Norm / Reflections
."..I had been transported across 2000 miles…Memories and heartaches, however, came along for the ride."
Norm/Reflections
It seemed impossible to think that I may never see Norm again. I thought about the kite that we bought at a grocery store and flew in the spring gusts until it was a mere speck in the blue sky. I remembered our discussion about the importance of seat belts, after which a love-smitten, one-armed Don Juan nearly forced us off the road. I thought about the many times he pitched to me, saying, "Keep your eye on the ball!," and how we rumbled up the street to K Mart on low-budget shopping sprees. I did not have Tracy's address, so letters would be a pointless effort. My mind began to create images, concocting chance encounters and elaborate dialogues. I pictured his tall form striding from a store into the sun-bathed parking lot; I would run to him despite the protests of my parents. The image would dissolve and another would take its place. This time, I saw him while I was alone; I was able to obtain his phone number and address, and planned to keep in touch. Again the fantasy would fade. I wondered fearfully whether the years would so change his facial appearance that I would fail to recognize him. Nothing and no one in life was immune to change; features, health, relationships…everything could bloom or wither in an instant.
Many thoughts flooded my mind during the next week. I considered my parents and their steadfast values, and understood their torment. Their son was about to embark on a lifestyle which they viewed as morally wrong. After 20 years of guidance, Norm's action was translated as an injustice done to them. Often I heard my dad describe an incident, remarking, "If the kid really loved his parents, he wouldn't have done (it) out of respect for them."
I had been raised under the same school of thought, and, until my views had been tested, my stance on various issues usually echoed those of my parents. Following the incident with my brother, however, I could no longer believe that cohabitation without marriage was so wrong that the act should tempt a parent to disown his son, especially if the two cohabitants loved each other. Had Norm been a promiscuous lout who flitted from one woman to the next merely for the purpose of filling his primal needs, I would have agreed that his irresponsibility demanded punitive action.
As I reflected over my silent disagreements, I wondered why Norm and Tracy couldn't get married. If their life was to be shared, why didn't they just marry to please society? Sure, the legality may only have been a grand joke to Tracy, but if it saved certain relationships, was it not worth the trouble? Moreover, Norm had always avoided involving himself in a scene which would direct undue attention. I found the current circumstances rather odd and out of character, for "shacking up" was a relatively new phenomenon to strike the midwest. I had no answers, and my questions had no ear to rest upon. It was best not to dwell on that which I could not hope to change.
After a week of emotional survival, I boarded a jet bound for California. With all my expenses paid, I was to spend several weeks at the Santa Monica home of my aunt and uncle. Never having flown, I was excited when the journey commenced and the jet tore a path into the hazy summer sky. I found flying to be a delightful affair, especially during the circulation of complimentary pop and peanuts. Silvery mounds of cloud formations glistened against the sun's blinding light. Across the blanket of white, another jet raced toward a secret destination. Corn and wheat fields made a quilted pattern of the landscape. Rectangular fields slowly gave in to circular ones as the jet scorched westward; irrigation. The Rocky Mountains pierced a jagged line through low-flying clouds that skirted each side of the airliner, and the fertile land disappeared where the soaring mountains grew from the earth. The jet flew past that which nature took centuries to create as if it was insignificant and worth little more than a fleeting glimpse. The mountains were now behind us. As I peered out of the tiny window, the land became increasingly arid and fewer roads disrupted the sea of creeping grass and sage brush.
As we began our descent, I felt my ears clog in rebellion to the slight change in air pressure. Swallowing and trying to induce yawns, I cleared my ears continuously until the jet was hanging lazily above city streets and buildings. Not until the aircraft touched down on the runway was I aware of the speed at which the jet was moving; the grass was at first a green blur against outstretched silver wings, and we rushed on as if powered by an unstoppable force. Then I perceived that the forward thrust was steadily reined until the huge jet slowly strolled along the landing strip and taxied toward the Los Angeles terminal. Within the passage of hours I had been transported across 2000 miles; it certainly did not take a long time to leave a place. Memories and heartaches, however, came along for the ride.
This was my vacation, and I tried to avoid thinking about that which had transpired the week earlier. While my aunt and uncle showed me the sights in their part of California, my parents decided to take a vacation of their own. They, too learned that miles did not alleviate worry. Worry cannot be left at home. It is weightless baggage that one is obliged to carry.
After several days of eventful tours, relaxing on my aunt's patio swing, and tempting their aged and extremely bored cat into playing with a ball of yarn, I received a phone call from my mom. They had returned from their small trip and found a note from Norm saying that he and Tracy were married. I was ecstatic. My fears had never materialized.
I hung up the phone, feeling that I had been revitalized by a flood of happiness. It now was possible to truly enjoy the remainder of my stay in California. I determined that I would attempt to find gifts to give Norm and Tracy for the purpose of demonstrating my affection; and a "wedding gift" seemed rather inappropriate under the circumstances. After a joyous day in Disneyland, where I rode countless rides and was seemingly transported into a magical world, I finally purchased two items, a hand-carved wooden box for Tracy and a back-scratcher for my brother. My treasures were placed in a sack and I clung to them excitedly. No longer helpless and unable to express my love, I felt like a child who had just recovered a favorite belonging from the "lost and found." Disneyland shined that night, and the parade of lights glistened on Main Street with a star-like fire. No fantasy could compare with a dream that came true.
The summer had ended well. I reveled in the hours spent with Norm and his wife; it was easy to be with them, for their life appeared low-key and free of pretense. As we discovered many common interests, Tracy became the sister that Sharon was unable to be, living 80 miles distant. Toward Norm also, I developed a greater understanding, and a deep, yet unspoken bond formed between us; we discovered that we were quite alike, thinking in the same manner and sharing the same type of humor.
Todd / Reflections
Todd/Reflections
Todd resided in Chicago after graduating from college, and my parents and I occasionally drove up to visit him. He always planned a gala affair, often treating us to a splendid play among an array of other suggestions. Upon our arrival, hugs and kisses were widely distributed; I would run to Todd, whereupon he would grasp me under the armpits and lift me sky-high, wailing in his "Aunt Minerva" voice, "It's been so LONG since I've SEEN you!" This traditional welcome became increasingly difficult to manage as I grew in stature and, of course, gained the accompanying weight, and was thus allowed to die a dignified death.
