Christmas 1981
I had always loved Christmas, but it was special that year. Like all else in my life Christmas had not actually changed; the lights were no brighter, and the first snow was just as brilliant. However, I realized that the holiday could easily be my last, and I wanted my final memories to be vivid.
To make the most of the day, preparations were always begun directly after Thanksgiving. The Indian corn was packed away and the Christmas decorations took their place, transforming the house into an inescapable reminder of love and happiness. Each ornament, given to me by Mom for my own future tree, I unwrapped with care, wooden men, mice with glasses, corn husk dolls… they added life to a sapless tree.
Cookie baking commenced following Thanksgiving also, and continued sporadically up to the 23rd of December. Because Mom was engaged with her kindergarteners, I often baked the bulk of the cookies during the season. Dad and Norm also appreciated my endeavor, but for reasons unrelated to Mom's.
The most fun I had was shopping for gifts. Norm did not share my enthusiasm in this area. His miserly side sometimes bloated to monstrous proportions, and since he seldom indulged in frivolous expenditures, he saw no reason to do so for anyone else. However, more than having a penchant for saving money or a distaste toward giving unneeded gifts, his aggravation could have been a result of his agoraphobic nature; Christmas meant shopping and shopping meant stores, and stores meant people, and all four elements meant chaos and incredible stress for Norm. Occasionally we would stop and browse in a shop if he was not nervous, especially when we were on one of our drives that skirted small towns; otherwise we avoided heavily crowded public areas.
After Thanksgiving my brother and I drove to the Amana Colonies in lowa, a tourist attraction in themselves. We wandered into several shops. At one, a shop selling woolens, we happened upon a shearling coat of rugged beauty and timeless appeal.
"What a coat…" Norm inspected the workmanship and overall appearance with something akin to awe.
"I wonder if I should try it on…"
"Go ahead!"
I had never witnessed Norm so utterly engrossed by something of material significance. He slid the coat off its hanger and, shouldering the bulky hide, stepped before the mirror. Few people could have pulled off a look like that; he resembled a veteran mountaineer.
"It really looks good," I said.
"Yeh, not bad, huh?" It wasn't immodest; it was true. He replaced the coat and, giving it a long look in parting, strolled out of the store.
"That was some coat," he raved. Norm talked about it all the way home.
Half-way home I knew what I was going to buy him for Christmas.
The following afternoon found my dad and me on the highway, heading for the colony so I could buy the sheepskin coat. Clenching my purse, I couldn't wait to relinquish the folded bills in my wallet.
"This is going to be the best Christmas!" I exclaimed.
Dad looked at me as if I had slipped into lunacy. I hadn't expected him to understand; he was too bitter about my recurrence of cancer.
I thought of the previous Christmas when Norm had given me the gold watch necklace. I had been flabbergasted, not only because of the great expense, but because of the love expressed through its purchase.
The coat was a similar expression, plus a great deal of gratitude. I needed to say thanks in a way that would last. I never stopped to calculate the length of a lifetime, but believed the coat would survive that long.
On Christmas Eve the gifts were opened.
"Norm, what do you think of mine?" I baited him.
"Didn't you get my gift yet?" I continued.
He looked about his feet for unopened packages, but found nothing. I knew he would not; the coat was still in my closet.
"Oh! I guess it's still upstairs!" I raced up the steps to retrieve the coat, then decided to put it on and wear it downstairs.
Unable to rid my voice of its smile, I presented him with the coat hanger.
"It's all yours," I said.
Norm looked at the hanger, the coat, at me, at the coat again.
"You're kidding…"
"No!"
Tears welled up in his eyes as the truth sunk in. Perhaps Norm best described the way he was feeling when he said. . . "what a load!"
It was almost more than a person could handle.
We took a nighttime stroll after our celebration ended. The air was crisp and clear and stars blinked like thousands of tree lights. Apart from our conversation all was silent, befitting the midnight hush. This was, indeed, the best Christmas.
"I am nature, and like all aspects of nature I, too, must respect the passing of seasons within my life."
Self Imposed Barriers
I too, was capable of erecting quite formidable barriers to my health, happiness and general desire for peace. The initial days of my last semester at Black Hawk College had me floundering desperately for sanity; I had talked myself into attempting 17 hours of credit so I would receive a degree rather than merely transferring my hours to the next college if, indeed, there would be a "next college." Had I not so enjoyed sanity, I might have allowed myself to entertain this wretched state of turmoil; as it was, reason soon came to my rescue and I was able to fling one enormous subject back into the sea of college courses. Having discarded the excess weight, I was perfectly capable of continuing my other subjects with ease and enjoyment, and accommodate my tendency toward perfectionistic behavior through my attainment of an A average.
Perfectionism is a behavioral pattern which is not easily discarded, yet when one fostering this destructive mode of thought is able to control it, and reach the irrevocable conclusion that perfectionism is a desperately counterproductive personality, he is able to substantially reduce his mental anxiety. One ruled by perfectionism finds no happiness, and must also face the future in a similarly uncompromising light. Since no one is perfect an endless struggle continues throughout one's existence.
One course which deserves mention if only for its intrinsic quality of humor was called "biofeedback." Of many options, a student was required to choose a course under a certain category despite its utter worthlessness regarding his degree. These were often regarded with contempt, as students felt them to be a sheer waste of time; nevertheless the courses were an easy "A" for those who applied a modest degree of interest and effort.
My elected class centered on controlling and tempering one's emotions through the relaxation of individual body parts, and eventually slowing one's involuntary functions such as heart rate and breathing. These various forms of relaxation were monitored by electric devices attached to pulse points on the head and arms.
