed was hours away.
Shortly after we arrived home, Mom and I had to leave for Mayo Clinic. We had planned our vacation according to Dad's retirement date and the latter portion of time between my treatments; the close proximity of the dates made our adrenalin race, yet all appointments were easily kept.
We had reached a turning point, for the series was to be my last set of injections and miraculously, I did not feel as nauseous as in the past. After the second day of treatment, we headed home with the costly drugs. With the final three days of chemotherapy administered at home, I had a better selection of appealing foods from which to choose my infrequent snacks, and found popsicles to be a boon to my situation; each afternoon I returned from the doctor's office and raided the refrigerator.
My final treatment was administered on the 20th of August, and happened to be a memorable affair. The drug infiltrated into my arm. It hurt like crazy. The scarlet-hued drug seeped onto the flesh of my hand as well. Once the feat had been accomplished and the needle withdrawn, I did not stop to wash the red drug from my hand, but exited gratefully from the doctor's office to the summer day outside. The treatments were over! It was hard to believe! Now "the end" was reality rather than a fantastic dream beyond my ability to reach! Once home, I tried to wash the red stain from my hand. Curiously, it eluded the soap and water; I stared at the spot quizically, wondering when it would disappear. It never did.
Return To School
August 21, 1976… got sick. It was around 11:30 p.m. Dad got up and helped me. I barfed and then my throat burned. I never had that before. Dad held me awhile… He's the best dad in the world.
The end of the treatment did not mean that I would no longer become sick or weak, and as I prepared myself to return to school, I knew it would not, at first, be an easy adjustment. The calendar did not pause for me to gain strength, however, and five days following my final injection, I went to register for fall classes. The administrators were quite understanding and tried their best to ease my nervousness, making it clear that I should come to the nurse's office for a daily afternoon snack and at any time I felt ill. I would be excused from physical education classes through a note from my doctor, and spend that hour in the library. I felt encouraged to know that I could escape the horrors of P.E., especially since I had to wear a wig and my energy level was quite below normal. Perhaps the reinitiation into junior high would not measure up to my fears, I thought, and went home relieved. Five days passed and the schools opened throughout the city.
August 30, 1976… Got up at 6:30 a.m. and got dressed. I ate some Cream-of-Rice, but not much since this is the first day of school. Left and picked up Kristi…I saw some of the kids I knew and some didn't recognize me at first. Went to my homeroom and stayed there an hour. We filled out our schedules and that's about it.
August 31, 1976… Couldn't eat breakfast very well. I was so nervous… saw Kristi after Dad dropped me off and we talked awhile before we had to go in the classes… Some kids said stuff about my wig. A girl just stared at my head and a guy behind me suggested to another kid to pull it off. He didn't, and thank God! I was pooped when I got home. I was upset, too.
It was difficult to maintain my courage after hearing such threats, but I knew that if I allowed myself to cower in fear before the aggressive words, the likelihood of my avoiding further taunts would have been reduced. That day, without saying a word, I turned a searing, humorless gaze upon my potential attackers, whose faces were forever branded in my memory. They never followed through with their suggestion, but if they had, it is my belief that they would have sustained more astonishment at my hairlessness than was their intention; word of mouth transactions possess little accuracy, and some individuals, perhaps, thought I wore a wig over my own hair for the fun of it.
I had few problems surrounding the wig after the first weeks of school, and the kids realized that I was not among the gregarious crowd, who would adorn themselves for amusement and attention, but rather sported the hairpiece through necessity. Although the "necessity" for my wig remained vague for certain individuals, other people were blatant in their curiosity; one such individual was the girl described as having "stared at my head," who wasted little time before quizzing me whether or not "that" was "a wig." I was almost relieved that she was bold enough to ask, for I hoped that, once her inquiry had been satisfied, she would cast her annoying gaze elsewhere. Masking any embarrassment I might have felt, I looked at her directly and admitted that, yes,I did wear a wig, and that I had to do so because I'd taken chemotherapy treatments for cancerous tumors in my stomach; the treatment made me lose my hair, but it would eventually return. Her gaze softened, and after assuring herself once again that my hair would grow back, turned around to face the front of the room. I heaved a sigh of relief and applauded the usefulness of honesty.
