"I don't care for rainbow chasing. . . it's a long drive down the alley of blind hope. I prefer not living in the shadows."
Reflections
AUGUST 25, 1983… I have decided to, once again, embark upon the habit of keeping a diary. Just having finished reading the entries in my previously written diaries, I rediscovered many memories and consequently, remembered how important it can be to retain a shred of ones self… no matter how brief… for the sake of future reference. Words tend to bridge gaps of time, and help to bring to rest troubled minds. I hope my words herein shall prove worthwhile. . . both to myself, and to whosoever may one day be the keeper of these journals.
Today I began, also, to write the story of my life… in it I hope to touch on experiences, trials, thoughts, both from past years and present. I wrote three pages concerning my earliest years thus far.
Nearly three years have passed since I wrote that diary entry, and much in my life has changed. Indeed, life is waning rapidly and there shall be no clever cure or miracle. For this reason, I shall simply use journal entries to describe my life in many instances; writing, in itself taxes my stamina.
What became of my relationship with my former boy friend? Time changes relationships as it does all things; so does circumstance. My recurrence of cancer exhumed a need for closeness, and what should have been better than dating to answer such a need? Because I knew I would not establish a relationship given the constraints of my irreversible disease, dating was not the threat it had been, and I was able to maintain a relationship without becoming terrified of romance. Romance would never be part of my life.
Sept. 8, 1983… I really had a hard night. I was in the john for 3 hrs. with the feeling my intestines were infested with worms. It is almost worse than throwing up. By ll:00 I could finally go to bed. Mom undid my covers for me. . . she's such a good mom.
Sept. 16, 1983… Dad got the reply letter about a new experimental treatment for "Big C." It was on 20/20… they only give it to a select group at Johns Hopkins in Maryland. It's funny. I'm scared to get better. . . I might let everyone down if I'm not the superperson (achiever). That's stupid… I could always take the civil service exam to try to be a postman… I would've liked doing that…
Knowing I had a bit of a melancholic streak in my blood, Norm used to wonder if I simply did not wish to live. "You take all of this so well… I don't know if I could handle it like that." "You just live with it," I told him. (I had often been depressed in high school and at Sears). After having cancer for three years, I woke up one sunny morning and glanced about the upstairs. "I don't want to die" crossed my mind like a flashing neon sign. I was slightly stunned. Though I was prepared for death, that in itself will not stifle one's zest for life as long as there is something to live for… one day at a time. Perhaps in my battle for a normal life, bereft of hair-raising treatments, I had merely thought, "I don't want to live if I can't do so with quality." Because life on any terms was not palatable did not mean that I desired to die. Never before had I truly contemplated that idea!
Sept 21, 1983… I talked with Alene (Greece patient). She is doing well. Max is going back for more treatments. Jenny is taking chemo in New York and Connie died. Mom and Dad didn't tell me. It doesn't make me depressed… it is just the truth… death happens to people… even patients of the revered Dr. Alivizatos. It didn't help me… my waist measures 31 1/2.
Sept 25, 1983… I called Jon utilizing the teleconnect service and we had a nice 1/2 hour conversation. He once again urged me to come out before Christmas, saying he was unsure of his stay at his current apt. and the rainy season begins in Nov.-March. I seem to grapple with the idea of flying there; I somehow hate to retain a relationship which seemingly has no future. I couldn't see myself living in Ca. with my current situation. It's always been difficult for me to visit Jon when I haven't seen him in awhile. Something always holds me back.
Sept 26, 1983… Dad called the Metabolic Treatment Cntr. in Chicago. A foreign accented woman referred Dad to an affiliated cntr in Cicero, II. From there he called the Cancer Society in Davenport only to be referred to an 800 number in New York. He dialed this number explaining the situation at Johns Hopkins. (They called Fri. A.M. I have the wrong type of cancer for their treatment). The Metabolic people are not doctors and their claims cannot be substantiated. She combined Alivizatos in the same category. Mayo was right in their answers. Chemo… a treatment… not a cure. Dad called the Clinic in Cicero. They had moved! The main office didn't know that! What a fake! They use a tape with a man's soothing voice to sell an empty cure. A discussion broke out between the 3 of us at home. It endured for the better part of 2 hours. What scared me was the fact that Norm was pushing the chemo option. I guess my desire to live or to just grasp each day isn't that desperate.
The Dark Pool
I amThat stagnant poolOf lifeAround whichA vibrant worldRevolves.I watchAs friendsAre initiatedInto the expanseOf changeTermed reality.I stayImprisoned by websThat do not breakShaded by leavesThat never fall.I waitAware of the options;To grasp madlyA tattered shredOf existence,Or preserve all dignity forThe final breath.