More interesting than the machine, however, was the teacher who lectured to us. Apparently her method of relaxation worked incredibly well, for she would stand in front of the class and speak so calmly, so slowly, that she nearly fell asleep mid-sentence. As the class wore on, those seated about the room would either begin to fidget uncontrollably or gradually transcend earthly consciousness into a vast ocean of dreams. I often found my mind wandering aimlessly, far from the room in which my body was confined, yet I fostered a benevolent sympathy for the dreamy instructor and tried to concentrate upon the content of her messages, though like a flower in tight bud, they took forever to unfold. When it was finally time to depart, and we all dashed toward our cars, I could not help but wonder whether it was safe for her to drive thus relaxed.
In addition to discovering new methods of relaxation, I desired to hear other opinions which dealt with emotions and the control thereof; I fought a battle with depression a year earlier, and won; thus my interest stemmed from former conflicts which, resolved, inhabited my memory only, yet stood as steadfast reminders to listen to my mind's plea for rest.
The assignments in the class were not in the least rigorous and usually consisted of merely reading books of the "self-help" variety. With the exception of one book, those which I read were generally "compatible" with readers, meaning that they took all stands in general but none in particular. The book with which I had extreme difficulty was based upon the premise "If it feels good, do it," for which I have little regard.
1982: "I have decided that, although Dr. D's speech within the book denies it, he is also an insecure person; or perhaps he is simply vain. My reason for so stating this was due to my observance that Dr. D's cover photo is purposely cut in such a manner that his unquestionably bald head is concealed from the general public. Baldness is certainly not uncommon in our society, nor is it something which should be looked upon in shame. After all, you are what you are… body and mind are a unit!
Moreover, if his photo was so ingeniously cut for the purpose of vanity, he needed not "grace" us with his countenance on both the front and back covers of his book.
I further noted that his title and choice of attire coincide in such a manner that one is led to believe the book is of a different content. To more clearly explain myself, "erroneous" is much too easily confused with "erogenous" especially when teamed with D's low-cut knit shirt revealing a sparsity of chest hairs!
An individual seeking guidance toward finding his own beliefs and personality is quite vulnerable; suggestions made by self-assured, confident people will create a vivid color in his mind. Therefore, it is important that one who is easily persuaded guards against such flagrant and opinionated views of personal conduct, lest he be drawn into a mode of behavior which is worth less than he merits.
I do not believe that a person housing a low self-image should be told to feel free to exercise his wishes as long as they please only him; while no one respects a person who compromises all of his beliefs to please or "be liked" by others, one who succumbs to his every whim despite the ill consequences toward others also gains nothing. It is beneficial for the uncertain individual to ingest each successive suggestion, and choose which is his desired path toward improvement.
Reading self-improvement books was often a disappointment as I found the content to be disagreeable in ethical terms or some startling and conclusive evidence which I had already concluded on my own. I also pitied the individual who needed to read such books before realizing that he fostered depression or another debilitating emotion; yet hoped that once his repressed emotions were brought to the fore, he would find the altruistic guidance needed to become an emotionally balanced individual, rather than a monster begotten of the misguided advocates of selfishness. If everyone abided by the "philosophies" stated in the latter books, the world could not be a tolerable place to exist; lacking concern for one's fellow man, society would fall into disarray and collapse altogether.
Mon. Mar. 15 1982… On this 15th night of March, the heavens once again proclaim that spring indeed will come. Beneath the shroud of haze one is able to catch fleeting glimpses of lightning, followed by the inevitable and distant roar of thunder. Each day possesses a unique beauty; I am happy that I did not miss this event. Perhaps the steady beat of rain upon the roof-top will lull me to sleep a sound, contented sleep. . . the thunder again claps the listening ear while lightning sears the gray sky to the realization that a new season is close at hand. I sleep… with peace of mind and body… and rejoice in nature's splendor and complexity which man cannot begin to understand. Is not mystery the food which keeps one alive?
It is spring once again. Here I sit feeling at once happy and sad toward the coming of another season. A balmy and gentle breeze now whispers through the budding trees, taking the place of winter's harsh, relentless chill. With each rain, with every ray of sunlight, the grass hurries to be lush and green. Nothing can hold back the passage of time. . . of the seasons.
I am flooded with an almost uncontrollable urge to cry. . . to loosen all my burdens upon this strong and vital earth. Yet one cannot unleash from himself that which is his part in nature's unceasing life cycle. I am as essential, or nonessential, as every living organism; it must follow then, that I make no demands which cannot possibly be fulfilled. I am nature, and like all aspects of nature I, too, must respect the passing of seasons within my life.
Things change rapidly; still others remain relatively the same; across the ravine, the graveyard stands as a solid marker of the past, and a constant reminder that no one leaves the earth alive.
Forget it. I cannot write. It seems that one's inner thoughts happen to be the most difficult to express. Writing used to be easier. But then, perhaps, the more one (experiences) the harder it is to write it down. The nearer one is to death, the less words can express one's true feelings. Words would not do justice to my feelings. Perhaps I am only passing off my inability to write… but I think not. However, I shall try again… Am I at the end of the road? Have I nothing left to say?
Spring soon descended on the earth, and though I tried to envelope myself in its many splendors, I felt them spinning dizzily away, with summer following close behind like a shadow which remains hidden due to the dimness of the sun. The forthcoming season was recognized as one of rest and relaxation, but viewing the month which lay before me brought no inner comfort, for my time had already been reserved by the desires of others, gazing apprehensively at the calendar, months were swallowed by demands which I felt I could not impede, so concerned were those who wished to "see me," the rarity which would soon disappear from the face of the earth. "How shall I withstand the whirlwind?" I asked myself. "When am I to live?"