As I reflected upon the various traumas associated with my lack of hair, I was amazed at the power which people wield over the moods of others whose lives are touched by their kind or abusive words or actions. My cousin Gary, who lives next door, came over one morning before I'd donned my wig, yet due to his natural and inoffensive attitude toward my appearance, I remarked in my diary that "He saw me while I didn't have my wig on, but it didn't bother me too much tho." How different was his reaction than that of another relative who lives across the country; this relative derived immense pleasure from forcible, obnoxious treatment of children, over whom he reigned absolute bodily control albeit their distaste for his repulsive presence. I attracted his sadistic attention in his later visits since I was the youngest of our family, and so it was that on one occasion he grabbed me in an attempt to make me sit on his lap, and I, struggling to free myself from his vise-like grip, found myself wrestled to the floor, pinned beneath the stench of his armpits and unwholesome breath. The more I writhed to flee from his ugly imprisonment, the more he seemed to enjoy his power. I looked around at the group of family members who encircled the living room, but no one found anything amiss in his actions, perhaps considering the scene of no more consequence than innocent horseplay. But I knew better; this was a man whose fixation for children passed beyond benign teasing and friendly adoration; something in his touch spoke of an urge to seize and capture, to hurt and control… his touch was wrong.
I was able to feel that which the attending adults could not possibly have seen, and every ounce of my strength resisted his force. Since it was late in the evening, I wore pajamas and a bonnet, and I strained desperately to assure that the latter remained atop my head; I could not escape his paws, perhaps, but I had resolved that he should not see my baldness, pulling the bonnet closer about my head when the chance presented itself.
It seemed that the struggle was without an end. Then he suddenly plucked the shielding bonnet from my head. His action drained the fighting spirit from my mind and replaced it with humiliation. I felt as if my dignity had been raped, and sunk to the carpet in exhaustion. A heavy silence draped the conversation in the room as all eyes focused on the scene before them. My sister's eyes narrowed sympathetically, and the light-heartedness drained from her voice as she uttered a long, descending "Ohhhh!"… and fell silent. Considering the fun was over, he released my captive arms, wearing a wide and sickening grin on his face. I immediately rolled over without a word, ran from the room to the basement, where I hid behind the sectional couch.
Clasping my bent knees in a tight hug, I cried silent tears of rage and degradation, and stayed hunched in the corner for at least ten minutes. I hoped wildly that he would not pursue me, and when I heard heavy foot-falls on the upstairs landing, I held my breath. "Bye, Laurie." His words assailed my ears like fingernails grating across a chalkboard. I hated to reply, but feared that silence on my behalf would stir a need in him to "seek and find," as if involved in some childish game; I gathered my faculties together and forced a faint "Bye" from my lips. I did not sound enthused, but it produced the desired effect. The back door closed abruptly and silence followed.
As I adjusted to school, I became more outgoing, reacquainting myself with former classmates and introducing myself to "new" students. A teacher allowed me to join the year book committee, and I was selected as one of three "Art Editors." School was actually beginning to be fun for me, and my inhibitions were swallowed by enthusiasm. My wig, though a constant awareness, was not a source of fear and nausea, though an inconvenience, was something with which I had learned to live.
While I was not "popular" at school, I was accepted and had several good friends; it was all that I had ever desired from social groups, and was as comfortable as my self-consciousness allowed. Because I had begun a new year, my parents compelled me to go to church and its related functions as well. I hoped for the best, and for a brief time I felt somewhat attuned to the group and attempted to involve myself in conversation. As the year progressed, however, the tightly woven friendships no longer peered outside of their circle, and I once again felt shunned; there were several individuals who were always friendly to everyone, yet without their support, my alienation from the group seemed as concrete as the church's foundation.
Oct. 10, 1976… Church and Sunday School. Felt really out of things.I almost cried.
Oct. 28, 1976… Share Group tonite. Only one person said hi to me when I came in. Cried at home.
That which I found most distressing was the fact that I had to be among people who did not care for my company and simultaneously engender religious and meaningful growth through this association and interaction. I was being asked to fulfill an impossible dream. Religion was intended to be an uplifting experience; I felt only emptiness. It would be a long and solitary road, perhaps, but fulfillment would come. I would side-step the busy highway and seek my peace alone.
The changes at home were now quite visible, for Dad had transformed into an all-day phenomenon, righting wrongs, remodeling and redecorating with such diligence that, to watch him, one might well have thought his employment was for pay. Throughout the week, he retrieved me from school, and often we would stop for a snack, browsing in shops afterwards; I enjoyed these outings, especially after a wearing day. Dad was now the one who received news while it was still fresh, gaining first hand knowledge which often a child would neglect to pass on a second time to a working father; with his retirement, it was especially important that he did not feel cast out of the mainstream.
