"What if…?"
Treatments / Hoax
Amid the rising flood of new treatments and landmark cures which lapped temptingly at our doorstep, I began to wonder if any supposed cure really honored its name. I was tired of the restrictions which cancer had placed on me, and my interest toward alternative methods of treatment grew as rapidly as the size of my liver. I even questioned whether a liver transplant was a possibility, but was forever wary of the suffering involved; though I desired health, I would endure no drastic measures toward that end, and knew also, that most "possibilities" could never, for me, turn into a reality.
Though not actively pursuing articles, I would read or hear about the progress of various treatments as discovered by my parents; I was never surprised to learn that the drug or method in question was ineffective with my type of cancer; characteristically a slow grower, a leiomyosarcoma was also remarkably tough and resilient to the most terrifying of chemicals.
Not easily persuaded into the acceptance of hopelessness, however, Mom and Dad continued to inquire into the success of publicized drugs at their source. The more controversial forms of treatment were also investigated, and naturally their administrators claimed to have realized at least a modicum of success. Admittedly, the thought of undergoing treatment about which little was known seemed disconcerting, and a mere description of certain treatments nearly made my gums recede. One such method which sounded horrifyingly barbaric called for the boiling of one's blood; after it had been "purified," it would be routed back into the system once more. "If he lived…" I thought. However, I had been on the research file while undergoing chemotherapy, and it had been no delight either; no one of faltering strength could long tolerate its effects, although some individuals have been known to have received an injection on the day of their death. When man realigns his values, perhaps one day chemotherapy also will be thought of as barbaric and indeed, inhumane.
After countless suggestions and subsequent dead ends, we were given a new lead from a woman who worked at the church; a lead which, in her opinion, sounded quite promising. Quizzing her for every detail, my father immediately fell to gathering phone numbers, including past patients of the doctor and the number through which an appointment with the doctor could be made. A travel agency in California would set up the time of departure and also take care of every detail of the stay, from hotel accommodations to the treatment itself. Incidentally, the treatment was administered only in Greece.
Excitement pervaded the atmosphere at home as more information was procured. The treatment boasted rave reviews, stemming from renewed vitality to complete cures, yet side effects and discomforts as a result of the injections were few and insignificant; indeed, the method used sounded the least objectionable and the most productive of all those that my parents had pursued.
Once all readily available information about the treatment had come into our possession, we phoned several former patients who lived in our vicinity to interview them, so to speak, and obtain any additional thoughts concerning the trip as a whole that might otherwise have escaped our knowledge had we only read the pamphlet prepared by the agency. We wished to receive no surprises of the negative kind through ignorance, especially in a foreign country. Real or imagined, however, the patients all expressed a degree of faith in their progress after having undergone the series of intravenous shots; if nothing more, perhaps this "doctor" administered high-priced hope.
We discussed the option of a trip to Greece as thoroughly as possible, not only among ourselves but with friends. Nearly everyone thought our idea was quite splendid, and were happy that we were planning to try it; they offered strength and support to our decision. Only two individuals, my brother and his wife, voiced overt objections to our plan; they questioned the authenticity of the treatment, not wanting to see us be taken by quackery and false claims. We too were frightened of that aspect, yet amid our uncertainty we thought that such a chance, however questionable, should not be relinquished through skepticism alone. "What if. . .?" was also a question too great to overlook when the decision involved life and death.
Housing slight reluctance, I agreed this new option was one that I should try. Quite conscious of the amount of money which the trip and treatment would ingest, I felt the affair was an extravagance of which I was not worthy, but my father insisted that he would spend his life's savings if it would restore my health. The money spent on the trip would be an investment in happiness should it prove worthwhile, and the risk incurred was an integral part of it… for we were dealing in "futures." The return we sought was not of the tangible sort; it existed as yet only in our dreams.
Although I remained skeptical toward the validity of the treatment, I could not suppress a glimmer of hope despite the hoard of fears that took refuge in my restless mind. When the word "treatment" was denoted as a "cure," an involuntary spark of anger was kindled in my chest, spurred from present doubt and past disappointment; I wished to shield myself from the gloom of overridden hope due to an empty cure, and therefore attempted to foster little actual hope for any development related to the disappearance of current symptoms and health disorders. I could not, however, deny my family their renewed hope by objecting to travel to Greece; I envisioned an image of boundless joy which my health would generate among the family and circulate through the homes of friends.
A beam of hope infiltrated the confines of doubt in my mind also, and I felt ready and rather anxious to accept this treatment as a means toward the rebirth of health; this was one chance I could not pass by, and perhaps there would no longer be a need for groping in the obscurity of medical scams and hypocrisy if truly it was a cure. I hoped the doctor was worthy of the trust which he had apparently secured, for I was about to bestow upon him some of my own; if he begrudged my lack of complete and unadulterated trust, so then it must be, for such was the limit which my heart could withstand.
Although the journey would be no pleasure excursion, traveling to a strange and distant continent with uncertain health, I understood the expectancy and purpose behind the trip, and vowed to follow the instructions given by the doctor carefully. If the treatment demonstrated no result, it would be through no fault of my own.