For one who is essentially a loner, not only wanting, but needing, time alone, enjoyment of life decreases as social activities increase. Initially, I plunged bravely into summer, hoping that if I met its demands head-on, I could more easily manipulate my necessity for quiet interludes; I further supposed that significant hints would prove sufficient impetus under which to situate free time. Alas, I was wrong, and to my dismay, found myself on the edge of thorough emotional duress. Rather than risking a relationship due to a brash, beseeching plea for peace on my behalf, I allowed myself to rend internally, leaving a tattered remnant of myself at the summer's end. There is only one respite to that assertion, that was time spent with Norm on the week-ends or on the trip to Colorado…
It is a rather strange sensation one encounters when he fosters dreams and desires and yet, simultaneously, knows that those dreams are that which, in all probability, will never materialize; and while one deeply feels the disappointment of this unattainable goal, he also accepts the situation blandly as a matter of course.
Toward the mountains I felt just this emotion. . . desire and inability mottled with the acceptance that had already developed within my mind. Coupled with the internal disappointment of the "now" was the realization of that which I was capable of mastering the former year.
Despite these physical limitations, however, I am still able to thoroughly enjoy the mere sensations of the mountains by way of my eyes, ears, and touch. Here I can still derive a satisfaction… a feeling of solitude… which no other type of atmosphere can fulfill.
It is my opinion that only a brash fool could not love this atmosphere. …this is no place for hate… it is for life, emotion, and death and for the celebration thereof.
Sept. 2, 1982:
Here I sit, casually observing the transformation of summer into the cloak of early fall. It is slightly unbelievable that summer is now slipping away as smoothly as the wind shuffles my hair. I enjoyed the summer, but the time has elapsed from one day to the next until the days themselves are lost in a hazy dream. Had I only the chance, I would rearrange time to include the serenity which I now possess. I feel that my early summer was washed away in a blur of nervous, albeit necessary, activities; I remained uncharacteristically surrounded by petty occupations to retain a shred of sanity. . . so reved up was my emotional stability that I neglected, unconsciously, to step out of the race. I felt cheated. . . having so little time and yet so much I desired to accomplish.
"School was not a "given" in my life. . . I had no other alternative but to uphold a charade of normalcy. . .that gave my parents the right to hope. . . "
Autumn At Augustana
With summer drawing to a close, my friends slowly drifted their separate ways as the fall semester of 1982 beckoned and bid them to cast away the carefree mood of days gone by. I, too, readied myself for the new semester with apprehension; the purpose of continuing school in my state of health eluded me, yet I felt too weak to contest the arrangement. Drained from months of activity which depleted my energy and abused my emotional stability, I knew also that I had developed further symptoms of liver malfunction during the summer. Even the mildest days, with temperatures reaching no higher than 70 degrees, would cause my body to overheat; if I did not remedy the situation by chewing ice or removing myself from the location, I would sweat profusely, and eventually obtain a relentless headache and nausea. This symptom was altogether annoying and seemed to me a huge inconvenience, as I could not sit comfortably in an atmosphere which most people heartily enjoyed. In addition, I would tire easily and found it increasingly more difficult to perform the least taxing of functions such as rapidly ascending multiple flights of steps, without reaching my destination quite breathless, my heart pounding at an alarming rate.
Knowing these effects would not subside, I dreaded the coming months.September and school seemed to fit together like pieces in a jigsaw.I could not help but wonder where, in the world, I would possibly finda niche.
I initially enrolled in four classes at Augustana, feeling obliged to retain full-time status if I intended to obtain an education within a reasonable period of time. From the outset, I elected to study German as well as two other "staples," those being a Geography course and a course in English literature. I still entertained the romantic notion of traveling to Germany one day, utilizing with fluency and grace my haphazard rendezvous with the native language. After two weeks in the class, however, I deemed it too much of an emotional strain to attempt a new tongue under the pressure of the teacher who radiated the likeness and temperament of Adolph Hitler. Quickly moved to a decision, I dropped the course to add another in English which tackled the various plays of Shakespeare. This, I thought, would be more apt to lie within my realm of understanding.
The first class of the day was Early English Literature, which was taught on the lower floor of "Old Main," a stately edifice which, to me, seemed to possess the ability to gather and retain heat within its confines. Each morning I would mount the cement steps which led to Old Main, hoping that "this time" some windows would be open to allow cool air to cleanse the room of its persistent stuffiness. Sometimes before class, one window would be breathing fresh air into the room, exhaling through the open doorway the stale air which otherwise choked the room. Upon the teacher's arrival, however, the door would automatically close to "keep noise to a minimum," and I cringed with dismay as the circulating air stopped dead in its tracks.
As the instructor spoke of the early legends of the Norsemen and the icy gales in which men battled, even my wistful images of the frozen climate could not impede my body's growing internal heat. I would begin to feel as if an oven had been opened in front of my face, followed by an unrestrained flow of sweat. I fought to retain my sense of humor and enjoy the class, but as my hair began to plaster itself closely to my scalp from the heat, concentration gradually lessened until I could think of nothing else but fleeing from the classroom to the fresh air outside. At the end of the hour, I dashed through the door to the nearest restroom in an attempt to restore, to a reasonable degree, my appearance. On many days, I actually looked as if I'd just been swimming and had not allowed my hair to dry.
Depending on the amount of time I had to spend between classes, I was sometimes able to sit outside and let the breeze dry my hair and cool my body. A shortage of time or inclement weather forced me to simply walk to my following class, where the cooler room eventually afforded a more comfortable situation for me, allowing me to slowly dry off.