Another visible change in the household was the reappearance of my brother Todd, who, following the collapse of certain jobs and aspirations in Chicago, decided to come home to more hospitable surroundings and search for employment opportunities. Although his eyes were blackened in the figurative sense, nothing slowed him down. Each day his feet scoured the cement; no door was left unopened. If there was a job to be had in the area, he would find it.
It did not take very long for Todd's search to reach an end, and he gladly left the "street sweeping" to someone else. Working for an elevator company, as it turned out, did not have its ups and down, and my brother found himself adequately employed in a stable firm. I too reaped the benefits of his new position when he took me to the company's annual dinner. "You wouldn't believe the size of the roast and potato!" I raved in my diary; I was duly impressed. Meanwhile…
Nov. 17, 1976… Norm and Tracy went on a vacation. They may be gone a month. I guess they quit their jobs!
At the time, jobs were scarce, and most individuals were taking precautions to assure that they held secure positions and did not create any inconveniences within their company. The sudden flight on Norm and Tracy's behalf was a surprise and concern to us, yet nothing appeared to be wrong. "Maybe they are taking a honeymoon that is three years overdue," I thought, and wiped the cobwebs of apprehension from my mind; "It will sure seem strange without them on Thanksgiving, though," I reflected drearily.
My consultations at Mayo Clinic were scheduled every three months for the first year following chemotherapy, with the first check-up falling one week before Thanksgiving. The blood tests and X-ray were the only tests I was given, which did not seem at all rigorous to me. Although blood was increasingly more difficult to extract due to the scar-tissue present in my veins from the many needles they had endured, the blood tests were not a threat to my well-being; X-rays also, were painless. In the afternoon we met with Dr. E. for the consultation and found that my health was perfectly sound. The only concern was for my lungs, which housed a small "spot" of unknown character; this would be monitored through X-rays the doctor explained, and should cause no worry. All signs were favorable; the lungs would be watched as a precaution, since those having recurrences of my type of cancer were affected in the lungs.
I was pleased with the outcome of my tests, but did not allow myself to overflow with enthusiasm. "Everything's O.K.," I wrote in my diary, followed by a happy face; beyond that, I preferred not to think about health, for exuberance seemed premature and inappropriate.
Norm and Tracy returned in time for Thanksgiving which delighted me no end. They had been absent less than a week, yet I spent little time pondering over their formerly stated intention of taking a month's vacation; practicality was probably the reason for their hasty reappearance, since smiles were in ample supply. Tracy even called to ask what to bring for the dinner, and on the day of the feast, presented a loaf of homemade pumpkin bread to my mom.
Everything seemed terrific and consequently, depression on ThanksgivingDay made no sense.
Nov. 25, 1976… Thanksgiving. I really didn't eat too much, I couldn't. I didn't feel too great. I was really depressed. Went outside to shoot some arrows. Tracy came out and we had a big talk about things…
I was becoming more susceptible to mood fluctuation as the year wore away, and knew that my depression was part of reaching adulthood. Every textbook revolving around the subject of health made such statements, underlining the fact that one's teenage years were often the most difficult to bear. Instability appeared to be the rule rather than the exception as my body and mind secured various realms of adulthood yet failed to grasp the elusive wholeness of maturity. Moments of bliss could be attacked by the shadow of torment and indecision. I wished to be the self-sufficient master of my life, yet I first needed to define my beliefs and pinpoint my destination. I wanted to make headway, to abandon the circular path of dependence and strike my own course through shaded lairs of uncertainty.
One area in which I had little uncertainty about my inevitable goal was the desire for my own home. Whenever I visited the homes of my sister or brother, I could seldom resist a long draught of intoxicating enthusiasm from the stream of ideas rampaging wildly through my head. When I was back in my room again, I surveyed the purchases which I had made through the years and happily applauded my preference for mature objects (aside from the stuffed animals) and considered myself to be well on my way toward furnishing a place of my own. Cogwheels carrying new and magnificent ideas continually worked within my consciousness and refused to slow their relentless pace. When my zest was aired to my parents, their reactions sometimes grated with the ceaseless amblings of my dreams. Trying to illustrate the fine proportions of an idea to them was like attempting to open a rusty lock; I would surrender in frustration and prepare an alternative route.
Dec. 27, 1976… Went to (the mall ) with Mom. Looked at china. Saw one (pattern) I liked and wanted to start a hope chest. Told Dad and of course he didn't approve. By the time I am allowed to get a set, that design will be obsolete.