Lauren IsaacsonSeptember of 1983
Sept 28, 1983… Made reservations to go and see Jon. . . rates are unbeatable at $329 round-trip fare from Moline to Frisco… regularly $600
Sept 29, 1983… Drove to Dubuque in my parent's Citation…got sick after lunch at the Ryan House. . . nausea endured a better part of the afternoon. Didn't go with Sharon and Galen to the church potluck. …ate an English muffin and 2 eggs… nausea again… normal around 9 P.M.
Oct. 2, 1983… Made waffles for Norm and me… did dishes… cancelled KFC plans as the day became too warm for me. Jon called; I was bummed out for some reason. I felt like crying. I was thinking about the years (a couple years ago) and how one takes feeling good for granted. Then when Jon called, I remembered how soon I would be going to Frisco. I wasn't emotionally prepared to go so soon. I was flooded by seemingly small fears, yet to me, the fears are so real they become monsters. I was scared about sweating for 3 hrs. on the plane, having to go to the bathroom, getting tired, sick, etc. I want to make my trip as easy as possible, so I'm not taking a suitcase… just a couple of flight bags. It bothers me that I'll be waiting a maximum of 7 hrs. for Jon in the Frisco airport. I don't particularly relish that idea. I'll probably be fine, however, I'm haunted by all of these fears beforehand.
Oct. 4, 1983… I've been nervous for about 3 days now. I keep thinking the plane's going to crash or something will happen so I'll never be home again. I guess that says where I'm most comfortable. Everything I eat sits in my stomach like so much lead.
I hemmed my black Lee jeans and my $15 Gitano jeans, packed one flight bag with clothes and one more with my camera, magazine, book and such… to take on board with me. Mom and Dad took me to Bishops for dinner… a so-long affair… washed my hair. I wish I felt better about going. Les sent me a card. I thought it was a so-long and have a good trip one, but it was a regular card with $50. I was shocked! I called him and thanked him. Well, it's goodnite for now. I hope my bad feelings are unfounded! I don't exactly want to die in a plane crash. What a long way down. (ugh)
Oct. 5, 1983… The day began for me at 4:45 A.M. I figured I'd allow ample time for my face to emerge and get a quick bite to eat, but I figured wrong. I departed in a flurry at 5:45 without having eaten. Dad drove unusually slow, or so it seemed. We got to the airport with sufficient time for me to go to the bathroom and then some. We weren't rushed in the least. Les came too, but I was too nervous to really talk and feel "civil."
On board at 6:30 I was seated by the window in an MVA plane. I spoke with a man with a complete beard and moustache en route. He asked for my phone number. I hesitatingly replied that I had no pen or paper but that my parents were in the phone book. "I really hope he won't call… what would I need with a date?!"
Panic stricken, once again, when I reached O'Hare, I rushed excitedly to my next gate of departure, and there spent 45 minutes of anticipation. After boarding, I endured 15 or more minutes of sheer panic due to the stuffy atmosphere of the DC 8. After take-off it cooled down quickly. . . I was quite relieved.
Breakfast proved to be good; I rested a bit. . . I was fortunately situated on the window seat, the middle seat was empty and the aisle seat occupied by a slightly corpulent and very silent businessman. (He, by the way, finished his breakfast entirely.)
Upon landing I put both my bags in a locker… the wait proved to be 6 hours. Jon came. . . he looked "real good." It was a super and balmy night. . . we walked to the Seasons restaurant. Jon treated.
Oct. 6, 1983… Things got pretty emotional for a while as we tried to sum up the situation between us. Situations change and they will never be the same again. I love Jon, but neither of us are ready for a relationship. Marriage makes all things so dreadfully black and white. My health is the foremost difficulty, as well as the miles that separate us. I sometimes don't feel capable of being a good wife, nor do I feel that I'd be able to live so far away from my family… I need the support. I felt better, nevertheless, after our discussion…. at another time I had written down my thoughts concerning our relationship. (Just as one's mind cannot long remain inactive, so also will our love (for each other) change as the years progress toward eternity. If love indeed be true, change can only enhance its fullness, and this need never be feared, and must never be ignored.) This kind of love, for us, could never be.
Oct. 8, 1983… A hazy day. . . headed for Yosemite. . . had enjoyed Saratoga and a drive into the mountains the night before. . . had dinner at a place with a Scottish atmosphere. After taking pictures, hazy or no, we started back. . . bought 2 pumpkins. . . during the week days I spent my time reading… Jon did home work in the evenings… we had dinner "in," at Wendy's, at a Chinese restaurant, at Marie Calendars… I showed him how to hem his trousers. . . we carved our pumpkins. . . mine looked like Foo Man Choo. . . his looked like a mask. . . they are both neat. I took pictures of them. . .
Oct. 12, 1983… Today's the day to go home… Jon came for me at noon… we ate at McDonald's. I read a bit of this diary to him en route to the airport. As usual, it was difficult to say goodbye. I have a 2 hour wait before boarding my plane… Dad picked me up and we had a late snack at Perkin's. . . when Norm came home from his night-shift we talked til 2:00 A.M.