When we were not touring the city's delights, I entertained myself by arranging Todd's personal effects. The apartment which I most clearly recall boasted a crude built-in bookcase. I loved to flit back and forth between the many compartments and lend a sense of order and style to the pandemonious wall. There were always a few things of which I had no idea concerning their use; these were generally odds and ends, factory rejects, a handful of D cell batteries, and, I must not forget several large and curious aluminum containers. I would neatly line up the small items on the shelves and place the nameless metal containers on the floor in a line. The latter objects were for experiments. Having completed my task, I would stare silently at the line of silver pots, shrug my shoulders and turn my attentions elsewhere.
The sleeping arrangement was simple. Age and respect dictated that my parents sleep on the beds. Since I was a guest, Todd determined that I should sleep on the couch. My brother was left with the remaining alternative, which was an inflatable air mattress and a sleeping bag.
The nights brought out humor which came from bizarre circumstances. Several hours after lying down, Todd's air mattress had deflated to the point of nonexistence and, bone meeting floor, he had no choice but to inflate the mattress once again. Slow expirations, sounding akin to a distant steam engine, would resound into the night. Mom, understanding what had happened, listened to the steady, "Puff…puff…puff…" and would have laughed had it not been for the fact that she pitied Todd and did not wish to waken my dad or myself.
At exactly 4:00 a.m., the church, standing directly beside Todd's apartment building, would begin a horrid serenade in chimes. Approximately every other note was sour, yet the noise continued until the tune was completed. Todd explained that the person who set the clock mistook the four o'clock a.m. setting for the afternoon setting…hence the "ungodly" serenade.
A final recollection regarding the overnight occurrences in Todd's apartment is, admittedly, rather hazy. Having a preoccupation with the shelves by day, it was no shock to find myself sleep walking to them in the middle of the night, searching for my pillow. My walk might not have been discovered by Todd or remembered by me had it not been for the row of metal canisters which flanked the base of the shelves, for in my futile search (my pillow had never strayed from the couch), I bumped my foot into one of the pots, which gonged loudly against a second and third to create a symphony of echoes. Flustered by the rude interruption, I nearly woke, and can recall my brother's sleepy, "Is there something wrong?" to which I mumbled an explanation of my hunt.
The next morning I looked suspiciously at the shelves and was haunted by a memory for which I could not account and therefore inquired of the night's events, asking if I had walked in my sleep. "Oh, yeh…, I couldn't figure out what you were doing!" Todd said.
I reflected over my strange habit and wondered whether I had walked elsewhere on different occasions, and because I encountered no one, did not remember or was not informed. It was slightly disconcerting yet immensely humorous; I only hoped that I would never take a walk which lead me out of a building, because I remembered the tale of a young man who, while sleeping, took out the garbage cans and then completed his slumber on the grass beside the curb. It was a humbling thought, for although a sleeping individual cannot be responsible for what he says or does, one's lack of consciousness will not guard the individual from accompanying embarrassment.
Certain aspects of my brother's personality had changed, while others had remained original and quite intact. When the time had come for us to leave Chicago, Todd's apartment was cleaner and his billfold was decidedly thinner. Although Todd no longer cared about the neatness of his living quarters, which plainly stated that his orderliness at home was merely a function performed to placate Mom's desires, he maintained his suicidal generosity with horrifying steadfastness. My brother had also changed from his too-trusting self to a more realistic and perhaps, cynical person. Losing a coat and bicycle at the university, followed by distributor caps and gasoline in Chicago, had a way of opening … or, at least, readjusting … one's vision of the world. It was not an ideal place, and idealistic views were hastily smashed to oblivion. I saw, too, that he possessed a definite need to exist on his own; more than a door to freedom. Todd's separation from family seemed to be a requirement for personal satisfaction and future happiness. He had to affirm himself by living alone, and having no one near to depend upon through the rough spots.
Despite Todd's need to acquire self-sufficiency, homesickness was difficult to avoid, and his eyes mirrored pure emotion as we drove away. The image of home was, at once, pleasant and unkind, for although memories could quiet the noise of the city, their unattainable substance created a barrier between the present and his need to build happiness from aspects thereof. Sometimes it was easier to bury the past and all which related to it. Todd seldom came home any more.
Sixth Grade
"Friendships are realistic interactions of individuals rather than acts performed to satisfy the specific requirements of a group."
Sixth Grade
Upon reaching sixth grade, I did not feel that I had risen to the infamous "big cheese" status that I had supposedly earned for successfully passing through the curriculum and harassment of the older kids, nor did I foster any ill regard for those who were younger than myself. I was essentially the person who I had always been, with the exception that I was a year older and somewhat wiser through my experiences and observations.
Although I had become slightly more confident, I knew that it did not pay to feel superior, for someone always had the immense enjoyment of smashing the misinformed individual down to size. Whereas superiority was a false assumption, confidence developed upon a somewhat humble realization of one's mastery over life's trials.
Rarely were there situations for which kindness was unfit. It was not my nature nor my ambition to be mean to people who were younger or less fortunate than I; moreover, I remembered the instances wherein I had been subjected to cruelty simply because I was too small to fight back. Never would I forget the nasty sixth grader whose ultimate pleasure came by way of bullying younger students; having a keen sense of hearing and disliking noise of any kind, my entire composure was shattered when he blasted in my ears at the top of his lungs. Completely unnerved, I can recall cupping my hands around my red knit hat and running toward home as the cold wind nipped and stung my tear-filled eyes. Such alarming treatment filled me with terror; I was worried that my fear alone would tempt the bully to commit further torment. The instance also made me despise the boy; his unfair treatment did not serve to heighten his image in my eyes. Abuse did not merit respect; however, it swept the disillusionment from my mind regarding the idolization of an individual for his age or his popularity, for too often an individual was placed on a pedestal, only to evoke disappointment. Smiles and genuine kindness won infinitely more respect.
Few grade school students possessed the maturity to develop and maintain a true friendship. Many were too concerned about pleasing the popular crowd to reserve definite bonds for another individual, because, if the popular crowd was mad at someone, most of the others desired the same opportunity.
I learned about the existence of false friends, individuals who virtually ignored the less popular students until three days prior to a test. This type of person would then take pains to be sweet and gush with special affections, adding to his repertoire a request for one's notes or the answers to certain homework assignments. Disliking a farce, I always refused, whereupon I would be incinerated, reduced to ashes by the fire in the individuals eyes. The flame-thrower did not burn me, however; as he'd never liked me anyway, I suffered no loss.