Throughout the hours between my second and third classes, I would purchase and eat lunch and then situate myself in the least obtrusive spot I could find to study or write. On several occasions, I was able to visit with an old friend, with whom I'd initially become acquainted at church, and who, I might add, was virtually the only person I felt comfortable addressing. When she appeared, time passed rapidly and easily. She also dispelled some of my fears about the campus (among these, the library) by ushering me through the quiet corridors of the rather intimidating building.
To my friend I also expressed my feeling that the school had a more impenetrable barrier than any other I had experienced, giving one the impression that the circles of friends which existed could not afford any new members. Repeatedly, I had offered triflings of conversation to classmates, only to be answered with blunted replies or silence. Since the bulk of the students were not daily commuters, she had experienced the same treatment her first semester and therefore concluded that the best way to feel a part of Augie was to reside in one of the dormatories until she had developed several friends and acquaintances, and then return home to live.
I knew, of course, that the next best way to meet people was to join organizations, and as the old saying goes, "get involved!" My mom used to suggest that I sit down with a group at lunch, introduce myself, and start talking. I suppose there are those who would have success with this type of salesmanship, yet I could never barge through closed doors into a conversation of which I had no knowledge. This would seem more an invasion of privacy than an extension of friendship. My general health was also an inhibitive factor; apart from my appearance, I was tired and weak, and did not desire to explain my situation to others for fear of adverse reactions. Fatigued from attending school and studying my lessons, I felt I could ask no more of myself; I extended my friendship and smile to those who would accept them, but attended no extracurricular functions, desiring instead to use up any reserve energy in doing those things at home which I most enjoyed. It helped to understand the general flavor of Augie as being intrinsically different from my former school; I did not react to its indifference as a personal affliction, nor did I seek out various social groups to forge a place for myself in the hearts of others.
Through my weary and knowing eyes, I observed the turmoil of which I was not a part, feeling worlds away from the carefree and jubilant frolic which bespoke the presence of health. I felt suspended in time, as if all else moved about me, each following his desired route, while I stood rooted before a dead end. Never before had I encountered such desolate helplessness, yet I did not wish to change places with anyone … even with cancer quietly closing in. Though health could have endured some improvement, with my mind, my values, I was content. While certain individuals under my gaze possessed what seemed to be genuine character, I saw also those who chatted constantly about petty concerns and displayed no depth or true emotion; their lives were a farce. If this was the trade-off for being part of the social whirlwind, I was content, as always, to watch unobserved from my stationary corner…
The Observer
I am the satellite,The worldly observerOf a spinning mass of confusion.I am equidistantBetween humanityAnd the heavens,Between star-strewn galaxiesAnd streets besmearedWith innovations….I see and computeAnd attempt to make senseOf this confused world….Though the heavensAre complex,I believe they are notHalf so much as areThe roads of human life.
September 10, 1982Lauren Isaacson
Negative Aspects
In my worldTime passes slowly,Allowing moments to reflect upon the aspects of lifeI coldly rejected:
I see meaningless lives,Bereft of all worry,Flaunt worthless smiles,And empty laughter.Pessimists carry frownsBehind trudging feetUpon leashes……Forever dragging their burdenOf discontent to the world.Souls haunted by lonelinessHang their heads in despair,Their eyes searching desperatelyFor the shred of compassionWhich will never come,Until loneliness surroundsAnd follows their every step,Heralding irreversible regression:Chronically depressedCling to sadnessAs their sole purpose in life,While their troubled mindsCreate wistful images of suicide.
September 12-15, 1982
Lauren Isaacson
Masks
One may chooseCountless masksTo portray his imageUnto the world,And yet it seemsThat ultimatelyMasks are shattered;Revealing that whichResides within.It is wise to discernBetween one's maskAnd selfBefore life exposesUntainted features to humanity,The one bodyWhich is utterly ruthlessIn its judgment.
September 15, 1982Lauren Isaacson
Perhaps my most enjoyable hours were spent outside on a hill overlooking the campus. On the hill, I felt serene; every other place on campus I felt my life slipping away, as if I was carrying death within me. Here I would sit in idle reflection and muse on the autumn leaves falling lazily to the ground. The squirrels, with their crazy antics, were desperately hoarding all the acorns they found, burying and reburying until I'm sure even they didn't know where the acorns were. And I mustn't forget the restless breeze, ever blowing and hinting of winter. I shared a bond with autumn that was, at once, beautiful and sad. In life nothing truly ends, although there are countless births and as many deaths. With or without my own existence, life itself would go on, virtually heedless of one heartbeat lost to forever. In this reflective and tranquil mood I would transfer my thoughts to paper to better clarify for myself and for others the way in which I viewed my existence.
The War Within
Daily, it seems, I feel the alienPresence that resides within,Slowly pressing life from myFaculties in a bland attemptTo reign in full over my ravaged body.Neither do I madly oppose nor readilySubmit to my ruthless attack,But attempt to retain a shredOf normalcy in my existence.Life takes what it will, andBeing a product of two lives,I am subject to be calledTo nonexistence, as is all creation.Nature permits no flattery…No favoritism…hence theUltimate equality of mammals,Whether man or beast, in death.