At fifteen, my likes and dislikes were well established, and I did not fear that I would one day regret the rustic pattern which caught my eye. Never before had I seen china dishes that meshed with my idea of perfection, and I revolted internally when my proposition was dashed. My dad stood firm, however, saying that it was pointless to store dishes, especially at my age; and he added, that I may change my mind about the pattern and what a shame that would be after investing in an entire set of china. I knew the situation was hopeless.
I had been through a great deal of pain and discomfort during my year of chemotherapy, and quietly resolved that I would never be subjected to such treatment again; now, in the transformation to adulthood, I felt pain and discomfort of a different incomparable variety, yet its pangs were just as valid as those which were purely physical in nature. While "growing pains" were literally a headache, I came to believe that the term more readily applied to emotional stress and frustration; growing up certainly did not boast a red carpet welcome.
Dec. 31, 1976… New Year's Eve. I spent most of it having a migraine headache, sweating and throwing up. FUN!..The Isaacsons and Nelsons were here. I guess everyone had a pretty good time. I sure didn't.
"No one forgets a past hurt; after a wound heals, scar tissue remains as a subtle reminder and effectively warns the individual against potential threats of a similar nature."
Divorce
A new year had begun. And on January 15, 1977 we heard that Norm andTracy's marriage had culminated in divorce.
It was in the paper, but Mom and Dad rarely read the divorce column; everyone else knew about the event several days before us, and we only found out through a Saturday morning call from my aunt who was naturally surprised to read the startling news. When Mom answered the phone as if nothing had happened, and continued to act likewise after Margaret's inquiry, my aunt knew that Mom was ignorant of the entire episode. "Oh, Muriel, you don't know. . ." she gasped over the telephone line, and proceeded to explain that which had prompted her call. "I'll call them," Mom said, and promised to return with an explanation as she hung up the phone. It had to be a mistake. Mom flew into the living room to scan through the Tuesday evening paper, and adjusting her eyes to the fine print, discovered their names were indeed listed among the many divorces; even the address was correct. Common decency should have allowed my parents to be alerted before the rest of the world; their pain was needless, because it could have been avoided. Mom stood, headed toward the telephone, and dialed mechanically.
The phone rang several times and Tracy answered with a cheerfulness that seemed to mock the magnitude of the situation which had just unfolded. Recovering, Mom asked, "What happened?… the newspaper… "Oh that!" Tracy returned, "we just did that for income tax purposes." Her voice echoed through a void across which no bridge would ever span, hideously jovial and self-satisfied with her own indifference toward the institution of marriage. Mom held the receiver to her ear in disbelief, momentarily transfixed by the flood of emotions which seethed violently within her; this was no time for chatter. "I'm sorry," her voice broke, "but I just can't talk now," and hung up to restore her self-control.
Marriage was one of the most significant and meaningful vows in Mom's life, pledging steadfast love to one's mate until life's end. Love and marriage were inseparable; apathy toward one would place the other element in a similar light. Marriage also stood for a wholesome sense of permanence which based itself on a firm trust in mutual, everlasting love. Divorce did not coincide with the presence of love, despite the haughty assertion by Tracy that their's was simply a means of tax evasion; truth was insensitive to one's emotions just as divorce was apathetic toward love.
An ocean of speculation washed over our house after the above knowledge had been gained, and flooded our minds with unanswered questions. It was not a general practice of the family to mistrust that which another individual proclaimed to be true; deceit often wound its fingers around the neck of one given to the preaching of lies, and while strangulation was never the outcome, the liar rarely escaped the scene unscathed. Lying had a nasty way of accumulating, and once it appeared its mark was difficult to scour away. We spoke candidly, and expected similar treatment; telling the truth seemed logical, if not easier as well, and deception as a form of entertainment was neither among our habits nor pleasures. Our family was gullible, yet this susceptibility was reigned to a certain degree by common sense; if something seemed too incredible, it was generally shelved in the back of our minds with overt skepticism, yet outwardly, our heads would bob up and down at the statement in apparent belief. Thus, a liar might have often perceived that his tall tale was accepted when, in truth, the whopper's falsity merely was not confronted. Such occurrences afforded us with hours of quiet laughter or thoughtful dissent once separated from the story teller, which spared him the embarrassment of what could have resulted from uproarious howls of laughter or fiery discord.
Divorce for income tax purposes? Mom translated Tracy's statement as a distressing, cruel fact; Dad, however, upon hearing the supposed reason, turned abruptly and stampeded out of the house with a throaty, "Bull!" as the door slammed in protest. His strong disbelief modified her belief in a fleeting instant, and Mom's eyes darkened with the remembrance of shelved glances and curt remarks which now took on an entirely different perspective. There had been warning signs, but since they lacked the customary flashing lights, escaped notice.