I discovered, also, the distastefulness of playing the "second fiddle." Having my pride, I did not accept after-thought invitations unless I felt that my time would be enjoyably spent. One girl who was particularly noted for her "use" of others would often call as a last resort; a mannerless individual, she made the mistake of rambling off the names of her refusals when asking another person to accompany her on an outing. A classic phone call ran as follows: "Laurie? This is L. I was wondering if you could go to the fireworks tonight…I already called D, J, L., etc., but none of them could go…aw, come on!…" Sometimes it was fun to say "no." Moreover, I had better things to do.
When not haunted by the need to achieve popularity among peers, many problems disappear or simply fail to exist. Friendships are realistic interactions of individuals rather than acts performed to satisfy the specific requirements of a group. Because it was more important to be myself and follow my own beliefs, "peer pressure" had no affect on me. If I was to be ostracized for refusing to go along with another's idea, no friendship existed and I could easily walk away. Aloneness, for me, was no problem; compromising my standards, however, was a problem.
Generally, I never experienced pressure from a group or an individual to do something about which I had already expressed a negative opinion. Perhaps the knowledge that further prompting would have no effect on my stance impeded harassment of any kind. I was free, imprisoned by no ideas but my own; I bothered no one, and received the same respectful treatment.
I recall a day in which three classmates and I were shopping at a drug store when one suddenly decided to buy a pack of cigarettes, giving the cashier an assuring, "They are for my Dad," in response to the skeptical appraisal of my friend's age. Wordlessly, the woman accepted the money and bagged the cigarettes. My friend smiled heroically as the four of us ushered from the store. After obtaining a book of matches, we strode down to the woods behind my house and followed the trails until we were deeply beneath the cover of the leaves and beyond all source of detection. The pack was opened with the gleeful anticipation which only came with the breaking of a rule. Two girls eagerly lit up and puffed smoke into the clear air. The pack was presented to me. "No thanks," I shook my head. I had no desire to start a habit which not only was a risky endeavor in terms of maintaining health, but also reeked in an offensive manner. "Besides," I thought, "it doesn't even look cool." I envisioned a woman with a white stick drooping out of the corner of her mouth and an old man sucking pathetically on the smoking stub of his cigarette. "You sure?" someone asked, offering the pack again. "No thanks," I replied and started walking toward home. One of the girls joined me, and, as if we had been unexplainably spooked, ran back through the woods to my yard. Out of breath, but glad to be rid of the odor of the cigarettes, we stood silently below the house and waited for the other girls. Upon reaching the top of the hill, the two asked why we ran. Bending the truth, my friend said, "We thought we heard someone yelling for us…" Personally, I don't know why I ran. My refusal and dismissal of the scene had been sufficient, for I had felt no antagonism from my companions; yet, beneath the canopy of leaves, I felt trapped and scrutinized by unseen eyes. Flight seemed to be the natural course of action. If my tactics failed and I was repeatedly urged to do something that I had no intention of doing, I too, would use "Mom" as the rejoiner to a simple "no." Mom never worried about having a "mean old lady" reputation among her children's friends, especially if it saved them from performing undesirable actions. Packing an excuse like "Mom" was ammunition so powerful that I never felt alone when faced with a difficult situation; if I could not handle it, "we" could!
By sixth grade I had accepted the fact that, as one of the tallest students, I would always be seated at the back of the class and stand at the end of the gym line. Each year, I remember wishing that the lines and rows would, for once, be arranged alphabetically, allowing me a change of scenery from the backs of people's heads. I never had the chance. The policy remained the same and the students grew in height…but so did I.
My last year of grade school was also a year through which I spent pleasant noon hours, lunching at the home of a lady whose family attended our church. I shared lunch with Vera's youngest son, Todd, and two other boys whose names no longer exist in my memory. Vera was great. She rarely smiled, yet she had a terrific sense of humor which fell somewhere between "dry" and "sarcastic." Her laughter was a reward in itself, for it was easy and genuine. Within her sober face was more humor than most people could fathom because she had the ability to see humor in life.
Sixth grade left in me a good impression of my early school years…I remembered the good and the bad, for the two elements were inseparable. I thought of the holidays, from Halloween's dress-up parade followed by a night of trick-or-treating, to Valentine's Day parties, and Yuletide paper chains. I reflected upon the fall carnivals and ice cream socials, the frantic chaos of recess and the joy of art projects. I smiled at the science jingle which, through the attacks of several boys and myself, suffered a comical change of wording to "The sun is a mass of undigested GAS, a gigantic nuclear TOILET…" and perhaps as a sort of revenge for so dissecting the lyrics of the educational song, I encountered my first migraine headache in science class, during the middle of a test.
I thought of the teachers, and the quiet spoken janitor, Mr. Ed, who faithfully polished the halls to a sheen and silently cleaned the floor after someone threw up.
I considered the principal who was feared, yet respected, for his ability to control the school in an orderly fashion. He had the type of stern glance which turned one's lunch into a mass of lead; a rumor that he possessed a spanking machine in his office persisted in my mind until the second grade. I never sought to disturb him; thus, when I was instructed to report to his office, my throat became the victim of muscular strangulation. Once stationed before his desk, the principal reprimanded me concerning a book which had disappeared from my desk. The librarian said it was still missing; if it was not returned I would be obliged to pay for it.
I could barely speak. I had borrowed the book from the library, yet someone else had stolen it from my desk; it was not at home, nor was it in any other desk. In vain, I questioned the boy who sat at my desk throughout English class, a renowned trouble-maker, who admitted that he had, without permission, opened my desk and "looked at the book." This was of no consequence to the principal, however, and since it was never recovered, he made me pay the entire cost of the book. I had suffered an injustice, blamed and punished for that which I had not done. I reflected grievously over the situation, and remembered the only time in my life that I had contemplated stealing. I was in an old drug store, gazing at the jewelry spread upon the counter top and spilling from bins of miscellaneous content, when I spotted a tiny cross which had fallen from it's chain. It belonged to nothing, and would one day be discarded among an array of damaged goods. No price tag fluttered on the tiny shape; and it was the only one of its kind. I picked it up and placed it in the palm of my hand; the small cross would not be missed. I stared long and hard at the bright gold trinket, feeling as if I was in a vacuum. I heard nothing but the chaotic ramblings within my mind, the rationalizing manipulation versus the over-powering guilt which lashed viciously at my temptation to steal. I felt suddenly as if my thoughts were naked and replaced the cross in the bin of jewelry. As I walked from the store, I saw the irony in my stormy, inner confrontation; I was going to steal a cross, the sign of goodness, purity, and love. My internal suffering was terrific, although I resisted the compulsion; the thought would never be purged from my memory, for with it, I learned a great lesson.
