"If only one did not have to think during the long periods of uncertainty and ignorance, and could somehow benumb the senses until the hours of darkness had passed!"
Preparation and Surgery
At the admissions office, forms were completed; it was much more complicated than registering for a motel room. I sat nearby, watching the wearisome process.
There were no rooms in the pediatrics ward. I was led to a room which was quite old and depressing, and found to my disgust that my roommate smoked. "I hope this doesn't bother you," she said motioning to the hand that held her cigarette. What did it matter, I thought; she would continue smoking regardless of the way I felt about it. From experience I had learned that, although many people who fostered bad habits did not want to be overly offensive, most never possessed enough genuine concern for another individual to refrain from their habit. I waved off her question, and hoped for adequate ventilation. Is this the bittersweet price for societal living?
My few belongings were stowed in a closet, then I went back to my bed and sat on the edge of it, uncertain of what I was supposed to do; during these periods of anticipation, had I been a smoker, I might have lit up. I did not wish to spend the night there; anxiety clawed at the walls of my stomach.
Through the window across the room, city lights twinkled like hundreds of stars which had been hurled to the earth, spreading toward the horizon in a grid-work of interesting lines. Soon my parents would return to their hotel; I almost wished that they would leave, so I could adjust to my new surroundings, for I would face tomorrow's test, and the following operation; I had to find comfort within myself.
Mom and Dad kissed me goodnight, amid their internal struggle toward leaving their little girl in the hands of strangers. Once they had gone, my nervousness began to subside; anxiety breeds anxiety, and lacking two generators, I now bore only my own.
Seeing that I was quite alone, a nurse entered the room bearing the essentials of hospital life, issuing to me a gown, and placing kleenex tissues and a thermometer and styrofoam water pitcher on my nightstand. She routinely popped the thermometer into my mouth and took my blood pressure and pulse rate; removing the thermometer from my mouth, she glanced at the reading and made notations for her file. Before bidding me goodnight, the nurse reminded me that I should eat nothing, nor should I drink water after 6 a.m. the next morning; I nodded in comprehensive agreement, and climbed beneath the sheets to stare at the ceiling.
At first it was difficult to dispel my restless thoughts, and I fought to find a comfortable position amongst the stiff sheets and unfamiliar pillow. Yet at some unknown point in time, disquietude was overruled by fatigue, and I was claimed by the obscure world where conscious and unconscious thought are united as one. I drifted into a pleasant, untormented sleep.
In the morning, quite soon after I had been awakened a nurse administered a relaxant which quickly chased away negative emotions that would have otherwise clogged my mind. I felt blissfully content and agreeable as my senses numbed and were encircled by an unearthly calm. I smiled dreamily as my parents descended upon my heavenly state of awareness, speaking and receiving words which sounded distant and muted, as those heard by one while swimming underwater, or standing behind a heavy door.
Two interns arrived, wheeling a cart intended for my transport to places unknown. They skillfully guided it past my parents with minimal conversation, and easily hoisted me from the bed onto the unquestionably hard surface. I waved goodby to Mom and Dad, who stood dubiously watching as the men wordlessly rolled the stretcher down the hall, and finally, after a fair amount of travel, found myself in an expansive room, surrounded by gauges and meters by which a staff of doctors and nurses stood awaiting my arrival.
The room itself was rather dark, which blended fittingly with my semi-consciousness. While the staff worked about me, I remained awake although my body was as limp and motionless as one in a coma. The doctor injected a liquid dye into my vein, watching a monitor as it slowly spread from the point of entry at the union of my leg and trunk, and I began to feel weaker still. With markers, the doctor charted a map on my stomach under the beam of a spotlight; I looked on maintaining awareness through a power that no longer seemed to be my own. It was crazy that people concerned themselves about death; I felt more than half-way there; whether I drifted closer to life or to death made no difference to me, then, for in all things existed only tranquility…and that blissful unearthly calm.
Gravity tied me to the bed, and I laid like a dead thing, bound by an invisible, unyielding weight. All afternoon I slept, and into the deepest night; morning came, Tuesday morning, but I knew it not. Though numbered words to my parents I spoke, I can recall nothing. In my mind's hoard of memories, that morning never dawned before these eyes.
For my parents, Monday, the day of the arteriogram, was spent primarily in my room. They did little but watch in silence as I slept, breathing quietly as dream after dream filtered through my subconscious mind.