September 27, 1982Lauren Isaacson
The third and last class of the day was geography, dealing with the conflicts of urban life and the planning of cities. It was what I would call a "crash course," as it was a full quarter of work condensed into a mere four weeks' time. The first test, being somewhat of a midterm exam and covering a great deal of the text and lecture material, was given after about two weeks; I need not say, perhaps, that I found the class to be quite exhilarating. Indeed, it kept me on my toes, if I may borrow a well used phrase, and taxed my eyes as well. My efforts proved worthwhile, however, and I scored highly on the initial exam. A final exam and a project were the only remaining obligations of the class, leaving two English courses as my sole exertions for the rest of the quarter. It wasn't a bargain, but then nothing could be had without making an allowance of some consequence.
After attending my class, I would gratefully return home, exhausted, and lie down for several hours. I generally did no homework on days I went to school, saving my energy for days off and weekends. School coincided with drudgery, for I was no longer deriving any pleasure from life. If I was not in school or studying diligently, I was thoroughly fatigued and unable to pursue diversions of my liking. It seemed to me that I was nearly committing suicide through the over-exertion of my failing body, playing the role of a normal person when I was unfit for the rigorous portrayal.
As the days passed, I began to see the utter ridiculousness of my situation. I felt lifeless after school, and began to wonder why I maintained the effort; I had no foreseeable future in which I could utilize the knowledge obtained in college, and my time and energy thus spent gradually took on the guise of futility. It was after two occasions of pathetically wetting my nightgown (due to the fact that my exhausted body did not heed the brain's warning of distress) that I decided to accept defeat. The demeaning situation described above occurred only during sleep after school days, which, consequently, were the days that caused the bulk of my exhaustion.
School was not a "given" in my life; it was a factor over which I had control. Initially, I felt I had no other alternative but to uphold a charade of normalcy, for that gave my parents the right to hope and feel, perhaps, that life for our family was somewhat akin to the societal norm. Although I had experienced deep tremors of anxiety toward the thought of attending school during the summer months, I too, deemed it best to carry on; I could not abide the image of myself as an unproductive, and therefore, devalued member of the family. Also within me was the question of whether I could manage the demanding pressures of school, and the need to somehow prove to myself that I could, both mentally and physically, pass the test. Though my assignments were well accepted, my physical performance was far below average; my will was strong, but my body could not keep up. The decision to drop all of my classes spelled defeat, for I disliked to quit, but even more it meant relief and the freedom to entertain my desires in a comfortable atmosphere without overly taxing myself.
My parents looked upon my action with more regret and pain, for it brought the issue of my ill health to the forefront. Now it could no longer be concealed behind a wall of books or hours spent out of the house, for I was home all day, every day. My mom persisted in her assertion that "if only you'd taken just one class. . ." it could have added excitement and social interaction to my life. Had I enjoyed school as do habitual students, I might have followed her suggestion, yet I found my free time to be an immense improvement and would forgo none of it to sit in a stuffy classroom. One need not attend a college to expand his intellectual horizons, and I had no intention of falling into illiteracy; I merely wanted to do what I wanted, when I wanted.
Having scored highly on my first geography exam and completed the English assignments successfully gave me the confidence that I so needed, and further led me to believe that I would have otherwise been a capable student; while I suffered a physical defeat, I had not failed.
With no obligations to fulfill, my life was rejuvenated with a simplicity which could best be described as wonderful. I truly reveled in the autumn splendor and my spirit possessed a vitality which had nearly been smothered by a mere four weeks' toil and stress. My general health improved markedly as I was no longer plunging all of my energies into school's demands. I now could heed my body's warning to rest as needed, and thereby enjoy more fully the other areas in which my interest thrived. The thought that time was rapidly slipping by gave way, once again, to the essence of quality which had, for a while, escaped my grasp.
"It is essential to realize that no matter what type of adversity one may have to face, the ultimate self is the inner self."
Depression
When a person is told he has a terminal illness, depression is a very natural reaction. Not only does the individual have to face a disease which shall bring about weakness and failure of one's bodily functions, but also he is obliged to acknowledge that the culmination of his life waits on his very doorstep.
For myself, it was not the fear of death which brought about various intervals of depression, but rather the realization that my dreams for the future and the reality thereof would not coincide. Occasionally, as time passed, I would also become disheartened by the way in which the cancer was transforming my body in a visual sense. I had always taken pride in maintaining my figure for my health and appearance, and now I was helpless against the shape I was quickly becoming as the cancer grew. I was also aware of its effect internally, and exercise gradually tapered off into nonexistence. I found my lungs unable to fully inflate, and my heart beat would hover around 100 beats per minute with only mild exercise; fear would soar when I would, without warning, desperately need a bathroom.
I did not hate my life, yet when I was afflicted with nausea for hours in a day or forced to miss an anticipated outing because of diarrhea and the need of a bathroom in close vicinity, my spirits could plummet and make me wish that death was close at hand. While those things I most valued I still possessed, the magnitude of my physical condition would surface when I would once again be harshly reminded that "normalcy" was no longer credible, as if that state of being was a rug which was being swept out from under my feet.
In addition to feeling inconvenienced by cancer, I also experienced a sense of worthlessness, although of a different sense than that which I felt upon my initial bout at age 13. When I was younger, I placed a great deal of importance upon physical attributes; consequently the post-treatment loss of all my hair, necessitating the purchase of a wig, resulted in the questioning of my parents affection. I could not understand how anyone could possibly care about a bald, rather skeletal, daughter.