I slipped back to reality. Great lessons did not shield an individual from shouldering blame that belonged to someone else. Goodness was not always rewarded in life, for despite a personal history of moral decisions and ethical choices, an individual must exist among people who, through their hurtful life styles, obliterate the rights of everyone they touch.
I paid for the book, having nothing to show for my expenditure but a hoard of futile self-pity and the knowledge that I was innocent of any wrong-doing. School came to a close as the summer ripened into its classic heat at noonday. Desks were emptied and scrubbed. Homework ceased. Anticipation flooded the classrooms. The students bid their teachers good-bye, vowing to visit in the future.
Some returned, but I never did. The present traversed the old hallways, while the past would never live again except within my mind. I had no place there among the youthful faces and shrill voices; the building belonged to the present…it belonged to them.
The Mountains
When I dream I think of them,Majestic peak and Aspen hem;
And in climbing them,The flowing slopes,
It brings to meA world filled with hopes.
The rain and thunderheads up there,With lightning they come, fast as a mare.
I love to watch all the life that they keep,The wolf, the fox, the hawk, and wild sheep.
Filling it's crannies, streams can be found,In their tossing and turning, they're thrown to the ground.
So please, oh, please, come and seeThis mountain paradise along with me.
Lauren Isaacson - 7th Grade - 1975
Discovery of Tumor
"There is always too much time before an unpleasant event; too much, yet not near enough."
Discovery of Tumor
By the end of seventh grade, Jr. High no longer seemed an immense edifice, and my confidence, as well as my acquaintances, grew. Each day, before or after lunch, depending on one's lunch schedule, we would assemble in our respective "homerooms"; here we could talk among ourselves if we did not become noisome or in any way obnoxious. I made two acquaintances in the room, and between the three of us, idle chatter abounded. One day I remember above all others. I was involved in conversation with the two girls when I looked down at my stomach and noticed that it was definitely lop-sided in appearance. I called their attention to it so that they also could share in the humor of my distortion. We all laughed in simultaneous bursts of wonder at the spectacle, then moved on casually to other things. I figured that my stomach was bloated from gas. "No big deal." However, for the next several weeks, I maintained a vigil on my stomach, and to my perplexity, the odd "lop-sidedness" persisted. Eventually I decided that I should divulge the discovery to my parents.
It was summer vacation, and school would be in the past for three beautiful months. The annual family trip was only weeks away, and I could barely wait. When Mom said that I would have to go to the doctor, I felt an eerie certainty that something was drastically amiss, and therefore requested that we first go on our trip to Colorado; I knew that if my sensation was correct, I would never be able to see the mountains…at least not that year. The trip, I felt, could not be postponed.
A brief time later, I found myself in Colorado. The unchanged beauty was without flaw, yet to my dismay, I was unable to fully enjoy it. Even small trails, which I had previously made with ease, I could not manage without an overwhelming urge to vomit. The thought of food was not at all welcome nor appealing, and my energy waned; I felt as if I had another mild case of stomach flu. My sister who, along with her family, had accompanied us on the trip, confided to Mom, "Laurie looks so fragile…" My weight loss was more apparent to her since she saw me on fewer occasions. My appetite had slowly declined, and I had complained of stomach discomfort, prompting me to squeeze a pillow through the night. Occasional bouts of stomach flu would evoke such violent stabs of wrenching pain that I could only stand with my stomach tucked in, my back bent at a 45 degree angle to my legs. We never suspected that anything was wrong until I discovered the unusual appearance of my stomach. Even those with keen eyesight can be blind when gazing into a mirror, especially when the changes seen therein have occurred gradually, over a period of time. Moreover, I was always a rather finicky eater and found mealtime to be one of those obligatory necessities of survival. I was also quite prone toward nervousness, which wreaked havoc on my stomach as well; certainly my pangs were not abnormal, as I'd experienced them as long as I could recall, and they inevitably would render me without an appetite. A lack of interest with regard to food on my part was nothing new; for years Mom urged me to finish my food or eat my vegetables, coupled with a lesson on nutrition or a threat that would not allow me to partake in later treats, such as cookies or ice cream. Feeling that I was healthy enough, I cared little about "sound nutrition" and "balanced diet" yet Mom's "cookie clout" sometimes carried a fair impact, (depending on the vegetables I was to choke down, as well as the type of dessert which taunted my eyes and tongue). No threat however magnificent was sufficient for me to make beets or spinach disappear; that was asking too much, and I gladly relinquished my treat. My appetite posed little cause for worry and, as before, the symptoms of stomach flu soon were but a memory. The lump remained, however, glaring suspiciously from beneath knit shirts; the appointment with the doctor could no longer be delayed.
It was a sunny day when we pulled into the doctors parking lot, and I was in good spirits despite the natural qualms one encounters upon venturing into the typically noiseless waiting room. I was characteristically happy, and although I knew not what news my physical exam would unveil, I felt no need to punish the doctor for doing his job; he deserved a smile too.
Dr. Murrell was a man of few words, who wielded an aristocractic air with the unimposing quality of a true gentleman. He appeared to own a sense of inate calm which allowed him to divulge even the worst verdicts with unruffled dignity and composure; he transmitted ease to the waiting patients and relatives as if through a sort of osmosis and, I'm sure, avoided many hysterical outbursts as a result.
As he methodically inspected my stomach region I found it extremely difficult to refrain from laughter. Ticklish and quite unused to being touched, his various pokes evoked embarrassing jolts of muscle spasms as I tried, without success, to squelch my chuckles. When he had finished, he announced that he wished the opinion of his associate doctor and departed for several minutes. Arriving once again with Dr. Errico, who then took a turn applying pressure to various points on my sensitive stomach region, they asked whether any specific areas brought about pain when touched. I replied that I had experienced none, and they nodded in silence.