Aside from mealtimes and occasional strolls to exercise their legs, my parents remained near my bed until the ripe hours of the evening. Near 8 p.m. Mom was paged on the hospital intercom. Receiving the phone at the Nurses Station, she found herself conversing with Dr. T., the surgeon who would lead a team scheduled for my case the following day. The operation would be of great consequence, and he wished Mom to fully acknowledge that fact before it commenced; to all operations, a risk was involved, and regarding the seriousness of the situation was of utmost importance. Since the mass had so thoroughly encroached upon the stomach, they would have to remove most of the stomach itself, thereby reducing its overall size considerably; though the stomach would stretch with time, it would never return to its original size. The conversation came to a close. It seemed awful that a young girl, Mom's little girl, should have to endure so much, so massive an operation. She returned to the hospital room where I still breathed steadily in a tranquil repose; while Dad received the portents of the previous conversation, I was adrift on a sea bereft of anxiety or pain, and ignorant of their anticipation, I did not stir when they stood to return to their hotel.
The day of the operation had dawned amid countless hours of waiting, yet the waiting for my parents had not ended; the minutes would drag while I laid beyond their sight, and a doctor kindly advised that they leave the building, for the operation would most surely prove quite lengthy, and the hospital atmosphere had less to offer than did the beauty of the nearby sanctuary on the hospital grounds. They nodded, numbly deciding to try his remedy for over-wrought parents.
Mom and Dad found their way to the garden, their legs propelling leaden bodies through some distant, unknown source of power. Ambling through the sunlit passages like automatons, their eyes would focus, yet they did not see. Finally disposing of the useless suggestion, they checked their course and wheeled around to return to the hospital once more.
They felt compelled to be nearby, even though there was nothing with which to occupy their senses; the operation so filled the capacity of their thoughts that no other form of diversion was required.
I was in surgery for six hours. My parents were anxious, at times pacing the hallways, and then sitting once again; despite the voluminous weight which seemed to claim their energy and tax their very soul, they were always watchful, ready to receive any news of the progress from the operating room. Staring dismally at the various activities that were going on about them, Mom suddenly noticed two nurses wheeling a cart past the lounge where my parents were seated. "Those are Laurie's things!" she exclaimed; suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that I had died, and they were removing my personal effects from the room. On rubber-like legs, she raced down the hall, adrenalin giving her energy which seconds ago she had not possessed. Rushing up to the nurses, she again cried out, "Those are Laurie's things!" displaying fully the horror of her panic-stricken assumptions. "Oh. . ." they replied "we're so sorry! We never would have moved her things without telling you first if we knew you were sitting there. You see, a room is vacant in the pediatrics ward, and we're taking her things down there." The explanation heralded unspeakable relief, and Mom returned to her seat, an older but less fearful woman.
Resuming their stationary poses, my parents waited, each fostering thoughts of dread and flickers of hope. If only one did not have to think during the long periods of uncertainty and ignorance, and could somehow benumb the senses until the hours of darkness had passed! The truth can burn the heart like a smouldering ember touched lightly to the flesh, but waiting. . .waiting is the relentless torture of unseen phantoms, made more hideous through one's blindness as the seconds slink by, without an end.
A door opened, and Dr. T. strode toward my parents, who immediately rose, brimming with questions. The doctor ushered them into a conference room, and closed the door behind him. Already present were Dr. M. and W. who had assisted him with the operation. The doctors said that I was in the Intensive Care Unit, and would remain there for several days until my condition had stabilized and I had regained some strength. It had been a long and grueling operation; Dr. T. confessed that when he first looked at the incredible mass in my stomach, he did not believe that they would be able to remove it. The growth was cancerous and severely advanced; having one baseball sized tumor and several smaller ones in the stomach, it had begun fingering into the pancreas as well. Nevertheless, they decided to work, the minutes fading into hours, until their degree of progress flooded them with hope. By the time they finished the operation the doctors felt quite confident that they had removed the growth entirely.
Understandably pleased with their efforts and apparent success, the doctors continued to further explain the cancer which had invaded my stomach. The type that I had developed was called a "leiomyosarcoma," which was considered a low-grade cancer and one quite slow to spread. Ninety-eight percent of those having that type of cancer were cured simply through an operation alone. A factor which mystified them about my case was that most leiomyosarcomas occurred in older women; why a young girl of 13 would produce such a cancer seemed baffling.
Visitation time in the ICU was strictly monitored, and limited to several minutes out of each hour. My parents were anxious to see me, however, even if they could not long remain at my side. After the conference had ended, they were guided into the dimly lit room which I shared with others demanding close attention. Their eyes were greeted by an alien spectacle, quite changed from their little girl who tromped through the woods and gleefully rode her bicycle. A tube exiting my nose was attached to a machine which suctioned out the contents (acids, fluids, etc.) of my stomach while it healed. An intravenous bottle dripped some unknown fluid through a long tube which trailed down several feet and then disappeared under an ample wrapping of cloth. The incision itself was hidden beneath my hospital gown, a full six inches in length. Also concealed beneath my gown was a tube connected to a small bag taped to my skin in which the seepage near the wound would accumulate; called a "drain." It operated through gravity alone.