The thought of Norm and Tracy's divorce stunned me. Although I disagreed with the idea of procuring a divorce as a method of paying lesser taxes, I hoped for its validity. I had no grievance against Tracy or Norm, for personally, they brought only joy into my life, and if, through the divorce, I could expect to lose the companionship of one or both, I would feel a great sense of loss. I tried to avoid the negative images which clouded my eyes, and with naive and hopeful rationalization, banished divorce from my thoughts through the fact that I had never witnessed arguments or any other signs of marital instability in their presence.
Of course I saw less of Norm and Tracy with the beginning of ninth grade. Time was no longer a surplus commodity, for the homework was more difficult and life seemed to demand more of my energy. Growing up was hard; I could not hide at home in a bay of isolation, and pray that the world would pass by without casting its shadow on my life. I could not cower among shadows; I had to seek the sun… even though it was often obscured by clouds.
It wasn't always easy to seek the sun, especially in the middle of winter, and after a week of the flu… and a week of silence following the divorce. Nevertheless, I prepared myself emotionally for my return to school. My recuperation was nearly complete.
Jan 19, 1977… Will go to school tomorrow. Hopefully without my wig.I washed my hair and styled it, and it looks good.
It was true. Everything did always happen at once.
Actually my timing could not have been better, since a new semester had begun and a new array of faces would meet my eyes in the various classes upon my entry; furthermore, it was a blessing that I had caught a nasty virus, for my reappearance would be buffered by time and the impairment of facial recollection which accompanies one's absence.
I studied myself relentlessly in the mirror. My hair was pixie-short, yet its feathered, naturally layered style would be a less disagreeable look for one my age. A gray and lifeless cast, though dominated by brown, was still visible in the persistent outcrop, attesting to the cruelties it had known before it was allowed to pursue life.
The next morning I once again surveyed my reflection. It would have been so easy to allow cowardice to overpower my intention; the wig, poised on its styrofoam head, could either be part of the present or part of the past. I looked at myself in the mirror and ran a comb through my hair; it wasn't much, but it was mine. I lowered the comb and placed it on top of the vanity. Taking a deep breath to ease my churning stomach, I turned from my reflection and permitted the wig to become a remnant of history.
Jan. 20, 1977… Break through!! First day in a year and four months that I didn't wear a wig to school or anywhere. I was so nervous when I went to school. I felt like I was bald. But I got a lot of compliments which gave me confidence. Dad got me a set of four perfumes to celebrate.
It was quite a day. When I said "hello" to my friends in the hallway, many did not recognize me; then after a brief delay, sudden recognition would cause their eyes to open wide, exploding like recoiling window shades. "Laurie. . . your own hair!" Others who had somehow missed aligning the fact that I had been the girl-with-the-wig, were astonished by the improvement and looked at me in a new light. Most surprising to me, however, were the teachers who remained unaware of my health problem, for I had assumed all of my instructors had been thus enlightened. My civics teacher soon proved that my assumption was incorrect, however, as he looked at me and proclaimed, "Your hair cut is quite an improvement." I looked at several of the nearby students, in whose eyes I caught a shared glimmer of humor. "Thank you," I replied. Still immersed in self-consciousness, an explanation seemed rather pointless, yet I marveled at his apparent belief that I had actually chosen to wear my hair in such an unflattering manner. Some people must have thought I had a putrid sense of style. The past, however, no longer seemed to matter, for it was kindled in the fires of the present, and I felt incredibly free… and irrepressibly human.
It was unreal that I had been dubious about the decision to put my wig to eternal rest, especially after the frightening reception to which I had been treated on that first agonizing day of school in August. My wig caused pain, to be certain, but without it I would have suffered more; part of me shrunk behind its netted structure of synthetic hair, and even when my own hair was ready to debut in public, the impending change suddenly seemed drastic and was accompanied by fear. I felt unprotected and vulnerable without the wig's weight upon my head. It was as if I had to relinquish my shield and stand alone and unmasked before the world's judgmental gaze.
My fear, once overcome, was replaced with ecstasy. I had undergone a transformation—a metamorphosis—which was amazing. My courage had not failed me, it had buoyed me up; now I possessed the self-confidence to reflect formerly concealed attributes because I no longer detested my appearance, nor did I have to deal with the menacing blows which it had previously evoked. I had initially planned to dispose of my two wigs in a stately burning ceremony behind the house, but after my hair returned, I no longer bore any ill will toward the inanimate hair pieces, and ended their stay at our house by giving them to the Thrift Shop. In retrospect, I knew that the wigs were great allies and had served faithfully for many grueling months. Their malignancy had expired in my eyes, for my eyes had expanded their vision.