"Perhaps the sky is the sole glimpse of home that I have here in Athens. . . the sky is always a constant factor."
Journey To Greece
The day of our departure arrived amid a tidal wave of apprehension. My excitement was not of the healthy, gleeful breed, but rather the stomach-clenching variety that I would "wish away" if it was possible. It was, once again, fear of the unknown that assailed my thoughts when I should have been looking forward to new and interesting sights. Making the diagnosis was simple; believing in it enough to admit the silliness of my fear was not as easy. . . and nothing but confrontation would smother that fear.
I stood in the airport lobby wishing I had already gone and returned. As the gate opened, I decided to take one large jump and move through the metal detector and on to the official waiting room, where I proceeded to stare a hole through the floor. Shortly before the plane was to be boarded, a group of friends appeared to bid me farewell. We were separated by a railing, but their warmth passed over the barrier and embraced me. While the hugs and fair greetings did not dispell my fear, I realized the amount of love which would be packed in my suitcase for the month. Norm, my Uncle Les and a couple from our church had also seen us off; love would sustain and lend buoyancy during the hard times.
I felt my stomach surge as the plane taxied near the gate and people in the waiting room spilled out of their seats toward the doorway. It was time to go. Sharon was traveling with us to Greece, inspired to go through curiosity and concern about my health and the Greek doctor's proclaimed cure. She had always wanted to visit Greece, and when such an opportunity presented itself, it seemed ridiculous to simply let it pass.
I definitely was not traveling alone; the four of us formed our own support group en route, exchanging conversation and smiles through the dubious hours in which we flew over land and sea. Despite my family's presence, however, homesickness began to set in shortly after lift-off and graduated as we progressed. While the American top hits buzzed happily through the headphones oblivious to the foreign space below, I thought of home; when the snow capped Alps crossed our path, I thought of Norm. Home. . . Norm. . . I knew they would be missed. Frankly, they already were.
Diary:
Jan. 12 1983… Last night there was a party, as anticipated, for the Americans; it consisted of numerous Grecian delights, such as bhaklava, and various other pastries. . . many of which were laden with honey. There were also filberts and almonds, as well as beautiful steaks for those desiring to partake. As for myself, I committed the irretractable message that I was a "liver patient," and thereby was denied the joy of a potentially ambrosiac steak. Such is life, (no luck at all).
Today I woke up at 6:30, as well as every hour on the hour throughout the night! I went to the clinic… with Mom, this time… I received my shot. The moment he administered the shot, the reaction began. I felt as if my entire body had been assaulted by a blow torch! Several minutes later, my face turned a lovely shade of red. Also simultaneous with the shot was a distinct flavor of salt. I returned to the Akrion and rested 'til 11:30, at which time I ate a breakfast of oatmeal with honey and two pieces of toast (the latter of which I learned were forbidden until after the 19th treatment. Oh well, hopefully that will be the least of my follies). After drinking nearly an entire carafe of water, I returned to the room and slept until 6:00 p.m. Following my lengthy siesta, I ate a meager supper of greens, cucumbers and carrots (salad) and a baked apple with honey and walnuts.
A terrific addition… I got diarrhea… (pew). Must be because I'm screwed up (times, meals, etc.). Sorry to say, impinged on Sharon's right to fresh air while she was showering…
The people, both patients and families and Greeks… all nice.
Jan 13, 14, 15, 16… Never have I felt so utterly depressed in a place as I do here in Athens. Perhaps it is due to the fact that I am here for the purpose of cancer treatment, not merely diversion. I have not the energy nor the desire to do much sight-seeing. My meals are routine and boring, not to mention that they do not provide sufficient energy. Indeed, they are a hindrance to activity. Breakfast is oatmeal with honey and a baked apple. Lunch is a salad and baked apple, and dinner consists of a salad, apple and rice (if they have the latter). I was so worn down after the bus tour Saturday that I nearly cried when the waiter said there was no rice to be had. Nuts provide energy, but too many of those can be a sickening experience.
The first two nights I nearly went without sleep. Sharon snores excessively while I, on the other hand, am quite a light sleeper (hear all). In addition, a hi-way passes close to the hotel with motorists ravaging the noise level at all times of the day and night. I began to wonder if I'd sleep at all, so Mom and Sharon changed rooms. I guess I needed Mom's support much more than I knew. She is quite mellow. . . and I need all the relaxation I can possibly have. Somehow, I couldn't handle Sharon's intensity, and I became more and more on edge.
Yesterday I got too tired on the tour and broke down in the afternoon. Once again I was glad Mom shared the room with me. Never before have I been so easily shattered as here. I cannot seem to handle anything… usually I never cry or get too terribly upset. Traveling is usually a blast.
I slept well last night… I didn't have a nap because by the time I got hold of myself it was time for supper. I got down to the restaurant quite ready to eat, but when the food came I couldn't eat much and nearly lost control of myself again. We went back to the rooms and I had another attack (with several more to follow) of diarrhea. Glorious!