As the two doctors prepared to leave the room to privately confer the meaning of my symptoms, Dr. Errico extended his arm to place a fatherly pat on my shoulder. As he did so, I felt my spine turn to ice in an unexplainable sensation of pure dread; it was as if his gesture foretold doom and I recalled the persisting thought which had echoed in my mind since the moment I discovered the lump. The news was not going to be good; I knew it now.
Dr. Murrell returned to the room alone, seated himself before the desk, then turned to face us. He was unable, as yet, to draw any conclusions, but desired me to check into the hospital for tests as soon as possible, and the preparations were made. I can no longer remember how I felt when I departed that day from the office drear to the bright flood of sunlight; I cried no tear, and spoke no words of resentment or anger, for those I would have recalled. I knew only that I had to discover the truth about that mystery which lurked behind a mask of skin.
The hospital, I found, was no place to be unless one was horribly ill. I was not quite certain of my status in that regard, but knew immediately that my health declined the instant in which I donned the hospital gown. It was depressing; I blended so well with the room that I thought I would disappear in the ethereal whiteness. To my later dismay, however, I was easily distinguished and forced to submit to various manifestations of barbarism; never having stayed in a hospital, I had no idea of the rigorous torture treatments which were actually only routine and lawful tests. I write the above with an air of sarcastic jest, for obviously not all of the tests incurred techniques of bludgeoning, prodding, or other undue discomforts for the patient; an X-ray, for example, has never once evoked the slightest twinge of pain. There are tests however, which disrupt one's level of comfort substantially, and unfortunately, those which can prove fatal. For my part these latter tests always spurred the reflective statement, "There must be a better way!" coupled with the hope that one day there would be a technological breakthrough in the field of medicine, wherein one merely stepped into a box and, after manipulating several buttons, he could step out again and the doctor would know immediately whether anything was wrong with his patient. (My mind later devised a second box into which one would step, and after several minutes, step out completely cured of all the ailments discovered by Box #1. This transformation occurred without pain, of course. Although I could endure pain, usually without protest, I was always eager to avoid it whenever possible.) To my knowledge, no such boxes have ever been invented; but it would be a grand idea…or maybe only a wistful thought.
Of the tests taken while in Moline, the stomach X-ray utilizing barium was my worst. Although the "chalk milkshake" was a displeasing effect on the taste buds of even the most starved individual (for one undergoing the X-ray must have an empty stomach), the degree to which I abhorred it was augmented by the fact that my stomach had been quite prone toward nauseousness of late. When I was told to sit in a nearby waiting room until I drank the last of the abominable shake I came fearfully close to vomiting; I hung my head and began to cry, knowing that if I did drink the liquid it would be spewed onto the floor and I would have to go through the entire process again. At the sight of my tears, a nurse quickly ran in search of my mom (who was left in an altogether different part of the hospital) and returned with her, sporting the hope that a mother could persuade more of the chalky fluid down her daughter's throat. The nurse's hope was in vain, however, so the staff quickly ushered me into the X-ray room again to complete what work they had begun. First standing against the platform, the X-rays commenced; soon I found that the platform was actually a movable examination table, to which I was securely strapped, and it began to recline toward a prone position. To my surprise, it did not stop when it leveled, but crept backward until I felt I was dangling from the ceiling and the entire world was reversed. I gawked at my hapless predicament, throughly amazed. Had my stomach been more cordial, I might have enjoyed myself. It was not unlike taking a carnival ride after consuming a greasy hotdog and an ample dose of cotton candy.
I was joyous upon returning to my room, even though the moment I arrived another nurse popped in, bearing a fluid which its creators had tried desperately to make resemble prune juice; yet prune juice this definitely was not, for no juice could taste so horrid. Despite threats that I must drink the laxative solution or the barium would transform into cement while yet in my intestines, I refused to drink the awful liquid. It was utterly repulsive to my stomach, and again I knew what the future would have in store if I forced it down.
With all the tests behind us, I could now relax throughout the rest of my stay at the hospital. The part I most enjoyed was filling out my daily menu cards, which arrived with each preceding meal; while munching on my morning toast, I could choose the items I preferred at lunch. It was enormously entertaining, and sparked my day with anticipation.
As usual, Mom strolled into my room and watched while I explored the contents on my breakfast tray; her appearance punctuated the beginning of another hospital day, and she made certain that I consumed a nourishing breakfast; without prompting I had done so, for I was delighted with the realization that I could have an egg and Rice Krispies and toast merely by so indicating that desire on the menu card. The array of choices seemed endless, no preference was greeted with questioning eyes or poorly concealed mirth as often can be the case in a restaurant.
Some time after the breakfast tray had been whisked away, Dr. M. entered, saying that the test results had been analyzed and therefore wished to speak with Mom candidly about the indications which they had revealed. They departed, accompanied by a nurse, and entered a room which Mom later described as being very long and narrow, containing only a table of similar description, and covered completely with an ample thickness of cushion. The doctor and nurse placed themselves on the opposite side of the table from Mom, and he began to relate the fact that the barium X-ray showed a sizable mass in the stomach region, and though he could not be certain, it held the possibility of being cancerous. It was a hideous impact for my unsuspecting mother, and she felt that her body had been engulfed in a searing, internal fire; she placed her arms on the cushioned table before her and bent her head as one reacting to a heavy burden that must be endured and said, "Life can be so long."
Dr. Murrell who knew quite well our family history and its motley assortment of dread diseases and dysfunctions, could empathize with my mom's sole comment of numb disappointment; the nurse, however, scanned Mom's face after each successive statement made by the doctor. Mom felt scrutinized under her persistent gaze, and it was now obvious that the cushions covering the room were so adhered for those who, after receiving bad news, literally bounced off the walls for a time until their energetic madness diminished to a state of mild panic.
Feeling that my health problem was one which had risen beyond the hospital's capacity to manage properly, Dr. Murrell thought that it would behoove us to travel to one of the larger clinics in the region; without a moment of indecision Mom expressed her preference for Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and the doctor gladly hastened from the room relieved by the knowledge that his subsequent phone call would at least be progress of a positive nature.
As Mom gradually regained strength, the nurse continued to remind her that it was too soon to tell whether the growth was cancerous, yet soothing words could not dispel the lecherous threat and uncertainty which she carried with her. In a further attempt to comfort, the nurse suggested that Mom first settle the hospital account at the billing office to assure that her composure was intact, and then return to my room. Mom took the nurse's advice, feeling relieved that she could delay our reunion through a valid excuse; yet as she rose and walked toward her destination, she felt as if she was under the unsteady control of a novice puppeteer who guided mockingly and without precision until she was seated once again.