Through the years I came to acknowledge that people generally have a foremost problem over which they grieve remorsefully; if that problem disappears, their lives do not long remain blissful ere another problem arises to disturb and provoke their happy state of mind. Often one can determine an individual's quality of life, or the quality of his values, through the problem to which he gives priority. Some people, I believe, have little more than what I label "illegitimate beefs" (or insignificant and unfounded troubles); other people dabble midway between problems and trivials, or have a flair for creating headaches through flaws in the decisive factors of life.
Personally, I felt my problems would no longer include "real" problems, for my health was returning. Nausea after meals was more of an inconvenience than a problem, and it was the only existing reminder, aside from operative scars, that attested to my harrowing experiences of the past year. If boyfriends and clothes and hairstyles were to be my only future problems, I figured that I could go through life with few ill-spent tears. I had no idea that a major bomb would drop so soon on my newly acquired happiness.
Jan 31, 1977… Norm called and said Tracy left. I was (and still am) hurt. She was a great person to know and it hurts to think I'll never see her again. I feel sorry for Norm, too. I guess Tracy was seeing a guy since summer. It's just hard to take it in. Norm came over and watched T.V.
Feb. 1, 1977… Norm's coming for supper every day this week. I'm glad. I think it will help him a little.
I was in the kitchen when Norm called, and after hearing his message from Mom, curled up in one of the chairs and cried. It was inevitable, perhaps, but I, like Norm, had attempted to impede the unstoppable through positive thought. Positive thought, however, carries no clout with respect to the alteration of another's ideas, which consequently, had already been set as solidly as if in cement.
Gradually I learned the tale behind the divorce as Norm opened up and shared his emotional burden of the past months. Because he was not a demonstrative person and enjoyed having time to himself, he was rather glad when Tracy stopped asking to accompany him on all of his walks and motorcycle rides, and through constant togetherness, needing to assure herself of his love. The marriage was more comfortable and appeared to be evolving toward his ideal; stability which came from the knowledge and acceptance of each other.
Just as Norm began to think of their union as a terrific success, Tracy lost interest. The marriage, for her, was no longer exciting, and when the blood failed to rush to her face upon Norm's appearance in a room, she felt that her love had expired. Simplicity was not enough to keep a constant fire burning, nor was a man whose love for her was steadfast and true. She had a fascination for pursuing slightly shady aspects of life, and unfortunately, an extra-marital romance filled her requirements for excitement.
In her own way I believe Tracy really loved Norm at first. Hers was a semi-possessive, urgent sort of love which stemmed from an undeniable inferiority complex. Never having felt herself to be good enough for Norm, the apparent loss of love (romance) on her behalf seemed to echo that feeling and guilt settled in to further subtract her self image. If Norm had been abusive, unfaithful, or otherwise intolerable, her failing love would have been met with sympathy, however, this was not the case. Because dying love reflected badly on her, it was necessary to procure a reason for her affair and she sought to find fault with Norm. As a result, Tracy's guilt was vented toward Norm with an argumentative guise, for if she could tempt him into a heated disagreement, perhaps her actions could be better justified.
Norm, however, detested petty grievances and refused to take the bait. This only served to further infuriate Tracy, whose ammunition had been dampened substantially. It was evident that her strategic moves had collapsed. Eventually Tracy informed my brother of her affair and said she wanted a divorce.
Norm had made a lifetime commitment which, until then, he thought was shared. The news was more than a slap in the face, it seared the heart and scorched the emotions, for trust and love were suddenly, unexplainably returned as if they were mere misfits, insubstantial and bereft of meaning. He loved her; he wanted no divorce. He wanted only to forgive and start anew, and refused to file any complaint against her. If she wanted a divorce, he told her, she would have to complete the legal paperwork; he wished no part of it.
A final attempt to save the marriage was made in November, which explained the haphazard flight that had earlier baffled us. It was a miserable mistake, yet one which was often enacted by desperate mates who, as they, thought that a honeymoon would revive faltering love. They returned soon after their departure and Tracy called my mom to ask if they would be welcome at the family Thanksgiving dinner. Norm, however, was the one who had made the pumpkin bread.
Norm was not the image of perfection; no one could be flawless in every sense of the word and remain a human being. It was unjust, however, that he had to sign his name to a divorce statement which was composed of falsehoods; at that time, no-fault divorces could not be obtained in Illinois, and it was simply assumed that the individual who sought the divorce was the one who had undergone mental or physical injury.