Oct. 22, 1983… Was amazed to realize that some of my friends feel I'm a prisoner in my own home! It is definitely not the case…
Oct. 31, 1983… Happy Halloween! After chores I went for a walk in the woods with my camera equipment. . . wish I didn't get so out of puff when I climb hills or just walk… took a nap… this is the 3rd pumpkin I've carved this year!
Nov. 2, 1983… Got ready to go to the library But No!… my bowels did not cooperate. Norm has the laughable habit of setting the gummy caps of toothpaste tubes on the sink, thereby leaving a characteristic green ring. After several days, the green rings gradually but steadily accumulate and I break down and rinse away their interesting circular design. One day, while preparing to brush my teeth, I called Norm in to observe my progressive "cap off, squeeze on brush, cap on" movement, which allowed me to replace the cap without marring the sink top. I laughed, he smiled, and the day passed with no further green rings appearing upon the sink. The following day I found 3 rings, made doubtlessly, in quick succession and accompanied by a note saying, "Old habits are difficult to overcome." I thought that was great!
Nov. 4, 1983… Upsetting is the relationship between Jon and me, for I know it will go nowhere. I feel more at ease here where I know I'll be listened to and understood. I feel as if the better part of myself simply blows past Jon in my attempt to speak or read my thoughts. He misses my meaning completely. I couldn't take living in an atmosphere where talking proved only to be a one-way message, never to be received and merely bouncing off the walls until it eventually buried itself in its own silence.
I found a postcard that read. . . "If you love something… set it free. If it comes back… it is yours. If it doesn't… it never was." I never sent the card.
Nov. 7, 1983… I had an odd sensation while drying the supper dishes. Perhaps "disturbing" would better describe my fleeting emotion, for I experienced a strongly chaotic urge to impale myself with a steak knife while drying it. The feeling was so brief, yet so very intense, that I almost wonder why reflex action alone did not carry through with the brain's message. Self-preservation reigns first and foremost, perhaps, even within the most morbid thoughts.
Nov. 9, 1983… The folks went to bed half-cocked at me this evening. Mom started up the endless preaching on the irrevocable horrors of alcohol and drugs, leaving one to stand alone in a flurry of statistics and evil stories. This led to the adolescent eccentricities and peer pressure and curfew and all the topics on which they hold themselves as authorities. "I never had to break away when I was a kid. . .never." Well, he (Dad) was given slack and choices and he chose abstinence and church. OK. So What? But he still can't, nor can she… understand the grip they held, and always will hold; that "I told you so" dangling over your head when the party didn't live up to your expectations. . . the solid 12:00 curfew, at which time the pumpkin would explode if one wasn't home, let alone the knowledge that you weren't doing anything BAD anyway, nor would you if you stayed out 'til 4:00 A.M. Lack of trust or what? The inability to make one's own decisions can be a painful blow to one who knows he's capable of making competent decisions. A little less questioning, a little more room to breathe, that's all. Perhaps I became so tense tonight because I sometimes feel the walls closing in on me now… the way it had during those painful times in high school. I feel no longer I'm in control… I've somehow relapsed into mommy's and daddy's little Laurie Annie. Sometimes I need backing… when I freak out or feel sick… but I'm supposed to be a woman. I can vote. I can drink in my own state. Very Big Deal. And a lot of good it does me now. Rationalization: Good thing I had the ability to have fun with and around liquor before the bomb broke. It was fun, but I liked life fine without it, too. It's no integral part of existence, but it has it's place. I only wish they would understand that. At least I can write without being reproached. When this is read, I won't be around to counter attack.
Nov. 16, 1983… A guy called asking about Greece. His sister has cancer. . . much of her face was removed, as well as other lymph nodes near the neck; also one breast was removed. She "eats" through a tube in her nose. Boy, have I ever got it good. I'd kill myself before resorting to that sort of butchery. I told the guy straight truths as I knew them; I didn't feel the treatment worked for me, but others would bet money it helped them. I advised to really consider before going, as it was a difficult trip for even those of hearty stock.
Nov 17, 1983… I ate breakfast and shoved off around 8:30 for Dubuque. It was a beautiful drive due to the mist-shrouded lowlands and the frost which lay over all things, both alive and inanimate. I saw a particularly picturesque scene, complete with grazing horses amongst the white grass, so I determined to pull off the highway and retrace the road to the best point. I had snapped two photos when a highway patrol pulled over across the road from me. I felt certain that I would defy my potty-training for a moment. "Is that your red car parked up there?" to which I answered "Yes" and a hasty, "Is it OK to be here?" He had thought perhaps I had engine trouble and he was going to help. I thanked him and he replied that I could take as many pictures as I wanted. I have a deep fear of cops which has no real basis, especially of late; I don't break the law by speeding. Rest-at Sharon's. . . attended a weaving open-house.