"It was a word which bit the tongue like the crab for which it was named. Cancer. It was not a word which rolled off the tongue, and once in the air it remained there. . .cancer maimed. . .cancer killed."
"I had far too much confidence and hope to fly to the arms of despair, for in despair, one finds no warmth or comfort."
Diagnosis and Recovery
I opened my eyes to a throbbing pain, and saw that my parents were standing nearby. Blinking at them idly, my mom inched closer and ask, "Honey, do you know us?"
Suddenly I felt as if I was an actress in some ridiculous soap opera; the elements were all there, from the tragic figure of the patient to the damp-eyed parents. Do I know them, I thought. "Of course I know you!" I spat the words at them in obvious rage. They smiled at my fighting spirit; it was a good sign. Had I been too weak, I would have been incapable of such an emotional outburst. I suffered no delirium, only intense pain. I despised pain, but more than that, I was infuriated by phrases which at the time seemed to be idiotic cliches when words do not easily yield to the tongue. Not impeding my rapidly surfacing thoughts, another jolt of pain opened my mind. "I wish I was dead!" My ill-chosen words were daggers to my parents, whose faces were wrinkled with pains of their own. "Don't say that, honey," responded Mom, hurt by my instantaneous verbal combustion. Speech is something which, once flung into the air, cannot be repealed; language is a component of memories, at times forgotten, but more often returning to the mind. So it was that the life of my last phrase during the visit has not yet reached its end, and lives still in our recollections, a youthful tongue which dared to speak of death, indeed, to welcome it, was that which emblazoned the imprint with such permanence.
I was tired, and after gratefully receiving medication to ease the pain, sank my head into the pillow. Mom and Dad had taken their leave; there was not a great desire for small talk, even if they could have produced it.
The following day found me in a much more civilized mood. All post-operative grogginess had long since disappeared; my exhaustion resulted only from my body's mad attempt to heal its scars. I was constantly under observation, and soon adjusted to the frequency of the temperature, pulse and blood pressure readings; those simple matters were not disruptions at all.
In the morning I was introduced to the bedpan, and although my ego did not merit any cruel blow, I found myself further humbled. With a deplorable lack of skill, I managed to dampen myself and the bed considerably; I was miserable. Fortunately, in that respect, it was time to be weighed, and the nurses lifted me onto a table-like scale; I remained there until my bed had been prepared anew, then was happily replaced despite the agonizing trip to and from the bed.
Any extensive movement seemed to evoke pain, and I readily understood the reason for my discomfort when I was bathed. In addition to the regular routine, the nurse also changed my bandages. Seeing the incision for the first time, I gawked in amazement, thoroughly repulsed. The seams of the long gash rose above the surrounding skin, and with the multitude of black stitches, resembled a rail-road track. It seemed to me that it would leave a scar of monstrous proportions looking, at the time, so hopelessly grotesque. Then I noticed the drain located to the side of the incision, and was shocked to discover that the soft rubber tube extended to my interior regions through an open slash in my side. I'd not have thought it possible that one could entertain such an opening without risking complete loss of one's blood. I was learning new biological facts with each passing hour.
My parents visited each hour, sometimes speaking with the family members of other "unfortunates" when I was not awake. It is in the confines of a hospital that one learns he is not alone in his pain. The boy who laid in the bed next to my own would literally "poop himself out" during a bowel movement, losing his insides as well as the excrement, while a child across the room had a valve on his head which he could push when water accumulated, thereby releasing the pressure and accompanying pain. I wondered how those children could ever lead normal lives with their present situation appearing so dismal. Although I existed in the present, I lived for the future and my return home; accepting each moment, I fostered no suspicions that I would die, having tumors removed; I knew nothing, as yet, of my tumors being cancerous, for the grave seriousness of the operation I gathered slowly, as I gained physical strength, since spirit I never lacked. The business of getting better was simply a matter of time; "whether or not" I would improve did not enter my mind. Feeling sick, followed by recuperation and health were as inseparably linked as popcorn and salt. I always "got better."
Later that evening, I announced that I had to use the bathroom. After two subsequent failures earlier in the day, I rejected the bedpan with obstinance; the contraption was immodest and impossible to operate without the patient feeling horribly unclean. Moreover, I preferred a dry bed to a wet one, and having twice illustrated my inadequacy for the nurses, who then had the extra chore of changing my bed, I found them more than agreeable toward the idea of escorting me to the bathroom.