We tried calling Norm but the line was either busy or kept ringing. I called Jon but he wasn't there (at school) so I talked to both of his parents. Slept very well.
Jan. 18, 1983… Things are gradually becoming easier to handle, although my desire to return home as soon as possible is yet a prominent thought in my mind. Today I had my 5th treatment; I didn't seem as hot or as red as I had yesterday, although the taste of salt still remained as usual. My right arm is bruised due to some seepage during the injection; it is a small price to pay to allow my left arm free for both the 6th injection and blood test. I learned today that if the blood count failed to drop at least two points, the doctor dismissed you as a lost cause. Diarrhea has accompanied each bowel movement, which makes defecation less than a delight. However, this symptom often occurs among those being treated, so I settled into accepting that my upcoming weeks would prove likewise. I wonder if the injection is made up at least partially of Vitamin C; large dosages cause a red face and diarrhea… Time passes much more quickly than I anticipated it would. Hopefully the remaining weeks will be similar.
This afternoon I began to feel rather dizzy. The room would swim when my eyes were open, while I would be in a half-nightmare when my eyes were closed. I was tired, but didn't wish to sleep; closing my eyes brought on imagery too strange to describe… I merely saw the other hotel guests coming toward me, then falling away. Open or closed eyes, I remained rather dizzy. When I got ready to go to the Tuesday night party, my hands and forearms would get sporadic surges of numbness each time I would grasp a certain way. Scary. I went down for a short while but was soon escorted by Dad to my room due to dizziness… and I had begun to cry! Freaking out again. I guess the shots work on the nervous system. What a fiasco this is.
Dad brought a tray of food to me. Slept great… Mom had to turn off the bathroom light and cover me!
Jan. 21, 1983… I have never seen such a day as this wherein the wind whistled through the halls and rattled the windows yet ceased not once throughout the day. If storms be the wrath of God, winds surely must be a prominent accomplice in the tumultuous siege.
I had my 8th treatment today and the final one of the week. The doctor had to stick me with the needle 2 times before striking a rich stream of blood into which he could inject his serum. I thanked good fortune for the smaller needle as he delved into my wrist.
The afternoon brought on a dull ache in my I liver which gradually subsided and disappeared after numerous excursions to the bathroom. The diarrhea was still raging in full force.
Jan. 22, 1983… I spent most of the day employed in writing letters which will be taken to the states and mailed via "Sharon express." Norm called around 7:30. We were all still in the restaurant finishing our supper when Ullysses summoned me to the phone. I was so happy to hear from him… it was great that he called.
Jan. 23, 1983… Sharon left for home this morning around 7:30. I was unable to see her off due to a lack of cooperation from my bowels. After several attacks, I made my way down to meet civilization. Breakfast was the customary oatmeal with a side dish of peaches. Feeling rather peaked, I ascended once more to my hermitage on the 2nd floor.
More than slightly depressed, I had to escape to the bathroom for a silent cry when Dad persisted to rattle the change in his pockets. Somehow my nerves wouldn't take the incessant jingle, combined with the knowledge that he was doing same out of sheer boredom and nervousness. It would break his heart if he should know how nervous his action and loud speech make me. There is not one thing in this room to cushion noise. Dad would do anything for me if it would make my disease go away. Some things, as always, are better left unsaid.
Lunch brought a rather nice change and lifted my spirits considerably.I was able to have fish, and although it is not customary for me,I relished each morsel, along with a salad and peaches.
Weekends are more difficult to withstand than week days, often times. I seem to fall into a depression and am susceptible to numerous emotional tides. Homesickness is a heavy load when one doesn't feel well. I love to watch the clouds from my bed through the room window. One lazily floats along while another totally overtakes its careless rival. Perhaps the sky is the sole glimpse of home that I have here in Athens… the sky is always a constant factor.
Jan. 25, 1983… Monday and today found me in quite good health and happily high spirited as well. Sunday was a bleak day for me… it seems that homesickness hits the hardest on weekends. There is definitely a lot to be said for a routine, especially in a situation such as this.
Monday I spent much of the day in the lobby. My desire to be sociable and mingle with the others returns when I feel good. The morning dawned with rain, although the afternoon heat soon shooed the clouds away to other parts. I received the questions I had asked of Helen, fully answered.
Breakfast was transformed into a veritable form of euphoria for me, as I was able to add to my morning fare a delicious "bear claw" donut. After a brief rest I descended upon humanity in good health and spirits. Aiding my good mood was the fact that we were able to change our return flight date to the 9th of February and sign up for our seats.
Jan. 26, 1983… Hump day! After my shot I feasted on 4 left-over Greek donuts before ordering my regular breakfast. I again ordered oatmeal and a bear claw, but was forced to take half of the donut to my room to eat later. Lunch was much more than I was prepared for… had fish, green beans, and a cabbage/carrot salad. Needless to say, I found myself happily full (altho' I wasn't nearly as full as last nite at the party when I consumed salad, rice, nuts and 6 donuts)!