Nov. 18, 1983… Sharon and I drove to Mt. Horeb after breakfasting at "Spikas." Again there was heavy fog and Sharon pulled on the headlights; I made a mental note of her action to avoid leaving the lights on for the length of our spree. Unfortunately, I misplaced the mental note, and the lights were grinning at us upon our return an hour or so later. The engine was "deader" than a frozen road apple; luckily we'd parked along side of a gas station and the attendant promptly "jumped" us (or rather, the engine). It cost 2 bucks. Big deal. Sharon drove back after our rather short spree… I'd hastily gotten sick after drinking some tea. I left for home around 3:00. . . experienced fair amount of diarrhea once home… oh well … we ate at Bishops for supper… it's Friday, after all.
Dec. 21, 1983… I talked with Mom for a good amount of time. . . I asked if she believed that I wished cancer on myself. . . I was past my depression when I once again found out the bad news; moreover, my depression subsided after some changes were made in my life. . . quitting Sears and dropping a class I didn't like… anorexic tendencies had dwindled as I made those changes.
Then I asked if she believed that one could cure ones self through the desire to beat the disease. Question 1: Why would a person who didn't want a disease, contract one? Question 2: Why wouldn't it work for every one? Or would one have to believe. . ."know." . . .that he would be cured if he simply believed in such a thing? It helps to talk of such issues, for at times I do become confused. I feel instead that I have resigned myself to my problem realistically… I don't care for rainbow chasing. . . it's a long drive down the alley of blind hope. I prefer not living in the shadows.
Dec. 26, 1983… Although it was not easy to attain, I remember feeling once that I had my life by the reins. I could do anything, because I felt I had control of myself. If I failed at one thing, no matter. . . I could do something else and succeed. Now I feel trampled beneath that stallion of life whose reins I so confidently held; I have no control. Even my emotions, which before I prided myself in keeping so carefully concealed, crash from my grip. Jon, too, is no longer in my grasp. He has grown more confident and self-assured, and I like what I see… but I feel as if he's no longer in my league… as if I'm trying to love a diamond when I know full well that I can afford only glass. It's never easy to lose status. I've lost so much that only a miracle of nature could allow me to recover my low self-worth. Jon deserves so much, and he has "the right stuff."
I feel so much better seeing him at home. I look as good as I can hope to look because I am able to get the rest I need. I felt like a shadow of myself in San Jose. . . a wound-up toy that kept walking even after the tension wore down.
Dec. 29, 1983… It's funny… Jon and I shared so much, yet somehow, nothing ever came of it. Perhaps the sorrow I feel is partially due to the knowledge that nothing can possibly come of it given the current situations. It's difficult to let go of the only lengthy and worthwhile relationship I've ever had, knowing full well that it's the last. I will never be in the situation to date… it's an added tension that I probably do not need, nor would I have the opportunity to experience. It would be like buying bald tires for your new car… I'm "spent."
I feel that all I can do is to enjoy the time I can spend with Jon taking one day at a time in the same way I live each day as it presents itself. I can expect nothing, for to do so only makes shattered expectations all the more trying.
Jan. 4, 1984… It's rather entertaining business, this autobiography; it's fun to be able to sit back and remember the ways in which you saw the world as a child. Truthfully, my mind still thinks the way it did then. I've merely learned more, gained objectivity… but I'm essentially the same. Perhaps one changes more than he thinks, however, it could be that, so gradual is the widening of that perception, one is not really aware of the changes amassed in his brain. Nevertheless, I'm enjoying my writing, trying to include all material which is of marked consequence.
Jan. 5, 1984… Today was rather a wasted day in that I was unable to venture downtown due to the frequently repeated trips to the bathroom. However, I did listen to the subliminal tape which Norm gave me for Xmas. It is composed of seashore sounds and is relaxing. My tape is entitled "Phsyconeuroimmunology…Beneficial Influence of the Mind on Health," which was described as being helpful with regard to the immune system. Maybe it'll get rid of my "Big C"! That's a long shot but one can't just roll up the carpets and close shop. At any rate, it's cheaper than Greece and couldn't hurt. I'll just have to be wary of any cravings… if I suddenly get the indispensable urge to drink only coke, perhaps the input is an advertisement Ha!
I can never quite go along with the idea that one gives oneself diseases. At 13, I didn't know what cancer was, death via a serious illness was the farthest thing from my mind, much less my desire. I believe the reason I can… at times… accept my plight now is that 1. I've had it before. 2. I never really quite accepted the diagnosis that I was "cured." 3. I've been sick to my stomach for years following my first operation. . . I was never leading a "normal" life. 4. I've always felt "doomed" to a degree. 5. I've tried chemo and it didn't work; since I hold American doctors in high esteem, I am not as readily accepting of other country's "cures," especially if there are no facts to back up their claims. 6. I cannot live from one "cure" hope to the next. Disappointments become unbearable if that is all one ever encounters.