By the time Mom returned to my room, my lunch tray was already poised in front of me on the portable night stand. She had somehow managed to persuade her face to don a cheerful countenance as she entered and remarked, "You can go home now." An elated smile spread across my face upon hearing those precious words, and my interest waned toward the contents of the lunch tray. I knew that I hadn't heard the entire story, however, because Mom had been absent so long; if nothing was wrong, the doctor would not have wished to discuss my health in private. Suddenly I became annoyed; I wanted to know the facts. The few facts were that I would have to go to Mayo Clinic for further tests because of an abdominal mass; though Mom said nothing about cancer, that possibility was not yet a fact, and she hadn't actually lied by withholding any related remarks. Her answers satisfied my curiosity, yet simultaneously fueled the fire of dread in my mind which had begun as a mere spark several weeks before. It seemed that my earlier fears were justified as time progressed.
With quiet resolution, I knew within myself that I must face whatever adversity would befall me head-on; I could not march backward into the darkness. Once home, my Mom led me into the living room where we seated ourselves side by side on the couch. I looked at her face, steeped with anxiety for me, yet trying desperately to feign a degree of happiness for my benefit. It was evident that she knew more details surrounding the situation than she cared to confess. "You can cry if you want to…it's all right to cry," she said. "I can't," I replied. "I've nothing yet to cry for!" She hugged me and we sat in brooding silence. Since my health was a mystery, I felt no urge to cry; and, I thought, if I knew, what difference would tears make? The problem would still exist. Tears, I felt, demanded a tangible impetus to be worth their salt; like pain or horrendous fear. As yet, I felt neither; but perhaps I would experience both soon enough.
I knew the trip to Rochester would be no pleasure excursion, but I maintained high spirits despite the purpose behind the journey. It was a beautiful drive, and I dearly loved to travel; besides, what better reason could one have for dining in restaurants?
Because of our late evening arrival into the city and the fact that my appointments were scheduled for the latter portion of the week, nearly all of the motels posted "no vacancy" signs, and we found ourselves humbly situated in one of the older, run-down hotels in which the bathroom was located "down the hall." I was not overjoyed at the prospect of week-ending in the hotel, but I had little choice in the matter. The depressing mood of the place was over-shadowed in part, however, by the many attractions of the surrounding area; we learned of parks, shopping malls, movie houses, etc. from the local residents, and planned to do as much as I wished after and between my various tests.
Rochester was a quiet city; it was geared for the convenience of its many guests, of which the majority were patients or the family members of the former. There was an entire network of underground corridors which connected several primary clinical buildings, hotels, hospitals and various businesses. With cleanliness an obvious objective, the maintenance crews made perpetual rounds through the marble columns and artistically tiled floors. Excepting few, the employees and staff were friendly and approachable; even the doctors radiated character rather than the cold indifference sometimes prevalent in large or impersonal institutions.
My first appointments were to report to "desk C," which was located underground. The entire lobby was decorated with colorful seats and healthy plants, as well as people whose faces revealed moods of many different hues. At varying intervals, a nurse would step in front of a brightly painted door, grasp a microphone and bid those persons whose names she announced to come to the "blue section" or the "red" or "orange," as the color near which she stood indicated. When my name was called I heaved a nervous sigh, walked to the appropriate door, and was dispatched to a smaller waiting room in which those already seated appeared glum and apprehensive. The place reeked of alcohol. Again I waited until my name was called, watching as each "victim" reappeared from behind the curtain which housed the inevitable needles and syringes, sporting a bandage in the crick of his arm.
"Lauren Isaacson."…I swallowed hard and stood up. "Oh…I was expecting a boy." I smiled as pleasantly as I was able, and reminded myself that this was the person who would extract my blood, the needle wielder. "Most people just call me 'Laurie'," I replied. I was seated and told to make a fist as the nurse applied a tourniquet above my elbow. She prattled on, simultaneously producing a needle attached to the largest vial I had ever seen; it must have been five inches long and the diameter of a 25 cent piece. "Where are you from, Lauren?…You'll feel a stick…" "Moline, Illinois," eyeing the vial as it plunged into my vein. "Have you had your blood drawn before?" "Yeh…a few days ago…" The vial filled and an assistant handed her another of the same size. "Uh…how much are you gonna take, anyway?" I asked, feeling strangely self-protective… "Just a little more…you have many tests scheduled…" She popped out the second vial and handed it to her assistant, replacing it with yet another, though shorter and about the diameter of a dime. It filled more slowly, almost unwillingly, perhaps. Eventually the nurse decided that she had drawn enough and whisked the needle from my vein, binding my arm securely with the gauze. "You can go to the green door now, Lauren." I smiled and departed, happy that I had one test behind me.
The green door housed another form of blood test in which one "merely" had his finger pricked. I said "merely" because, in my opinion, the prick hurt much more than did the former blood test, because one's finger tips contain so many sensitive nerve endings. After having my finger stabbed, its bright red blood squeezed onto multiple slides and in miniscule vials, I was free to take my leave. As I returned to my parents in the lobby, I found the nearest trash receptacle and disposed of my reeking, alcohol-doused bandages; I disliked the odor for its strangely lingering overtones. It was amazing to me that the nurses could draw blood hour after hour; I would detest such a job; yet it was comforting that there were those who could aid humanity in such ways. Walking to my next appointment, I wondered casually whether they ever felt like mosquitoes!
Holding the various appointment cards I noted that, of the remaining tests, all were X-rays except a suspicious card which read "Bone Marrow." Marrow, I knew was located inside the bone, and dreadful thoughts danced nervously about my brain. When we finally reached the desk behind which lurked the mysterious and disconcerting test, we found ourselves amid stately decor, closely resembling the impeccably correct taste of an Old English library. Hues of rich burgundies and browns, accented by marble floors and columns, marched down shadowed, slightly ominous hallways and beneath closed hardwood doors. It seemed appropriate to whisper, as even footsteps echoed through the corridors.
I was very ill at ease. My name was called and I hesitantly strode forward, accompanied by my mother, who was actually beckoned to follow.
"The doctor's real good-looking," the nurse said confidentially. I didn't really care; I was far too nervous to be impressed, for I knew the test would be painful if they wanted my mom to come; generally speaking, parents took up too much space if they became shadows. Moreover, parents can actually impede the efforts of the doctors and nurses through outright intervention, or, due to their presence, transform even an adolescent back into a child.