After lunch, I retired to my four walls to wash my hair. That in itself is an experience to behold. One has two options, the first being to utilize the sink, whose drain is in dire need of dran-o. In this case, one remains dry but runs the risk of accidentally flipping one's locks down into the stench of the drain and thereby defeating the initial purpose of washing the hair. The second option is to bend over the contraption which is in Greece, labeled "a shower." This consists of a porcelain base and a faucet with a hose and hand-held shower head. One selecting this means of shampooing the hair must lean over the base of the shower and manipulate the shower head in such a fashion that will allow the entire bathroom to remain as dry as possible. Leg cramps, of course, are an acute possibility in this prime position. Another hazard could be the wet floor, for it is always wet after having used the shower. To keep dry is a laughable impossibility with this device; any articles of clothing should be placed in another room. I proceeded with the latter method and became quite damp.
My next operation to perform was the washing and drying of my nuts. It may sound crazy, this nut-washing ritual of mine, but I look at it this way; the last thing I need during my stay is to get sick from eating filthy nuts! So, I wash them, because one never knows whose dirty hands may have processed these nuts!
Another report I must make.! I have had a firm bowel movement! Joy of joys! It is the first since my arrival and the beginning of my injections.
Mom suffered a hair-raising scare when she feared that her passport was lost. While madly searching through desk drawers and coat pockets, Dad calmly assured her that if she did not find it, she would simply spend the remainder of her days in Greece. It was found, incidentally, in a zippered compartment of her enormous purse from where, of course, it had never strayed.
On their daily excursion, Mom and Dad disposed of the 3 cans of green beans (purchased for my use) which were suspected to have an acute case of botulism; the top of the can was bowed. I took very kindly to their effort and was careful to stay on their good side until the beans were scattered on the hillside.
Jan. 28, 1983… Today wasn't as glorious as Friday's are built up to be. My blood test didn't drop into the 2's like I'd rather hoped it would. I was 3.I from 4.I, which was considered "good." One must realize, of course, that anything that happened around here is "good," whether it be a painful or uncomfortable reaction, a drastic blood count drop, or feeling terrific.
There has been a considerable amount of conversation on the subject of "how many shots" are enough. Some people would take as many as the doctor would willingly inject. I cannot live from one shot to the next. I feel that if this stupendous serum is doing the job, I'll know… the tumor will diminish in size. If after 3 months, there seems to be no "progress," why send blood. I don't take much stock in the blood tests anyway. Moreover, one cannot even conduct his life normally if he waits for test results. I have to be able to just say "enough" and live my life. I can't always be waiting… life is too uncertain to not give and take joy from each day. Simply "being" in existence is not, for me, what "living" is all about. I'll have been here a month when all is done and paid for, and 20 shots will have been administered. That's what I have figured upon, and what I am prepared to have, but it's all I'll have. You have to stop somewhere, and who's to say that will be it. One has to be able to let go… I let go a year ago, and I can't hang on to shreds of hope. That doesn't bring happiness.
Yesterday was a wonderful day aside from the shot. The doctor had a hard time finding my vein, and he doesn't seem to wait for it to surface anymore without first probing for it. After the shot, I couldn't sit because too many non-patients were there. Finally I dove for an empty seat, almost on the verge of crying.
After breakfast, Tasos took Mom and me to downtown Athens to shop for my fur coat. It was rather strange, because Christos also drove his rover with Donna and Margaret. We'd asked for 1 driver; we looked at 2 furriers, the first of which was owned by one of Chris' friends. He had a motley selection of furs which were over-priced but poorly constructed. I was distressed after that shop, but we continued on, stopping at a nice furrier who had well made coats but sold for more than we could afford. Our last stop was a furrier called Toronto Furs where Mom had wanted to go all along because she knew they had decent prices and furs. That's where I got my coat… a dark mink tail, finger-tip coat. It's very pretty and cost $337.00! I was pleased with it, and it's something I'll have for many years (bought with money I'd been given from friends).
We went to an oceanside restaurant (Donna, Tasos, Mom and me) afterwards. It was a beautiful day, and the food was good. It was the first day I could have bread, and their's was great. I felt as if it didn't happen, it was so nice. Mom offered to pay the bill, which was a lot more than we'd anticipated for the size of the meal… (around $26.00). Then Mom paid Tasos 1000 drachma for taking us. . . it ended up being a rather expensive day. We didn't say anything about paying Chris… why should we… we'd only asked for one driver.
I got a letter from Jon when I came back… it was really nice.
Jan. 29, 1983… We all got up early and went on the 1 day cruise on the Aegean Sea. I was tired, but I had a good time. We didn't have very long to look around each island, but it still was a good tour. On the Island Aegina, we took a bus tour on the winding roads and country-side to a site of ruins. I took many pictures, and it was quite a view from the top of the mountain. The next island, Poros, we had only a glimpse of because of the half hour time limit. The last island, Hydra, was nice and we were able to look at some shops. I bought earrings and Mom a crocheted dress. I finally got rid of a rather pesty Tunisian who was following me around. I'd met him on the boat. I wanted to look at the island, not him. Norm and Jon called.