I can't believe that I would want what I have, given all of the suffering that I've endured. Sometimes I wish it could all end, either by my recovery or my death. Living half-way becomes difficult when one's prospects are bleak. If only I could be healthy… feel healthy… the things I'd want to do!!!
Jan. 12, 1984… I stopped at "Rags to Riches" and inquired whether they bought clothes which were second-hand, since it was a second-hand clothing shop. (So intelligent a question, no?!) She informed me they work on consignment. I have 16 prs. of pants that I intend to bring in. It is rather difficult to let go of those pants. I guess somewhere in my head, I hoped that I'd be cured and be able to fit them again. But the chances of that are slim. My body doesn't seem to be able to "get on" the road to recovery. I'd be exceptionally healthy if I wasn't such a physical wreck.
Jan. 15, 1984… I made breakfast for Norm and me… then we went to Wild Cat Den… we took a good hike back into the park… it was snowy so wore Mom's high boots. I really did well, I thought; I felt good. Going up the steep grades presented a bit of a problem, but otherwise it went better than I had thought. (Maybe the tape's working.)
My slides are good! For my first attempt at still-life, I'd say I really did well.
Jan. 22, 1984… I made breakfast for Norm and me, then after doing dishes together, I got my camera equipment and we took off for Loud Thunder, around to Muscatine, and back to Credit Island. I used my sunset and graduated filters. We had lunch at Hardee's. Les came for supper. Mom had a roast. After everyone was in bed, Norm decided to cook up that brown macaroni that I'd bought last year while on the Alivizatos diet. I'd never gotten up the nerve to cook it before. . . curiosity got the best of Norm. He put cheese in it to help the flavor, but actually the stuff wasn't too bad. It was more grainy because it was never processed. We watched "Funny Girl" on the late show but gave it up. It wouldn't end 'til 2:00 A.M.
"I didn't associate God with loneliness; the two were separate, and to bond them would have been inconceivable. God did not forsake me. I am part of Nature. . .this is natural, as is my grief."
Zenith Of Grief
I am beginning this new journal several pages before the old one expired! Perhaps this is because it is rather a new beginning for me. One must bridge countless mountains throughout his existence, and some of those mountains are much more difficult to climb than others. It has not yet hit me fully that Norm is dead, and this will be the hardest truth I will ever bear. It is through the selfish nature of human beings that we suffer and mourn over a drastic loss, for the deceased is no longer subjected to the routine pangs of life itself. I derive comfort from the knowledge that Norm led the type of life he desired, for so many individuals spend time involved in relationships they despise, or in jobs they abhor. Norm didn't worry about attaining what so many casually label "success," that being a career that "looks" right. Success is having established a set of values and living by them; realizing time is precious and therefore shouldn't be wasted on petty grievances and concerns. Moreover, a life having quality is a life which is peaceful. Norm led a quiet life, spending many waking hours doing that which pleased him. He was not selfish; one must please himself before he can expect to treat others civilly. He was easy to be with, and would let you be… he wasn't out to force his opinions and desires on others.
I feel terrible now, but I know that my life was touched by a very special person. For that I shall always feel grateful. It is better to have had a beautiful relationship and have it end, than to never have experienced it at all. Norm was my mainstay in life. When things felt as if they were falling apart, it was always to him that I would turn. He was my companion and my best friend. We could share so much because we shared the same thought process. Seldom does a person feel completely at ease with another, and yet with Norm I was. Conversation wasn't necessary, but it was one of the finer parts of our relationship because we so well understood each other.
My life will never be the same without Norm; of all people, I feel it will be the hardest to be without him. My thoughts are so displaced. I feel dead. He is at peace now, or at least I choose to think so. One never knows of the after life until he himself has expired. Superstition and blind hope forced me to pray that he would live and be normal. To be comatose or paralyzed would be worse than death. It's funny; he felt so strongly that his purpose in living had not yet been fulfilled, and he had a zest for life to one day find that which would (in his mind) fill that commitment to life. I once again found that my beliefs were true; prayer does not help those things over which we have no control. It is a formal way of hoping.
Strange as it may sound to individuals who cling so desperately to life that they will torture themselves for one more breath, I wish I could have died before anyone else in my family. That, you see, is a coward's way out of mental duress. This is by far the worst blow ever driven into me; if one was to sum up the worst possible occurrence to give to me, fate couldn't have picked a riper apple. It's not that I don't care for others. . . but Norm was special to me.
I also hate to see Mom and Dad so terribly wracked with pain. Not one child has been left unscathed by bad luck, while some families live a storybook life or screw up their lives out of their own stupidity. There is no such thing as justice in life. There is no equality or fairness. It is a fragile world, and so many seem bent on self-destruction while Norm simply wanted to live in harmony.
Only yesterday I was lamenting my inability to do things alone. I'm scared to go on walks, etc. . . especially now that I feel at a rather low ebb physically. Now I must do things on my own or not do them at all. And it's not the doing, but the mutuality of sharing a joke, a glance, or idle conversation. He won't be there, and he will be so horribly missed. I hope you have found your ultimate peace, Norm.