My later loss of self-worth centered more on my inability to perform certain household chores, attend school or maintain employment. I was incapable of strenuous tasks and the fluctuations in my health were such that a steady job would be unthinkable. Since I no longer felt that I acted the part of a "good citizen," guilt quickly crept into my mind. I was living under the wing of my parents as I watched friends initiate themselves into the mainstream of societal expectations; theirs were blooming lives, while I seemed stranded in a murky, stagnant pool, simply taking up space. I was eventually able to resolve this self-inadequacy through interaction with my family and friends who, I observed, did not think less of me as a person simply because I did not conform to the standard ideal of accomplishment; those with whom I had close association knew and accepted my weaknesses, and sought my companionship despite any inconveniences they might have had to endure because of my presence. Moreover, and possibly of foremost importance, was the fact that I finally accepted my limitations and no longer attempted to prove to myself that I could still do something for which my body was unfit; I admitted that self-restriction, or at least careful government of my activities, would allow me greater flexibility and opportunity in the long run of affairs.
It would be a lie to say that, having aged six years, I no longer fell subject to self-devaluation through a loss of physical attributes. As my waistline disappeared and my stomach began to protrude (for lack of anywhere else to go), I grew increasingly more self-conscious of my figure. Even at the outset, I considered my midsection enormous, and purchased oversized shirts to conceal what I believed to be a horrible deformity. As the liver continued to expand, for which I had been mentally prepared, I began outgrowing clothes, especially pants (due to the waistline) shortly after they were purchased. Soon I was giving pants to my mother who wore a size 12; winter coats which did not button were also handed to Mom who accepted the gifts as graciously as the occasion permitted. The waist which had measured 24 inches grew to 32; the stomach protruded far beyond my bosom, a ghastly 37 inches in diameter. People began to ask innocently, "when is it due?" I could not deny it, it followed me everywhere. . . glaring at me through each piece of clothing. It bid me "good morning" and packed me to bed at night.
Perhaps one of my most distressing fears was the idea of encountering a school mate who was not aware of my health situation, and either be labeled as "pregnant" or "stout." Pregnancy out of wedlock was completely unacceptable to me; while the lack of control which would accompany mere weight gain was also a speck in my eye; I revolted against both assumptions with similar distaste and simply hoped to avoid familiar faces. If such a meeting did occur, I would generally explain my current state of affairs, although I also disliked blackening one's day with news which was generally categorized as traumatic and distressing. When a person inquired into how I'd been spending my time, I would have to subdue my urge to devalue myself due to the impressive answers I failed to relate. As a whole, reunions were rather a blemish in my day.
As I came to identify myself not with my "deformity" or my accomplishments, but instead with my personal character, I felt more at ease in group situations.
It is essential to realize that no matter what type of adversity one may have to face, the ultimate self is the inner self. Deformities mar the surface, but they need not devastate the interior; one's personality needs to be projected beyond the body or the face, just as it has to be expressed by the "normal" individual. A pretty face does not assure the observer of an equally beautiful personality. There will be those who will be uncomfortable in the presence of a stricken individual, but those people should be given patience and understanding; reactions are frequently simultaneous and the result of shock or immeasurable pity, not incivility or rudeness. Those few individuals who are cruel and insensitive are not worth the anger they provoke, for they are the children of ignorance and have not lived through pain and strife; for some, empathy is not inherent, it must be learned.
I also found it to my benefit if I would candidly mention my health instead of trying to conceal it like an illegal drug; I discovered that although it was difficult to hear of my misfortune, it was easier than if the burden had actually been their own.
The pervasive sadness which can strike when one grasps the reality of illness does not endure forever, unless in self-pity, one allows himself to be drawn into such an utterly oppressive mental state. Sadness is a part of life which makes joyous moments all the more valued; man is an animal, and in so being, it is characteristic of his make-up that he feel pain and pleasure. To deny one's feelings, or so dwell on one aspect, is to deny one's humanness and natural traits.
"Autumn. . .the world was filled with sound, a veritable grand finale before the penetrating hush of winter."
A Basic Day
I loved autumn, a season both riotous and melancholy, and it was best shared with those I loved. Thus I spent a great amount of time with Norm. We shared a mutuality which spanned the insignificant to the more complex modes of thought in such a way that neither of us felt compelled, nor hindered, to speak. As comfortable in each other's company as we were alone, our relationship did not possess the usual tensions and expectations so prevalent in most friendships. That we enjoyed each other was enough.
Through the week, Norm worked second shift as a custodian at a local junior high school. Since he didn't depart for work until 3:00 p.m., his daily routine at home usually consisted of leisurely activities, lest he become too tired to properly do his work.
We shared the upstairs, which was divided into two separate rooms with an accordian door, providing privacy that was sufficient, yet far from sound proof. Generally we would wake around the hour of 9:00 a.m. Either the static notes of his clock radio or a rustling which attested to his hastily making the bed would usher through the door, and harken the beginning of another day, or I would rise first and find Norm staring at the ceiling among an entangled mass of sheets.
The person who made it downstairs first was the one who, if Mom had made some for herself and Dad, divided the morning "gruel." Since the family had recently acquired a microwave oven, the machine allowed a quick and thorough heating of the cereal if one simply transferred the contents of the pan into stoneware bowls.
Because several hours had passed between Mom's preparation of the cereal and our reheating of the same, it usually molded itself into a solid bulk shaped exactly to the pan's dimensions. This made dividing easier but deftness was needed to assure that each half found its way into the bowl. On one particular occasion Norm, spatula poised in hand, was directing each slimy mass into its bowl when one half escaped his control and proceeded to flop onto the counter, splat on the floor and go skidding across the waxed tile. I found this affair to be thoroughly amusing as it was in the same scenario which I had starred only a week before. Perhaps it would not have been so humorous if the cereal did not have such a nasty appearance, which in itself would seem to ward off any potential consumer. Moreover, hot cereal had quite a lengthy history between Norm and me.