Jan. 30, 1983 (Sunday)… I woke up sick and had a temp of 101… it's going around here, as everyone seems to be ailing. Even in Athens. Mom and Dad's church class called at 6:15 and a lot of them talked… were so surprised and pleased. It helped to have such support.
Feb. 3, 1983 (Thursday)… Dad was unfortunate enough to have caught the malady that has seemed to have stricken our hotel. Rumor has it the whole of Athens has had the germ. I also heard today that a new group of Americans are to arrive this coming Sun. but that they will be refused treatment. The Travel Agency supposedly sends people over to Greece despite warnings from Alivizatos to stop, because of the nice profit they reap from each booking. Alivizatos wants to work in his labs for a time and to do so, he needs to have a break from patients. He's now treating some 90 Americans, plus an unknown number of Greeks. (He should be quite well-off.)
One of the white patients was talking to a black man in our group and she remarked that it was in God's plan that white and black get along well together. Conversation then turned to the possibility of rejection of the new patients coming and she stated, "Well, we were just part of the plan and they're not part of God's plan." The reasoning, to me, was incredulous.
Many of the guests are leaving Friday. . . tomorrow. . . for the U. S.I'll really miss Connie and Ron. At supper many pictures were taken.
Feb 4, 1983 (Friday)… It was a real zoo today. Those leaving had their shots first and then the remaining people were taxied rapidly to and from the doctors. At 9:00 they took the people to the airports, all nearly having hernias, because the plane departs at 10:00 and it takes 40 min. to get to the airport. I'm glad we'll be taking a taxi.
Blood test today. . . he barely coaxed enough out to use. It bubbled and spurted so slowly, I was wondering if I'd get another stick.
I thought it might be appropriate if, at this time, I attempt to describe our hotel room. That which one first encounters is, of course, the door. It is equipped with a skeleton key lock which usually tends to deny rapid entry or exits; if one persists, the door will eventually open. However, if one is besieged by a severe case of diarrhea, it is advisable to think twice about locking the door.
Once unlocked, the door opens with a loud squeak, followed by a short moan (a protest for having succeeded with the lock). Shutting the door quietly is a virtual impossibility, while a door left ajar is a prime target for a thundering slam.
Once inside room 20, and upon inspection of the floor, one immediately notices 2 very suspicious yellow splotches. Ignore them; they'll be there 20 years hence. To the right are 3 doors, 2 of which open into a closet housing a clothes rack and hanger. The other boasts 2 drawers and a shelf. The drawers are where one hides the dishes from the restaurant. They are used for mid-day snacks; any empty dishes in the room will promptly be swiped by the maid and returned to the kitchen.
To the right is the bathroom, having the obligatory sink and toilet, as well as a showerhead. There is no shower curtain. The sink has been on the verge of a clog for 2 weeks, while the toilet insists upon running until extra attention is given to it. The shower remains a true experience which no coward would dare to operate. Mom has used it only once in the entire time we've been here, preferring the tried and true sponge bath method. The floor, which is of green marble, is quite interesting, as one is able to imagine pictures in it's design while contemplating upon the plastic toilet seat.
The main room is comfortably small (Dad's is uncomfortably small) and contains 2 single beds complete with iron-hard pillows, sheets, 1 gray blanket, and 1 two-tone brown blanket that Jon would surely approve of. Bedside is a night stand supporting a dial-less telephone with a nerve-shattering ring. On the opposite wall stands a rickety desk, a luggage stand, and a chair. The third wall has 2 chairs and a set of double doors which open onto a small balcony. Outside shutters and faced drapes provide the necessary shelter and privacy.
The floors, tiled in green, have 2 rugs, 1 beside each bed. Both the former and the latter are typically dust ridden, despite the maid's honest attempt to maintain a degree of cleanliness; the hotel has no vacuum cleaner, and no plugs if it did.
The walls are a shiny mint green; upon one wall is a picture of a typical Greek village, and above the desk is a mirror and light. There are also lights over each bed and a swag dangles precariously over the foot of my bed.
The view of Athens is spectacular, especially at night when the smog is not evident. Licensed drivers may only drive on alternate days to help in the control of smog. The sunsets are marvelous. On a clear day one may catch a glimpse of the Aegean Sea sparkling in the distance below the many various mountain peaks.
Throughout the night one can hear the Greeks as they drive late (customarily), cars, trucks, and motorcycles, battling the mountain roads, and dogs barking….. between 12 - 3 A.M. The roosters begin to chime in early morning. Noisy? Yes, but one gets used to it, and if tired enough, sleep cannot be kept away.
Feb. 5, 1983 (Saturday)… The trip to the heart of the Flea Mkt. was cancelled unanimously by Mom and me. The weather, in the morning being lead gray skies shedding a sleet-like mist, became gradually more severe as the day progressed. By mid-morning, the sleet had transformed into jumbo snowflakes and rapidly proceeded to blanket the entire area in an unexpected cloud of white. The Grecians were quite delighted with the entire affair, as snow is rare in these parts; the last blizzardy condition was 15 years ago and caused Athens to close down. The people are ill prepared to drive in such conditions and find themselves at a loss in this type of weather; cars were strewn on all sides of the road.