I woke up this morning to the sound of harsh, uneven gasps of breath. I thought Norm was having a bad dream, so I hurried to his room, only to find him on the floor; his chest and waist were along his bed and his legs were tangled in the bedsheets. I shook him and yelled his name, but no response was made. After several sputtered expirations of air, he seemed to attain an unearthly calm. I suddenly thought, "this may not be just a bad dream.". . . he wouldn't wake up. I ran downstairs at 6:20 A.M. and told Mom… she woke Dad and they went upstairs. He still was the same and I dashed for the phone and dialed 911 . . . they were here in five minutes. I kept flicking the yard light as they approached our house. . . a crew of two paramedics and later two policemen. All the while before they arrived, Mom and Dad were administering CPR… they took him out on a stretcher, still in the same state. I believe that I witnessed his last breath. I lost my touchstone.
Dad kept saying, "can you believe this?" I was shaking violently, still in my nightgown. I felt as if my bowels wouldn't hold. Mom was so worried about covering him up as they left the house; he wore only his bottom half of his sweats. His arms were dangling over the side of the stretcher as he was carried through the doorway… the paramedic told Mom not to worry, that the main thing was to get him to the hospital.
As I was dressing I felt disgust within myself at my concern to put on my make-up. Why should I care what I look like? We were taken to a small room to wait, it was cooler. I had to use the bathroom. A woman was there with us most of the time. . . to console us or help in case we "went off the deep end."
I still hoped that with the technically high developments, they would revive him. They worked and worked; Dr. Murrell said it was very bad. Later he came in again and said that he was gone. I was thinking that I'd be asking him how it felt to be gone and then revived. What passed through his mind? I never got the chance. I wonder if Norm knew I was trying to wake him. Perhaps that which comes after earthly existence was so sweet that he chose not living. Maybe it's that good. I hope so. For Norm.
I felt as if I had been reduced to a pulp after a calamitous beating, yet I could walk, talk and seemed to answer in a relatively normal fashion. My insides felt like so much lead; I felt dead, bereft of all poignant senses. Weak-kneed, we headed toward the parking lot, leaving Norm's body on the operating table. There would be an autopsy. . . none of us wished to see him again before they removed his corneas. I didn't want a blue-lipped memory of Norm, color had drained from his lips while he was at home.
Mom and Dad had to begin making arrangements for his cremation and his memorial service. I chose to remain at home and alone in the house. I promptly sat down and wrote page after page of my feelings, needing to express myself with a certain degree of permanence afforded by written words. It was as if I felt panic stricken that I might forget a facet of Norm if I didn't capture everything now. Finally, exhausted, I decided to go upstairs. Hesitant to relive the mornings events, I climbed the stairs and looked about. It seemed so empty, so utterly lifeless. . . the sun was obscured by gray clouds which multiplied the lonely effect. Had Norm been alive, the place would have simply been a room. Now it took on a character of its own, as if a bloodless ghost sought to haunt my mind with idiotic schemes. Reality hits hardest when loneliness sets in. I didn't associate God with loneliness; the two were separate, and to bond them would have been inconceivable. God did not forsake me. I am part of Nature… this is natural, as is my grief.
I began to straighten the furniture which had been hurriedly displaced to facilitate a wider exit with the stretcher. Looking at the tangled mass of bedsheets sprawling about the floor, I determined to change the bedding, and thus save Mom some of the stress. I felt like a mechanical man, functioning precisely as I'd done countless times before; doing menial tasks brought no comfort. . . it only helped to pass the day.
My thoughts raced… I began to fantasize… would they think I was guilty… would I be suspect as in a murder case… when they said he was gone, I had felt relief, for I knew he had been without oxygen far too long. I thought about his corneas given to Iowa City… how would he see… how ridiculous to think that…I thought about how safe I had always been with Norm as my "guard" . . . now he was gone . . . the daily excursions, the trips to Amana, Wild Cat Den, Loud Thunder, Davenport, Credit Island, the boat races, sailing on the Mississippi, even the winter picnics… all over now.
Norm was an ultra-sensitive person, not only self-sensitive, but caring for others. He had an acute awareness with regard to feelings, and seemed to know when to simply let be. It was a quality that few possess. . . a quality that few understand. It was this quality that made Norm so easy to be around. He didn't demand the full capacity of one's attention; he was personable and low-key; he allowed one to relax.
Every facet of his life mirrored his goal of inner serenity. He often spent time alone, walking for miles to attain physical and mental calm. Meditation was also becoming a valued discipline in his daily routine.