As if the court proceedings alone were not humiliating enough, Tracy continued to weave a network of deception around their entire relationship which touched family members, co-workers and friends. A happy charade was displayed for our benefit, complete with a story that she had decided to take classes at a local college. There were no classes, of course, although Dad once shuttled her to one, thereby using his ignorance and trust to transform himself and others into fools.
After the divorce had been finalized, she remained living in the same house with Norm for several weeks. The magnanimous proportions of marital collapse had reached our ears, but the full story was as yet untold; we never knew of the unpleasant facets which must have pervaded their last days in residence. The one shred which bears repeating was that on the final day, Tracy said she had a sore throat and would stay home from work, only to thread another deceptive claim into a tapestry of lies when she, with her lover's aid, moved out during Norm's absence. Upon his return he found the house stripped of all her possessions, including those stipulated in the divorce document, and the best of the two cars. It was easier to deceive than to confront; Tracy was never seen again, although a lone belonging mistaken for her own would occasionally find its way into Norm's mailbox. Things would similarly disappear without a word; the dog, whose purchase was Tracy's request, had not been taken in her exodus from the house. One evening, Norm drove home to find the dog missing. After a rigorous search, he returned home empty handed and without a clue as to its state or location, only to receive an explanation from a neighbor that Tracy had fetched the dog earlier in the day, leaving no note of her action.
Norm had never spoken to anyone during the trying months because, in his words, "it was such a mess" and he didn't wish to involve the family. However, the amount of information that had been gained afterward served to thoroughly enrage my parents and soon all of Tracy's good traits seemed to vanish from her character slate. Through her lies, many people had been wronged; moreover, the institution of marriage had been mocked and defiled before my parents, which further demeaned her image in their eyes. To have said that Mom and Dad were angry would have been a drastic understatement.
I, too, was deeply hurt, and watched the various pangs within Norm as the realities of the matter seeped into the crevasses of his mind. I ached for Norm and for myself; I hurt even for my parents. I hurt, but was not angry; at first it was difficult for me to understand my parents rage, because I had never seen in Tracy the venomous, fork-tongued creature to which she had changed in my parents' minds. I disagreed with her actions, to be certain, yet I knew she still possessed redeeming and benevolent qualities which had made her so likeable from the beginning. It was to her goodness that I clung, defending her before my parents with a vengeance.
Tracy was a sister and a best friend to me; I could not simply stop loving her. My attachment to her was deeply rooted, not merely because of who she was to me; she was the first person with whom I shared my feelings, thereby creating for me a closeness which I had never before encountered. For several months I fantasized about her, hoping she would call or write; I wondered if we could secretly meet and be able to talk, or go places together. Gifts which she had given to me became treasures, breathing life into her memory. My parents began to think that I had embellished her memory with an aura of idolatry.
While I did not feel I had placed Tracy on a pedestal, I did believe that I had an obligation to uphold her good traits and hope something would happen which could reverse the damage already done. I scoured my daily mail with cautious hope, thinking "Maybe today I'll hear from her"; yet nothing came of that hope. My brother, Todd, was the only person to whom Tracy corresponded after the divorce, which perhaps reflected her inability to face those of us who had known her quite well. She had seen comparatively little of Todd throughout her years of married life, and it was therefore rather curious that she should choose him as the recipient of a note of explanation and regret. At any rate, she stated in her letter that she could no longer live with Norm, though he had been nothing but a good, kind, and loving man; further, she hoped that "Norm's parents" would be open-minded and welcome him back into the family.
Norm was welcomed into the family; indeed, his welcome had never worn thin, despite our dearth of information and surplus of astonishment to hear of the divorce. Time and conversation opened our lidded eyes.
Finally, I accepted the fact that she was never going to write, that she would never see my real hair, that she was as gone for me as if blown from the surface of the earth. I accepted, also, that simplicity and love did not fulfill her needs and that supposedly shared goals, including frugality right down to the cheap brand of syrup, were a farce. I perceived Norm to be the ideal man, or the closest man thereto, and felt that Tracy would later regret her hateful actions as she had regretted other misguided words in her youth; she knew that Norm was a loner and possessed agoraphobic tendencies…. she knew he was willing to work hard for comparatively small rewards; he had no hidden vices or abusive characteristics… and though he was well built and strong, the similarity to his ancestral Vikings ended where their violence began. I realized that while the kettle on the home hearth boiled feverishly, her love was secure and untouchable, but when the fire was reduced to coals and the kettle could be taken from the hearth without scorching her hands, love was polluted by commonality. The need to search for her lost flame seized her mind, yet, because she knew not what she truly sought, her search would continue forever, leaving behind her an insubstantial and endless heap of charred ashes.