As for myself, I was also happy with the snow; my only protest would be if it would hinder my departure on Wed. Otherwise I reveled in the beauty I was shown today. I was on the verge of sinking down into the bed to rest when Norm called… that was a nice addition to my day! I went down and ate a small portion of green beans, rice and bread.
We had a party in which Mom and I had a part… at 7:30. It consisted of our Artist Game, Becky Pate's rhythm game and Donna's auction, the proceeds of which went to the dishwasher at the hotel restaurant. Refreshments ended up the fiesta. . . it was a nice break for a Saturday nite.
Feb. 6, 1983 (Sunday)… I began my day by snapping several pictures from my balcony. Subject: snow-covered mtns. I figured that I had better record them on film before the sun's heat chased all of the snow away. I went to breakfast promptly at 9:00, ordering my usual morning fare, oatmeal, honey, 2 toasts, and "red" Nescafe (the decaffeinated kind). Following breakfast Max invited Mom and me to a game of Scrabble. I nearly won point-wise, but Max cleared his slate of letters first, thereby adding the total remaining letters from all of our slates to his score.
Lunch was very good today. . . my fish was cooked to crispness, the way I like it to be fixed. Following that meal, I hastily made my way to the Greek-English Dictionary to look up "crispy"; perhaps hereafter my fish dinner can always be crispy!
My blood test results were favorable, as far as it counts. I dropped to 2.5. The shot went well today, and I returned to have breakfast before venturing to the Flea Market in downtown Athens.
We caught a cab on the road above the hotel. It's a lot easier and less tiring for me than if I'd have to ride the bus all the way to Athens.
The Flea Mkt. can be described very simply as a low-brow, motley array of shops, most of which carried a wide selection of goods which repeated itself over and over through the area. It was actually a pitiable sight to see. Few of the people had heaters in their shops, and many appeared quite destitute.
The junk was over-priced; however, the merchants seemed unprepared for much bartering. I moseyed in and out of many shops without having been offered one price reduction. I ended up with 2 belts, one reduced from 120 drachmas to 110, and the other to 100.
After browsing awhile, Mom and I stopped and I got a pita bread to munch on for energy. Mom ate the sausage that came with it (38 drachma).
I found my way into a shoe store on the edge of the market and bought 2 prs. of boots. . . one is a smooth red leather short boot, and the other is a gold suede knee boot (1200 and 1800 dr.).
Lunch was at a corner restaurant. I had cabbage/cucumber salad, rice, and bread.
Cab… strange guy…
August, 1983… After last Diary Entry…
My last journal entry about Greece dwindled into nonexistence as home became part of the foreseeable future, with broken phrases and words serving as the one reminder of my excursion to the Flea Market and a strange encounter with a Greek who had repeatedly asked, "You American? You marry me?"
The following morning the three of us were packed on a jumbo jet amid a screaming mob destined for New York, and thoughts of Greece had made way for other, more prominent images. The red pointed shoes from Athens which were peaking out of my pant legs, the in-flight snacks, the certainty that our plane would crash on the way home. . . I desired to be home to such a great degree that paranoia became a plague, and I fancied my emotions were similar to those who are threatened in a war zone; in effect, if I was not killed in Greece, I would die on the way home. It was as if Fate was not an idea; it had taken shape and lived, exuding a force that controlled relentlessly and completely.
Upon reaching New York, and transferring to a different and considerably less crowded plane, my fear dissolved. We had traveled all day with the sun, and now it had overtaken us. The lights of New York twinkled like a brilliant network of gold on black velvet, covering the city's filth with delicate grace. I watched the points of light stretching endlessly into the darkness, and knew I was home; no foreign words rolled off the tongues surrounding me, yet a balanced variety of creeds and colorings spread about the plane.
Chicago possessed the essence of the midwest; when we reached the city, I was overcome with happiness and bought a bold red tee-shirt that read "Chicago." Mom noticed my purchase and questioned me; after all, I was probably the only patient of the Greek doctor who had not acquired a GREECE tee-shirt. The way I saw it, tee-shirts made statements. Some people wanted to express how they felt, others wanted everyone to know where they had been. I merely wanted to emphasize my gratitude for being home, and red carried the message with adequate force.
One flight later, the three of us stumbled wearily off of the small plane that had delivered us to Moline. I had not slept in over 24 hours, but I still recognized familiar faces, and many greeted us as we walked into the terminal. Besides my aunt and uncle, a group from the Circle C Class (Circle in Christ from our church) milled about, holding a "WELCOME" poster and wearing great smiles. It was a royal welcome to be received by one such as I, and it assured Mom and Dad of the support which rallied in their time of need.
"Friends were beginning their exodus to distant places . . . it meant appraising my own life and facing, time after time, the stagnation which it represented."