I am glad that I was given the opportunity to develop such a close relationship with Norm through the passage of time in which I was growing into the person I am now. He played an integral part in my life, and I feel somehow linked to him in an undefinable bond. Our sharing and understanding for one another spanned the seemingly trivial nature of a common joke to the mind-searching questions for which there are no answers. To say that he could be replaced is mere folly. Only once in a lifetime can one share so much. I am fortunate to possess the memories; I only regret having to end the making of memories so soon. We were two loners with a common bond. Now I am one loner, alone.
Jan. 24, 1984… I am fatigued… it took two hours to fall asleep. I was thinking, and I was scared that I'd have awful nightmares. I kept seeing him lying on the floor, and I was at first so certain that he was only having a nightmare. We could've had a stroke of luck like that…I woke at 6:20 A.M., the time that yesterday morning I awoke so lightening fast to the sound of uneven breathing. I went to the bathroom, then lay in bed until 8:00. I didn't seem to have much use for sleep.
So many people have come today with food and the plants are also numerable. Janet sent me a red rose, shortly afterward she appeared in person. Kristi even called from Cedar Rapids. So many care.
Todd, Debbie and Sharon arrived near noon, before that time, I'd tried on Norm's shirts and discovered they looked better than many of my own. I will be keeping the newer or nicer ones. It's a comfort to have his things near me. I changed the sheets on my bed because Sharon will be in my room throughout the duration of the week.
The radio-tape player that Norm ordered arrived today (UPS). I felt so sorry for the delivery man. He knew Norm. Todd called the doctor who performed the autopsy on Norm. He said death was caused by a left coronary occlusion, which is a heart attack via a blood clot. Because of the location. . . the upper left side of the heart. . . death occurs suddenly. Even if he had had a check-up it was not felt that the problem would have been readily identifiable. It was also something that would have been fatal if he'd been in the hospital at the time it occurred. Death is final within one or two minutes of the initial attack. This was most likely a gradual situation which would not be apparent to the afflicted individual. Every indication is masked, so gradual is the effect. Norm's organs were said to be over the normal weight due to amassed blood; the heart was not pumping efficiently enough to flush out the blood and therefore it clung to the tissues of the various organs.
I felt so relieved that an actual cause was found. I kept thinking rather accusingly of the Agoraphobia tapes. I also wondered if he'd had a dream in which he died, and then as a reaction to subconscious thought, the body began the death process. It's always been horrid for me to remain without the facts. I derive a sense of satisfaction from knowing the truth, or at least the truth as best one knows it to be.
I feel, at last, that I have attained a certain degree of peacefulness. Norm was and always will be a part of me, so great was our degree of sharing and mutuality. His companionship is gone forever, and yet the feeling of oneness shall endure through time and into the furthest reaches of eternity. Our being of opposing sexes enhanced the relationship. I lived for Norm and to be with him. In myself, I see him. My actions. . . my thoughts. . . are not manifestations of togetherness, but rather a singular uniqueness shared by us/we two.
Jan. 25, 1984… I carried the inner peace with me for the entirety of the day. After breakfast I fed the bird, and then shut myself up in my old bedroom to write Norm's eulogy. I had written approximately half of it when Rev. Hess came. He's a good guy, and easy to talk to. He's the first minister I've ever encountered who admitted that religion is a personal thing with some people, and that one can accept other's viewpoints without compromising his own beliefs or criticizing conflicting views. I read aloud the parts of my writing which I had completed. He will read my final copy on Saturday. I elected not to do so for dual reasons: I am nervous in front of crowds, under the circumstances, the nervousness would be worse.
After lunch, Steve and I went to Wild Cat Den. There was a fresh cool breeze blowing. I missed Norm, yet memories were sweet. It was good to get out of the house and into the wind. We dropped off my film and mailed my photo entry.
Jan. 26, 1984… I think that too little time spent alone is taking its toll. I went upstairs and I listened to my tape and another album; then I dug out the note which Norm wrote me when I was in Greece.
Jan. 27, 1984… So well do I recall the day in which we rode in black limousines to the cemetery. It seemed to me a ghastly promenade in the midst of such grand January weather; I felt myself to be an actor in some morbid sideshow in which I was to don my most lamentable countenance so as to better give casual onlookers the expected performance. Instead, I chose to focus my eyes upon my knees, where they remained riveted until we motored into the graveyard in our stately, yet somber vehicle.
Everything within me screamed and rebelled when we once again were instructed to issue into our allotted seat for the return trip. The entire essence of the black limousines seemed to me a gruesome ritual of bygone ages. My sorrow was not an emotion which I desired to splash among the city streets with an air of pomp and circumstance; it was grief as personal and private as those thoughts I shared exclusively with Norm and my ever-true notebook. To ride thus seemed to make a mockery of that which was actually taking place, becoming an event rather than the tribute to a deceased and beloved individual.
"God needed Norm in heaven with him," was a phrase spoken to attempt to comfort us. Some try to see a purpose in all things. . . a way to make them less hurtful. Others view death as the ultimate "bad thing" yet need to justify God's love by saying that "it was all for the best." Then there are those who say, "God gives you pain because He knows you will grow stronger." Boy, that makes me want to run to a church and shout "Praise the Lord!"