The nurse was correct in her analysis of the doctor's appearance. He was a young man of Irish descent who spoke with a delightful brogue. I was cordially greeted and then instructed to lay on my stomach; the section from which he would extract the marrow and a small sampling of the bone was located somewhere on my back, to one side and slightly above the buttocks. I disliked the process before it commenced since I was unable to see what the doctor was going to do; it helped if I was aware of an imminent jab, rather than being taken by surprise. In this I had no choice, however, and the process began.
Mom stationed herself near my head, over which she gazed as the doctor applied a local anesthetic to deaden the area. "You must stay very still," someone said, as the pain crept from a mild ache to a splitting level. Gritting my teeth, silent tears welled up in my eyes and fell; with muscles taut and rigid I clenched the upholstered table with a vise-like force until I was told that the brutal pain would come to an end.
The test was over. Relieved, I slid myself off the examination table to pull on and zip my pants; the wound throbbed at varying intervals above a constant, underlying ache.
"You're a very brave patient," the nurse said. I smiled knowing that I was too cowardly to undergo that type of hell again, for it was no longer a mystery what the words "Bone Marrow" on an appointment card implied.
Before exiting I asked the doctor if I had healthy bones. "Yuv' gut fine bunes, Laaren," he replied, giving me an excellent, unforgettable sample of Irish-flavored English. He seemed to be a very amiable man, and, now that I was turning to leave, I was better able to appreciate his undeniably good looks. For my part, I was sorry that he was not an X-ray technician.
Whether walking or sitting, I experienced twinges of pain, a constant reminder of my last test of the day; but that did not hinder my fascination for gift shops, and I eagerly plunged out of the confines of the clinic walls to the beautiful July morning. We were famished, as none of us had eaten due to the fact that I was instructed to have an empty stomach for many of my tests. Since the next few hours belonged exclusively to us, we decided to eat and then mill about the stores until it was time for my mid-afternoon consultation with the doctor in charge of my case.
When our afternoon of leisure had come to a close, we made our way to the Mayo building and took the elevator to the designated floor. By now we were quite used to waiting, and after registering my name at the front desk, seated ourselves in the expansive lobby.
The test results would have been scrutinized and second opinions heard. We now awaited the doctor, and, in certain respects, the future; each of us sat in silence, nurturing one's own worries, until my name was announced. The three of us rose in haphazard unison, glad to have a reason for shifting our position, and were guided down a hallway to a private room. Again we awaited the doctors arrival, yet felt more inclined to engage in conversation now that we were removed from the stifling quiet of the lobby.
Finally I heard footsteps outside the door. The feet paused, while a faintly audible rustling of papers issued beneath the closed door. Silence again. Then suddenly, as if uncertainty had been washed away, the door knob turned and a doctor burst into the room, extending his hand to my father and offering a friendly "hello!" to us. We all stood; I smiled. I had no fear of doctors; the fear stemmed from that which they knew, and I the patient, as yet, did not.
We seated ourselves once again, and the doctor began questioning me about the way in which I felt, physically. To nearly all of the disconcerting questions, I replied in a positive fashion, which to my parents was a "good sign" and indicated that my health problem "couldn't be that serious if everything seemed so promising." Then the doctor asked the color of my bowel movements. I started to laugh. "Brown." "But what color brown?" he persisted. I laughed some more; turning my face to the floor, I noticed that the tiles ranged in color from yellow to the deepest brown, and wondered if the staff had requested that particular tile for the express purpose of color clarification. I smiled, and selected a nice, warm brown. "That looks about right." Then he inquired whether my stools had ever been black.
My eyes flew open. "BLACK?!!" I lost control…to me this was a horrendous joke. He had his answer, and quickly scribbled "no" on his note paper.
I was having a grand time, under the circumstances. After the question and answer session ceased, I was instructed to lay on the table; he wished to take a look at my stomach region. Applying pressure to various areas, and gently tapping others, he asked if I felt any pain. I did not, so he invited other doctors into the room, creating a troupe of seven in all, who took turns prodding my stomach, and in my opinion, tickling me to death. I flinched as each new hand poked my bare flesh, and embarrassed, tried desperately to control my convulsive muscles and fits of laughter.
When they had seen, or in my case, felt enough, the doctors filed out of the room to "gossip" about me beyond earshot. Eventually the first doctor reappeared and began to divulge the conclusions rendered through the tests and consultation. It was clear that I had a large abdominal mass in the vicinity of my stomach, yet its composition was uncertain, and he would therefore offer no statement either way as to it being cancerous or benign. The bone marrow was unaffected and healthy, my blood count was good, and the chest X-ray showed no signs of abnormalcy. Aside from the mass, I had every reason to believe in my health as a matter of fact.
The mass would have to be removed; that, also, was a matter of fact. An operation was inevitable. Since it was the beginning of the weekend, however, I would not be admitted into the hospital until Sunday evening. Monday morning I would undergo an arteriogram to chart my veins in preparation for surgery, and the following day I would find myself in the operating room. Relieved that I had two days of freedom before having to exist in the confines of a hospital, I found the arrangement as agreeable as the situation allowed, and my parents and I determined to make the most of it!
The only hindrance I was obliged to endure was the weekend urine sample, which stated that the bounty of each trip to the bathroom had to be collected, rather than flushed away. I was given a large plastic canister, a small cup and a handy-dandy green tote bag in which to stow the former for reasons of discretion.
I was embarrassed at the prospect of hauling the green tote everywhere throughout the weekend, but my dear mom volunteered without a single flicker of disgust, and shouldered the responsibility just as easily as she would have taken the smallest piece of cake or the burnt piece of toast. I really need not have worried, however, for I was not alone in my strange occupation. Dotted here and there, as we traveled about the parks and shopping malls, were similar green tote bags borne by smug faced patients, or conversely, those who would recognize the kinship and smile knowingly. I soon discovered that, actually, I might have carried the tote myself, for everyone who was familiar with its purpose seemed to know that it truly belonged to me; teenage self-consciousness is alien to no one, and remembered by all.