In Limbo
April 1, 1983… There is something left to be desired about living in a state which can be described as "limbo." I am neither happy nor unhappy. I cannot plan, because planning would only dig my sense of "loss" to a deeper level. I am unable to live my life in the ways in which I like for fear of ruining the Alivizatos miracle cure and because of my general lack of energy. I think I can do something but when I actually try, it fizzles into dust; I haven't the energy. I sometimes feel a world apart from all else… in Greece I lost my zest… or what zest I ever had… for living (in my sense of the word). Perhaps I can look forward to normalcy only after the six months period has come to an end. At least then I'll know my verdict. . . as I had before I went to Greece.
June 26, 1983… Today the bomb blew up that was ticking in my brain. I guess one might say that emotional explosions are a rarity in my case, however, I am lucky enough to realize when I've reached the point of mental saturation. It seemed of late, that all I heard were complaints and conversations necessitating an obligatory response of heartfelt sympathy.
I should never expect less than the truth when I ask "How are you?" There is then a symphony of habitual ailments; I receive quite an ear-full and the health report is consistently poor.
The next uplifting conversation was with Max, the master of personality, and a virtual ball of fire, (I jest, of course). His lamentations include numerous health difficulties, among them his artificial limb. Undoubtedly he is far worse off, in my opinion, than I.
However, I don't relish conversations riddled with bits and pieces of Greek reminiscences; I prefer to forget the entire affair. Moreover, I battle to maintain somewhat of a conversation. . . silence can only last so long before I become unsettled and feel nervous tremors pacing through my stomach. I am thoroughly exhausted once I am home. I am so tired of sob stories; they are no longer any good with me. I wonder if I lack tolerance for people who eternally lament their personal plights. Others also have problems, but muffle them to a far greater degree. Life's too short to taint other's lives with one's own depressions and sorrows; talk but do not burden! Perhaps, also, I have no sympathy for people who completely deny death and cannot accept it as a normal part of the life cycle itself. I hope my mind can now relax… I have twice today relieved it's pressure. I can now, with luck, bid my senses goodnight.
August, 1983… Is there really any sense to my life anymore? Sometimes I hate my life. I seem to be going nowhere… my pendulum has come to a slow stand-still. It seems that all the progress I had made 2 years ago has left me empty-handed and stripped once more. Selfworth is altogether laughable in context with my life. What, after all, is my purpose for being here? I do no more than spend other's money, take up space and burden my family with my lack of physical attributes. I feel that I could hold no job. . . I sometimes spend hours in one day running to the toilet. After eating, I always run the risk of feeling enormously nauseous for the duration of several hours. And stamina? Sometimes I have it, sometimes I don't.
Marriage? Who and how? At times I can barely take care of myself. Kids would be unthinkable, for reasons of conception as well as taking good care of them. What would you do while you were afflicted by runny bowels? And as far as a husband goes, he wouldn't exactly be getting "prime stuff." I'm a sight to look at… the type of body that deserves a full wardrobe at all times.
I don't understand why my cancer has to grow so slowly. Life can be such a burden. Some days I feel as if I've done nothing except eat, sleep and feel sick. And yet I feel guilty for not "pulling my weight." I don't want to be a chronic complainer and ailing 'til death bids me depart. I feel like a pussyfoot. . . I need ice or I'll overheat or sweat; I have my personal air-conditioner so I can survive the summer headache free. Sometimes I can't do much in the physical sense, and I feel as if my body is going to the dump. I have a whole sack or two in the cubbyhole filled with slacks and jeans that my ego will not allow me to throw away. False hopes still contemplate "recovery" in a bland sort of way. I suppose with all sincerity, however, that such luck is not to be mine. In all likelihood, I'll live to a ripe old age carrying an overgrown watermelon in my stomach, only to die by some freak car accident. Dream on, Laurie, for dreams carry no malignancy; dreams can be kept alive or brought to nonexistence as the individual mind sees fit. They can nurture or destroy the dreamer simply by his own desires.
Wisdom comes to an abrupt halt when one's ego considers himself to be entirely wise. The casual admittance of one's own ignorance, however, carries the implications of true wisdom and intelligence.
Nor do the wise mock the ignorant, for wisdom is a learned state, forever questioning and forever growing. The wisest of all human beings initially possessed a child's mind.
How happy I am that I do not feel compelled to uphold an image of a person I desire to be. Life, already appreciably complicated, need not also pressure one to act out the role of a personage whose standards are determined by a certain group in society. I find utter humor in watching the "necessary" actions of certain people, such as businessmen in suited attire and professors with their obligatory beards and pipes. I sometimes wonder if they would continue their hopeless charade if they knew how comical they appeared to an impartial onlooker.
Even as a child I found it horribly ridiculous to do things solely to please others. The "others," as it is, could care less for you as an individual anyway. I felt as if I was not only cheating myself, but my true friends also, if I was any less than my true self. I remember observing in agitated silence as fellow students would deliberately trod on the less popular children to somehow augment their low sense of esteem. Though I was seldom bothered by their childish mockery, I pitied the hapless recipients of their relentless derision and marveled at the insensitive cruelty of their incessant gestures and remarks. This, I suppose, led me to believe that man is not intrinsically good, and that goodness is learned only as the result of the societal necessity to survive. If not for this stark realization, I truly wonder what would become of man as a whole. Would he be reduced to canine barbarism or would there still be certain bands of people who would break from this sheerly animalistic behavior to nurture a livable form of existence, complete with an intricate set of moral ethics?