As I was helped to a sitting position, my mom looked on in unconcealed surprise, thinking that I would certainly cry out in pain. With an inquiring glance at one of the doctors, who happened to be making his rounds, he smiled proudly and explained that, although it was more difficult, they had worked around the stomach muscles during the surgery, rather than severing them. Thus I was spared the excruciating pain which further cutting would have wrought.
The adventure across the room was a success, and from that triumphant hour, I no longer necessitated a bed pan; I had secured a far better means of relief.
Although most of my hours spent in ICU consisted solely of rest, there were those aspects of each day which I learned to abhor. The most objectionable was the routine of pounding my back, enacted by one of the hospital staff, to insure that I would not accumulate fluid in my lungs. It was an obligatory function, I realized, yet it hurt dreadfully. As I was instructed to lay on my side, the ruthless process would begin, thereby releasing my protests as well. I remember that I would beg them to stop; angry that I had to endure such hostile treatment; I feared that the incision would burst open midway through the ordeal, spilling my organs onto the bed sheets; that frightful thought never materialized.
After a week of this stomach-wrenching routine, I was given a contraption which was composed of two bottles, connected by four plastic tubes, two of which were mouthpieces. One bottle contained a blue solution, while the other was completely empty. This, I was told, would be a substitute for the back-pounding if I would promise to use it often throughout the day. The object of the device was to blow through one mouthpiece with sufficient pressure as to transfer the contents of the full bottle into the empty one. Then, once completed, one would take up the alternate mouthpiece and repeat the process to return the fluid to its original canister. Even though this procedure was rather slow from the outset, I welcomed it if it would spare my incision the pain which resulted from the blows to my back.
Among my other daily routines were shots, administered twice to my thigh, and the blood profile, in which blood was drawn in the morning. Those who drew blood were quite practiced in that area and rarely created any unpleasant moments; when the veins in my arms became uncooperative through constant use, their faces did not waver in protest at the thought of probing my feet or ankles, which were in better condition and actually quite accessible.
On Friday, the IV which had been in position since Tuesday began to infiltrate, wherein the IV solution no longer ran only into the vein, but into the surrounding tissue as well. My hand started to puff, swelling into a spectacle which was twice the size of my other; with all of the misdirected solution seeping into the tissues, I also began to feel an annoying tightness which pained me when touched. I hoped that something would be done to alleviate my discomfort, without the expense of additional anguish, for at times, a remedy invited unforeseen unpleasantries greater than the one with which a patient was currently battling.
Dr. W. was called in the room to start a new IV in my other hand. I hoped it would not be an ordeal, and remained silent as the probing began. Aiming for a vein, the doctor edged the needle through my skin and missing his target, attempted to strike it again and again by manipulating the direction of the needle. I looked on, wincing, trying desperately not to think at all. His method was not succeeding, and he withdrew the needle to make ready to try another vein. Shifting his position, he pierced through the flesh, striving for another site. The vein rolled about, eluding the valid efforts of the doctor, and once again, he pulled the point from my hand to ready himself for his third attempt. I was holding my breath, uncertain how long I could withstand the slow, methodical jabbing. The needle was again thrust beneath my flesh, poking back and forth as each try was foiled; in exasperation, Dr. W. pulled the needle from my hand, stating resolutely, "I'm not going to hurt you again!" and fled the ward in search of another doctor to fill his duty.
Several minutes passed, and then a bearded doctor strode toward my bed, introducing himself as Dr. A. I greeted him politely, though quite wary, now, at the prospect of having to possibly relive the previous experience. My fears were groundless, however, for he quickly guided the needle into a vein and wrapped my hand to secure its position. I thanked him gratefully, branding his face and name into my memory. The following day I was transferred to the pediatrics ward, no longer requiring constant observation. It was a pleasing change; the rooms were light and cheerful in comparison to the ICU, and the hallways were brightly painted, having here and there, small lounges for the benefit of both the young patients and their families. The room boasted a TV, which, after four days of silence, was welcome entertainment. As an added bonus, I was now able to receive mail, as well as several lovely flower arrangements, which had not been allowed in the unit, and as a result, spent their first days at the nurse's station. The flowers and plants brought life and color to the room's overall whiteness, and reminded me of the genuine concern which, initially, I had been too alienated by pain to realize. The most important part of my day was the mail delivery; the majority of my cards and letters came from members of the church and my family. The church response was utterly amazing, and my days would have proven quite dreary had it not been for their continuous demonstration of awareness regarding my condition.