When I was in fifth grade, Norm was to see that I ate a decent breakfast before setting off to school, since Mom had once again decided to renew her teaching certificate and was employed as a kindergarten teacher. At the time I fairly detested the appearance and taste of cereal, yet managed to choke down a moderate amount before my taste buds rebelled, after which no promptings, no bribery, would make me swallow another spoonful. Norm, feeling it was his duty to inflict some sort of punitive action upon my finicky tongue, would then lead me into the bathroom, and make me watch as he poured the remaining oatmeal into the toilet and flushed it away. Although some people might have found this treatment cruel and definitely unusual in nature, I was struck by intense hilarity upon viewing the mottled gray food hitting the water, looking and sounding like an enactment of the flu season.
A few years later I retaliated in kind by saying that the cornmeal mush he was then eating looked like an exact replica of what I'd seen about the floor of the cage in which the bears resided at Brookfield Zoo. "You had to say it, didn't you?" he scowled as he looked at the yellow meal still staring him in the face. Although hot cereal had a personality all its own, sporting a slightly different appearance each day, certain mornings, it just didn't have the eye appeal to start the taste buds rolling.
Eventually our bantering jokes collided with such frequency that they lost all of their effect and we would continue eating, undaunted by the grotesque conjurings which were sailing about the kitchen. Though by now a standard joke, oatmeal suffered no lack of humor; to us it was inherently funny. We did not tire of the commonplace and routine; where there is love even the most insignificant of things has a spark.
Having eaten breakfast, whether hot cereal or an alternative, we would often fall upon the task of washing and drying the morning dishes. Neither of us minded chores. I have often witnessed people who so rebelled against performing a simple task that in the time they wasted voicing their complaints the chore could have been accomplished completely. When one's mind is filled with happy thoughts, work takes on an entirely different perspective, and mindless tasks give one time to think. I am not attempting to say that, with the proper attitude, work is always entertaining and fun, yet protests only serve to multiply the weight of a potentially simple task.
Helping with the chores at home also gave me a sense of usefulness and made me glad that I was able to be productive in certain respects. I have no regard for those who will, in the name of ill health, sit idly by and observe others do all the work, when they in fact are yet quite capable of doing it themselves. Laziness as a result of illness is in itself a severe malady. It is also an enormous character flaw which speaks loudly of the one thus afflicted. . . more so, perhaps, than the person realizes; slovenliness wins no friends. I have also discovered that laziness begets more laziness; it is a weed with far reaching roots that thrives on itself and holds one imprisoned. It is wise to guard against this behavior, lest one be transformed into a useless heap of flesh and blood, for its seeds lurk within even the most industrious of people, and cheat them of life. Thus, whether in unison or alone, the dishes were done, thereby lessening Dad's workload to a degree. Dad's retirement moved him to exercise the household chores on the main floor (although this did not include the preparation of meals), while I maintained the upper. Group cooperation helped everyone, even though Mom could still be seen flitting about the house on weekends, pushing this and poking that; her activity was compulsive. Even her work as a teacher was better described as "full-time and a half."
Our mailman had the accuracy of a Swiss watch. Each day, whether glorious or gloomy, the telltale moan of the mailbox lid would resound at exactly 9:30. Then, if one was quick, he could be seen striding away at a brisk pace, already two houses up the avenue.
Having developed a keen interest in stocks and futures, Norm generally received the majority of the day's hoard, and the brokers barraged him with a large round of literature and calculations proving that their firm was where money could be made. Unceremoniously sorting through his various letters, he then would bound upstairs to read the Wall Street Journal, disappearing, for all practical purposes, at least an hour.
I also looked forward to the coming of the mail, although I didn't receive much of interest aside from an occasional letter. The remainder of my mail, like that addressed to Norm, were attempts to direct my money into the hands of others; while his letters requested money for investment, mine were in the form of catalogs and most of which could not be classified as an investment, but rather, an accumulation of commodities to be purchased. Junk mail, however, was better than none.
The noon hour sent Norm downstairs again, and the three of us visited for a while before again pursuing our own interests. Afternoon would find Dad bustling around the house, fixing one of the numerous household maladies, peering under the hood of a car, or during outdoor months, maintaining the yard. Norm could usually be seen dozing in a lawn chair, strategically positioned for the best view and the most sunshine. Even frigid temperatures would not keep him indoors if the sun was poking its face out of the clouds, for he would don boots and a snowsuit (or "Pepto-Bismol suit" in his opinion, since such attire appeared to bloat the individual thus clad) and, lawn chair in tow, trudge faithfully to his choice location in the snow. He also managed to take a daily stroll in the woods behind our house. No season would keep him away, whether the woodland carpet consisted of spring flowers or newly shed leaves. The contentment on his face was obvious; the simple, honest life yielded remarkable returns.
I spent my newly acquired free time in much the same manner as did Norm. Although I never frequented the snow-covered landscape even in a sedentary fashion, I did make the most of the other seasons, with autumn topping the list. I loved to watch the leaves cascade to the ground, and listen to the eerie rustling of wind through the trees. It was as if the world was filled with sound, a veritable grand finale before the penetrating hush of winter.
When the weather did not lend itself to lounging amongst the trees, I entertained myself by scanning through photography or nature books. Having parted only recently with the demanding curricular schedule of college, I shunned literature for a time, electing instead subjects which could easily be laid aside without risking an interruption of a thinly-woven plot.
During the hours before Norm set off to work, I always made myself accessible for conversation without being an imposition on his space or freedom. Anything I was doing could be finished later if he desired to talk, and consequently, we often sat over a cup of tea and pursued various topics of interest. The subject itself never mattered, for the companionship was the delight. The atmosphere we shared was unlike all others. Receptive to the same mode of thought, the flow of conversation was easy and unhindered.