As seen in my entries following the Grecian trip, I became depressed and frustrated as a rejoinder to the special diet. I felt constrained by hope, not freed by it, and was deeply relieved when six months had passed, for then I was able to return to what I had come to know as "normal." It was obvious that the Greek doctor had done nothing to cure my ailment, for the cancer continued its growth, manifested in my shrinking wardrobe vs. an increasing waistline. Because the waiting was over, there was no need to spend more of my precious time engaged in obligatory hope. I would forge onward. . . and forget the cures.
If nothing else, the Greek diet developed an interest in food and its preparation. Indeed, I was so obsessed with food that I was plagued by it; if a diet is so rigorous that it demands constant awareness to succeed, I believe that success is far more difficult to attain. Throughout the weeks of the diet, I baked with incomparable zest and learned a wealth of information about cooking. Bread baking was edible chemistry; it became easy to respect chefs and their tempting creations as I paged through cookbooks. In no time at all, I had a hobby which extended beyond the need to make natural food as specified by the doctor.
One slightly irregular recipe came to me through a book by Euell Gibbons; Violet Jelly. Yes, flower preserves. I'll never forget the day Norm and I went to the park and I picked a quart of violet blossoms. To be honest, I tried it to see for myself whether the jelly was as exquisite as he claimed. It was a lovely lavender flavored ever so delicately. . . and not objectionable to the palate.
Baking was not my sole enjoyment, of course. I loved to photograph wildlife and create still-life compositions. . . I enjoyed dining out and traveling to places both foreign and familiar. . . shopping was always a pleasure, with or without money… and the library, with its hint of musty volumes and quiet dignity, was also a favorite haunt. It was easy to be interested in many things, despite the fact that my plans often failed to cooperate with my bodily functions.
August 29, 1983… I have spent a good deal of time tonight feeling sick. For a while there I was really beginning to wonder if my Nutregrain would make a debut appearance in my clean toilet bowl (it didn't) so I will leave further writing for tomorrow. It is now 1:00 A.M.
I was used to feeling sick. Actually, I had forgotten what it was like to experience true health; stomach and intestinal difficulties had become a way of life. As time passed, however, I could not deny the damage that cancer progressively wrought upon my strength and general capabilities. Daily walks ceased after bowel complications (i.e., the immediate need for a bathroom) over-shadowed the enjoyment of the walk itself. Stress due to heat was also a great enemy that followed and preceded every outing or event, and between the two impairments, I grew increasingly more reluctant to pursue activities; I had to weigh the importance of the activity against the possible complications that might arise and thus spoil the engagement altogether. No longer could I say "yes" without mental hesitation; simple activities were not simple any more.
The summer of 1983 was hot beyond belief; with record high temperatures throughout, it was determined that life would be much more livable if I could have an air conditioner in my room. Shortly thereafter, another was procured for use in the basement's T.V. room, which afforded me a higher level of mobility. My family enjoyed the cool air so much that a third air conditioner was installed. Even my dad found a place in his heart for the electrical marvels and, I believe, appreciated them more than he would have cared to admit. A diary entry read:
August 29, 1983… I think Dad held out on buying A/C so long because he liked the idea he could take it.
Under the same principle, perhaps, was his derision toward mosquito repellant. Dad withstood bugs with an air of stoicism that bordered hard core.
Despite the heat, I managed to take several excursions through the summer. The first and longest was to California, where I helped a friend settle into an apartment before embarking upon a career. Many friends were beginning their exodus to distant places and it was fun to see where they would be located. . . even when it meant appraising my own life and facing, time after time, the stagnation which it represented.
Norm and I took our fourth annual trip to the Rockies during the tourist season's heaviest crowds, yet we were lucky enough to stumble upon and catch a cabin that had been dumped by previous patrons. We determined that Marion's establishment had certain irregularities which, despite its underlying personality, we desired to forego; after all, a basement unit with no scenic views or T.V. reception was rather dreary on a rainy day.
As my health had begun to fail, I was obliged to remain near the more populous areas of the park while Norm hiked to his satisfaction. It was not the same as the former trips for that reason, but I loved the mountains, nevertheless, and loved the fact that I still had the ability to see beauty in life when my own was not ideal. I focused myself on thought and photography, instead of those aspects of living which no longer remained within my physical grasp.
For years we had spoken of renting mopeds to scour an area of the mountains; so it was that we decided to break down and seek out the adventure. What fun it was! At a maximum speed of 45 mph I felt as if I was traveling at a tremendous pace. More humorous than thrilling, however, was the way I passed Norm on the hills; he appeared to be standing still, his bulky coat billowing in the brisk morning air. The trek had been a product of procrastination for three years; when we removed ourselves from the seats and turned in the mopeds, we were glad that we had finally put forth the effort and money to try something new. It was an indelible memory; it was also a memory that would never repeat itself except in dreams. Later I realized how fortunate I had been to capture the moment and make the memory; certain experiences are given only one chance.