I had vastly overemphasized my importance in Tracy's eyes. It was incredibly humbling to be rejected so completely; I thought of Norm and how much worse it must have been for him. Death and divorce were indeed similar, yet in some ways, the latter was more painful. Divorce, while lacking the ultimate permanence of death, is based on the heart-rending fact that one's love is no longer enough, and that he has been left by his mate's choice rather than nature's will and circumstances. Though her love for Norm had vanished with the disappearance of heart palpitations and romantic excitement, I thought I deserved at least a letter of farewell for all of the good times we had shared. I wondered if she had merely upheld a charade of good humor and enjoyment through our excursions; yet, I thought, she would not have invited me to share her free time if she resented my presence.
It takes many hours to develop a friendship, and even so, one's knowledge of the other can never be complete. While compatibility opens friendship's door, love and it's by-products, understanding and honesty, must co-exist as its sustaining force; lacking love, growth stagnates and generally heralds a hurtful parting of the two individuals. If love truly exists in one's mind, however, the love itself cannot cease abruptly even though the other's actions or beliefs are radically contrary to his own; the beloved part of the individual still remains, residing side by side with his formerly concealed, unsavory propensities.
My acceptance of Tracy's entire personality paralleled extreme disappointment. With no prompting from my parents, I looked upon her new lifestyle and final interaction with the family and Norm as disagreeable and despaired that the circumstances would not have been different. Her image, though tainted, never shattered in my mind, and for a time, I kept loving… and mourning… the person who I had believed her to be. Disappointment alone could not eradicate the lovely memories spanning three years.
After suffering a substantial loss, it sometimes seems impossible that a replacement of equal or greater value could ever be found, and attempts to compare the incomparable often end in frustration. If emotional pain is not allowed to stagnate within the inner being and clog the mind, a person can be open to others without radiating vulnerability. No one forgets a past hurt; after a wound heals, scar tissue remains as a subtle reminder and effectively warns the individual against potential threats of similar nature. Only a person lacking the will to overcome and grow beyond past anguish is truly mortally wounded, for his wound is not only self-inflicted, but also infested with litter long decayed.
I had to direct my thoughts and energy toward positive elements in life, accepting the past and adapting to the present. The future was no longer the shining star it had been in my childhood, for it was uncertain and impenetrable. Short-term goals were more easily realized. The future had a nasty habit of rearranging one's plans; life changed so fast that it left one groping for stability as if spun furiously on the head of a top. Disliking such emotional turbulence, I tried to buffer life's hurtful potential by dealing with each day as the unique parcel of hours and events it proved to be. Adaptability was definitely one of my more useful characteristics.
With Tracy's departure, I had not consciously determined to find a replacement for my severed emotional attachment. I knew such behavior on my behalf would not only have been uncharacteristic of me but futile as well; people were not like spark plugs. However, as the months progressed, the hole wherein Tracy's memory resided slowly filled and was replenished, just as a mined crater will be reclaimed by nature and gradually become a thing of beauty rather than an eternally gaping hole of waste. I was filled with strength and confidence from budding health and vitality; I was filled with the undying love of my family, but more than all else, I discovered that, with Norm, I had in reality, lost virtually nothing.
Mar. 15, 1977… I went to Norm's house and we made blueberry pancakes for supper. We talked about a lot of things.
It was a joy to be invited to Norm's house. We did not chafe each other's nerves; conversation came effortlessly, yet silence was no menace. I took pleasure in his neatly arranged house and applauded his various purchases which adorned the walls or were placed about the rooms. With his mind bent on improvement, the house mirrored a flare for design and decoration as well as Norm's character. The living room was a retreat of perpetual autumn, of golden, rust and wood, of tranquility and restiveness. To be at my brother's house was to be at ease, and I readily welcomed his invitations to visit as they became more frequent.
As my life took on the complications which seemed interwoven with the stage of adolescence, I became increasingly aware of the necessity for peace in existence, and felt myself to be extremely fortunate to have Norm as a valued companion. My frustrations needed verbal release and an understanding listener who was sufficiently detached from my daily routine (home, school, etc.) to reply in an entirely objective fashion. It became evident that Norm and I shared a bond which reached deeper than an ordinary brother/sister relationship, for understanding and compatibility was the foundation from which our relationship grew.