The weekend was memorable. I tried to take in the landscape as I walked freely under the mid-summer sky. The Canadian geese were numerous on the shores of a small lake, and had grown haughty from delicacies thrown to them by passers-by; they pecked with idle disinterest at the corn we placed on the ground for their inspection. They had developed a taste for the refined; mere corn would no longer suffice. Though the geese were considered tame by most standards, they yet held a firm bond to the wild which no human bribery could erase. I was drawn to this quality, for in their willowy black necks I saw the northern wilderness and inevitable flight; they were not prisoners of the city, but came and later departed through a will of their own. Unlike the lazy human who clings fiercely to a generous hand, the geese were drawn in, but then drifted away to distant shores where life was hard, yet sweeter still than risking to the malicious child a twisted neck for scraps of bread. It had been said that nature is cruel; no, I thought, only people are cruel, for they alone can pervert that which by nature's intent was beneficial in moderation. Food, pleasure, death…man could leave nothing alone. I turned away from the geese, which were milling about and shifting their weight, first balancing on one leg, then the other, vigilant yet restful. I carried the tranquil image with me, and return to it still. Eyes focused through the glass of the car window, I stirred as Dad turned the key of the ignition and the car moved slowly forward. It was evening and the lake began to fade into an obscure haze; the hum of the engine gently brought my mind to the present and the distractions thereof. The darkness gradually melted away beneath the city lights, and I awoke to the startling realization that I was hungry. Under the glaring neon lights, one cannot long remain apart from the harshness of the city; neon lights invade one's senses and disrupt one's dreams.
Saturday morning, after breakfast, we decided to find our way to a small town nearby that was holding a summer festival; once there we saw booths and tables housing various crafts or topics of interest, as well as food and drink. Weaving our way through the smiling, jovial faces, time slipped casually by. Mom purchased a rooster made entirely of dried seeds, while I inspected the tables of antiques. Nothing sparked my interest enough to pry into my wallet, so I quietly moved on.
We decided to await the afternoon parade, in which Dr. B. of yesterday's consultation said he would appear, playing an instrument in the band. It was he who had informed us of the small town festival, and we could not help but wonder if we would recognize him in a red jacket and cap. The band members were seated in trucks; blowing earnestly into their instruments, the musicians eyes sparkled behind puffed up cheeks. It was no use; they all looked like perfect images of each other.
Still quite early in the afternoon, we concluded that it would be nice to find a park which was in the area, and had no difficulty in its pursuit, for the road signs were plentiful and doubtlessly placed out of respect for the patient-tourist. It was a gorgeous day. The leaves were emerald green and at their foremost beauty; strong and pliant from spring's ample rain, and not yet touched by the autumnal sun…the drying kiln, the blistering gaze which ages all.
The leaves swayed in the wind, playing with the rays of sunlight which danced in countless patterns on the ground. Despite the beauty surrounding our every step, none of us could forget the reason we came to the park; we came, of course, to forget. The business of forgetting, however, meets with few actual successes; the more one attempts to forget, the less likely he is to accomplish his goal; but in trying the object of one's trial forever torments the mind. It is better to let the job of "forgetting" take care of itself.
That evening, following our meal, we decided a movie would create an exciting climax to the day, especially since our hotel room boasted no TV. The movie-house featured "Jaws" and I eagerly bounced down the aisle and selected a seat fairly close to the screen. My parents found two more agreeable seats toward the rear.
As the theater began to fill, I glanced about nervously, hoping wildly that no one with a spherical or bee-hive-shaped hair style would seat themselves directly before me. With good fortune on my side, I breathed a sigh of relief as the lights were dimmed and the curtain slid aside.
I had landed an excellent seat; the story drew me in, as my senses were unimpaired, and I slowly left Rochester, and hospitals behind to immerse myself in the image captured through my eyes. The movie was horrifying; the people in the audience screamed and jumped in unison. As the actors pursued the vicious shark, and more unsuspecting individuals fell prey to the maniacal monster, one began to feel helplessly self-protective, as if caught unaware, one might be torn limb from limb. Then, in a brutally raging climax, the shark was overthrown, and a tumultuous sigh escaped from the lips of on-lookers; everyone was safe at last.
When I rose from my seat to file out of the building, reality slapped my face. I was not in Moline, I was in Rochester. Tomorrow night I would admit myself into the hospital, and Monday would be inescapable; by Tuesday I would sleep beneath the surgeon's blade and awake to the answers of unfulfilled questions. Yet I was pleased that, for two long hours, I had, without prompting, laid my worries aside; forgetting was a business best left unto itself.
Sunday was spent musing through shops in the local mall. I delighted upon finding several pairs of pants and two knit shirts; it was a chore to fit clothes, since I was tall and, admittedly, too thin. So happy with the new purchases was I that I asked the clerk to remove the tags on two articles and reappeared from the dressing room feeling very much in style.
In another store I spied a purse that looked nice, but cost fairly little. I looked down disgustingly at the worn bag which dangled lifelessly at my hip, and felt the purse would be a worthwhile expenditure. Digging into the old one for my money, I finally extracted a disintegrating leather wallet; it's appearance so shocked my mom that she immediately offered to buy me another.
Generously outfitted, I dismissed the mall with my parents for the more pleasant atmosphere of the city park. The afternoon was disappearing rapidly, and we no longer tried to rid our minds of distressing thoughts, for they were altogether too prevalent to wish away. Strolling through the grass, we did not often speak; we merely waited for evening to descend. There is always too much time before an unpleasant event; too much, yet not near enough. The afternoon stalled…it seemed never to end…and our conscious minds sustained heavy blows.
We walked near the lake, where geese stood craning their necks and bickering among themselves. I looked away; the sight offered little solace to my restless mind. I longed, almost, to fling myself upon the hospital steps if I could but in that way escape the awful waiting…waiting…waiting.
Dad glanced at his watch; five o'clock, suppertime. Eating; it was something to do, so we welcomed the thought wholeheartedly. Our therapy consisted of such occupations; as long as one remained busy, the job itself mattered little. Thus, the main objective of the hour encircled the procuring of sustenance.
I knew that the meal that evening would be the last I would share with my parents for several days, yet I no longer remember what I ordered or if I ate well. I recall only that I had been told to finish eating before a certain hour, so that the following morning the test could begin early; under the strict instructions, I lamented that I would not be able to partake of the customary late-night snack.
We did not linger over our dinner plates. The tension had become too great; I wanted the hospital to be our next destination. I carried my few belongings for I needed no suitcase; my underwear I stuffed in my purse.