Near 3:00 p.m. Norm would rise from his chair with an accompanying, "Well, better shove off. . ." and grasping his lunch bucket, paced out the door to his car. After he had gone I did those things which our conversation had delayed. Chores and other functions always waited to be done; dust is very patient, and can easily be put off for an hour or two!
Despite Dad's flurry of activity around the yard and home, he always found time to take me to lunch. We ate at restaurants once or twice a week, which pleased me to no end, as I had enjoyed dining out since I was quite young. Even though my lunch and stomach seldom tolerated each other, it was worth the effort. The food, at any rate, tasted good on the way down.
Mom returned home from work usually between 4:00 and 4:30, although 5:00 p.m. stints became increasingly familiar as the years passed. The age-old thought that one's work is easier as the years unfold did not seem to hold any truth with respect to Mom's career. Her day never came to an end, even after she dismissed the classroom. Armed with at least one tote bag, she would continue her work after supper and into the evening, often falling asleep to attest to her fatigue. She was the only person I knew who could fall asleep and continue writing a sentence, although admittedly the content of a sentence produced through these means lacked all human sensibility and she would be obliged to begin anew.
Depending largely on the state of my health, I would help with the preparation of supper in varying degrees, sometimes fixing a large portion of the meal and other times doing little more than setting the table or peeling vegetables for the salad. Apart from helping Mom, meal preparation allowed us to catch up on the day's events, ranging from my occasional outings to Mom's cantankerous and incorrigible youth, of which there was always at least one per class.
When the dishes once again found their way into the cupboards, the day had slowed to a quiet pace. Dad would prop himself up in his recliner behind a wall of newspaper and give an onlooker the impression that he was avidly perusing the articles. Only a steady puffing or an occasional snort would indicate that the downcast eyes saw no more words on that page than would the gaze of a blind man. Mom remained awake as long as she puttered about the house, but once seated, soon acquired the visage of a woman drugged, weighted eyelids transforming her eyes to slits. At this point, I could leave the room entirely unnoticed. It was grand that we found each other so relaxing. Perhaps the moral of this paragraph is that no one falls asleep in the presence of someone he does not trust.
My parents probably considered they had struggled enough to remain awake, and by 10:30 settled into bed; I did not do likewise until after midnight. Often I was still rustling about when Norm returned home, and stationing myself on a kitchen chair, would oversee his hasty reheating of the evening fare. Observing Norm eat was no lengthy ordeal, for an entire plate-full of food could vanish in minutes. A food's aesthetic appeal held little importance as long as the flavor was agreeable.
Despite the fact that I had no school or work to punctuate weekends, they remained quite different from the rest of the week if only because both Mom and Norm were home all day. Saturday and Sunday were the only days when they saw each other since their work schedules did not coincide, and would therefore catch up on the latest tidbits of information while Mom did the laundry. Mom couldn't just sit and talk; she had to be mending a sock, or sorting clothes or folding towels. Her industriousness was not an exaggerated view of the work ethic driven into her as a child. . . merely her nervous energy seeking an outlet.
Invariably weekends would bring at least one outing for Norm and me, whether this consisted of a motorcycle ride, a drive in the car, a walk, or a combination of many alternatives; a picnic was almost always on our agenda. With my decreasing tolerance for heat, fall was especially wonderful. The air once again attained a seasonal crispness which beckoned us to bask in the sun or amble amongst the woodland's profusion of color. A feeling of serenity pervaded the entire landscape, a scene transformed after the chaotic months of summer. No children's cries pierced the tranquility. . . no dirt bikes invaded one's thoughts.
Toting KFC and a six-pack of beer, we would situate ourselves alongside of the Mississippi or travel to a park and eat beneath the trees. Lingering for hours in the cool breeze of autumn and then, perhaps, hiking on a trail or country road for a stretch, was leisure at its best, and life was most worthwhile. These were the days I loved, yet of more importance than the day was the person with whom I shared it, for it is not the experience but rather the presence (or absence) of an individual that truly raises life's moments above the mundane. Never had I encountered such utter compatibility; we thought in the same way. Norm often said, "We might as well not talk at all," because certain occasions would find us simultaneously blurting out identical thoughts and then stopping our tongues in midair. "Oh, well." The end result was obvious to both of us, so there was no purpose in voicing our viewpoint or observation.
Norm seldom aired his feelings toward a person, for he was able to demonstrate his tolerance and love for an individual through actions and, not unlike many people, found it extremely difficult to verbalize that which resided on tender ground. When someone's love for another is clear, words, though pleasant to the ear, merely add warmth to the heart. Rarity bestowed Norm's statements with more value; since the words need not have been spoken to be understood, the words themselves only clarified his feelings.
More than once, however, Norm asserted that he was not sure how he could handle my death, for aside from our great companionship he thought of me as his touchstone with the female sex. There was not a large array of women associated with his line of work, except for the teachers who were yet in their rooms when he arrived, and he did not wish conversation to become difficult simply through a lack of social contact. How well I understood his statement; a steadfast advocate of personal "self-sufficiency," I feared dependence of any kind upon habits or people. That I so enjoyed Norm's company was, in itself, a trifle unnerving because a loss of such magnitude would prove devastating, yet Norm and death were two words which, in my eyes, spanned the distance of one star to another. It was unthinkable that Norm would die before me.
Though Norm's words left me feeling worthwhile, nothing would alter the course of their sincerity and eventual pain which he would feel simply due to their actual existence in his mind. "I just wish you'd start to get better." I just wished I could oblige.