It is difficult to know what to say to someone who has suffered a loss. It is painful enough to visit, to witness the anguish. It is more difficult to bring comforting and meaningful words to the grief-stricken. Can one praise God for His kindness and love when the situation is nothing but grim and senseless? Statements must also be chosen that do not somehow suggest the mourner is to blame, that had he done something differently, the outcome would have been altogether reversed. Awareness of ones self and others helps immeasurably during a confrontation with adversity, for among the numerous reactions to a given situation, mutual respect is of foremost importance. Everyone reacts differently.
I hope Norm has found peace. He certainly deserves a sojourn of tranquility. His tapes of Meditation and ESP came today in the mail. Mom and Dad have received 120 cards so far! It's unbelievable how many are concerned and respond.
Jan. 28, 1984… It was rather a madhouse today, as a carload of relatives popped in unexpectedly near lunch time. I escaped to my upstairs room before it was time to go to the Memorial Service. I couldn't bear the commotion on the main floor. The limousine once again brought us to the church. It was hard to remain composed as I walked into the church and found my way to the parlor. I brushed my hair in a nearby restroom and then returned to wait for the service to begin. I was scared for what the service might be, my only knowledge of memorials being the bleak hopelessness so common to funerals.
Rev. Hess delivered the formalities in a manner far from depressing. He read several scriptures including the congregation in one; there were three hymns also sung with the congregation. He read, also, the poem "Birches" by Robert Frost, and then my contribution to the service. After the service we filed out, utilizing the center aisle just as we had entered the sanctuary.
We formed a receiving line to greet those who were at the service. It was unbelievable to see the multitude of people who came to pay their respects to Norm and the family. It seemed as if the line would never end. Mrs. Griffin (Kathy) brought me two glasses of water during the reception to keep me fairly cool. Nevertheless, I sweated profusely; by the end of the line, my hairline was soaked and I was thoroughly fatigued. It seemed that many found my writings meaningful; moreover, doing so was quite beneficial to me. Many desired a copy of it, so Rev. Hess said he would make some copies and put them in the office. I hope no one will use any part of the homily for another service; I wrote that for Norm.
Steve was good to return to the church after taking Kim Segura home. I rode to his house after the service, electing to forego the trip home in the black limousine. Once home, I went to my "old" bedroom to lay down. I couldn't actually sleep, but the rest itself did some good.
The house was crawling with relatives until after supper. Little by little the crowd gradually dispersed, leaving the comparatively small group of the Johnson's, Todd, Debbie, and Mom and Dad. I once again stayed up rather late. We needed to talk.
Jan. 29, 1984… Today in the afternoon the Waterloo threesome (Todd, Debbie and Bonnie, Debbie's mother, plus the canine, Bandit) were the first to depart. Todd drove my little red Swinger; I hope he will keep it looking nice. I must simply let go and guard my sanity; it is not worth tearing yourself into emotional rages and tatters, however, I've never been able to rationalize having nice things if one doesn't care for them. Sharon seemed to need to stay a while longer. She was upset over so many concerns accompanying a loss of such consequence. I hope she will be able to find peace within herself. Perhaps it is easier to do so in her own home.
Nights always bring out the spooks which I conjure up inside my brain. I decided to lightly illuminate Norm's room to allow the shadows to disappear. We also decided to leave the door to the upstairs open; I'm frightened of noises sounding like gasps or snorts of air, as they remind me of the way in which I was alerted to Norm's predicament. I'm not afraid of his spirit, but rather of the nightmares which might evolve from the trauma of finding Norm and the inability to help.
Jan. 30, 1984… In the afternoon I ventured outside and mailed a few thank you letters. It had snowed about 6 inches last night and I woke up to a beautiful landscape. I walked down below the house a ways, not going into the woods because I have difficulty climbing back up even in the summer. The new snow left a track which could easily be followed, leading me to think that an individual could never truly be alone when traversing a snow laden landscape; he could easily be detected even if solitude was what he sought. Once inside, I attempted to write a poem about my thoughts, beginning with this.
A solitary foot path…
Solitary Footprints
A solitary foot pathUpon the fallen snowBetrays the quiet secretOf whither I might go.Through spring's bouquetHis footsteps passed,And summer's veil of green.He watched the autumn leavesSail downAnd winter skiesShed cloaks of white.His path, each day,The snow betrayedWhile strolling throughThe woodland brush,A hoard of printsWhich marked a manWhose spirit meldedWith the land.Taken in the grasp of night,The man no moreWill trod the snow.I searched by dayTo find his path,So quickly did he steal away.But nature maskedHis many tracks,As winter oft will do,And I remainTo softly ponderWhither he has gone.The steadfast essence of the manI carry in my soul,But mine shall be the only printsUpon the winter snow.
Lauren IsaacsonJanuary 30, 1984