I learned the full story behind my operation after my transferral to pediatrics. "A base-ball sized tumor. . . ," I marveled. "Did they keep it?" Mine was a question spurred by outright surprise and wonder. I had no real desire to see the ugly mass. I remembered how the various organs looked floating in a pool of formaldehyde on the shelves of the biology room, and shuddered, not caring to see something which was, most likely, far more grotesque to the eye. "It was a low-grade form of cancer," Mom continued, "but they feel quite sure they got it all . . ."
"Quite sure. . ." my mind echoed. Somehow that did not seem proof enough. Cancer. I had heard of it before, everyone had. It was a word which bit the tongue like the crab for which it was named. Cancer. It was not a word which rolled off the tongue, and once in the air, it remained there, like the seeds of a ghastly plague which was feared with revulsion. Cancer maimed. Cancer killed.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I drank in the magnitude of my hospitalization and the many implications of having reared such a growth in my stomach. Although my progress appeared good and the doctors believed in their operative finesse with pride and confidence, I could not embrace the idea of my health as a steadfast quality; I possessed an elusive disquietude in the recesses of my mind which would sound an alarm and shield my heart from the brutal disappointment of having placed my dreams in an unattainable void. My voiceless apprehension would create no problem, housed as it was, in the back of my mind; remaining mute, except unto myself, it would hinder no one's happiness should the doctor's certainty and everyone's hopes materialize, least of all my own. A positive result contrary to one's innermost beliefs is a most precious one, indeed.
The days passed within the exacting boundaries of the hospital routine. Each morning I was weighed, given a shot in the thigh, and then held a thermometer firmly between my lips while the nurse took my pulse and blood pressure readings. The drain was checked and sometimes emptied, as was the canister into which my stomach contents were suctioned. Several hours later my parents would arrive after eating their breakfast. We talked a little, and then Dad would stroll casually out of the room while Mom helped me to bathe. One of the doctors made a morning visit between 8:00 and 10:00; usually Dr. W. or M. were assigned to the daily rounds, although Dr. T. did occasionally stop to examine the scar and inquire about my general health. It mattered little who stopped in; I liked them all for their various qualities.
Dr. T. was strong, yet compassionate; he understood and empathized with the concerned patients and family members, utilizing tact and well-chosen words throughout all conversation. He made the patient feel comfortable, in good hands; if he did not feel for his patients, he made a fine performance.
Dr. M. reminded me of one of my cousins, with dark hair and kind, dark eyes which were a compliment to his character. Younger than Dr. T. , he was efficient but gentle in his work, and had an easy personality which won my trust and admiration.
Dr. W. had a character quite separate from the other two, which demanded time to appreciate. W. possessed an incredible air of confidence almost akin to haughtiness, which made any failure a black eye. There was an inexplicable humor to his manner, however, which redeemed brusque behavior, for he was not too proud to, in some way, admit defeat.
A few days after my transferral to the semi-private room, I decided that it was time to remedy my poor vision and insert my contact lenses. An occasional lens wearer himself, Dr. W. proclaimed that I would never be able to wear them for the entire day after not having inserted them for over a week's time. I shrugged, saying that I was still going to try, as W. dismissed himself from the room. With an IV in one hand, and my other free, I manipulated the bottles of solution and the contacts until I succeeded in their insertion. Pleased that I had accomplished the feat, one-handed, for all practical purposes, I sat back in my bed and delighted in my ability to "see" once again. The nurses' faces were recognizable at a distance, the TV shows gained the added impact of facial expressions and the flower arrangements stood against the wall with a new clarity. I could even peer from my window and watch the pedestrians milling about in front of the hospital steps and the fluid movement of the traffic through the streets.
At night, Dr. W. stopped again. "I'm wearing my contacts," I told him with a smile. "You wore them all day?." he asked, rather awestruck. "Yeh, I did!" He was speechless, shaking his head in disbelief as he walked out of the door. When I was alone I marveled at the beauty of the city lights, which had only yesterday seemed a hazy melding of fluorescent tubing, stretching toward an unknown obscurity; the lights became sharp points of white before my eyes, mingled now and again with the red flash of a car's tail lights or the green glow of a traffic signal. I stared out the window, picturing the night in my mind, wishing I was bound northward in one of the streaming points of light. As the traffic raced by, lost, finally in the darkness, I wondered if they knew how lucky they were, OUT THERE; I really wondered if they knew. . .
With my stomach on a slow route to recovery, I had not eaten for many days, nor would I hope to eat for many more. The pancreas needed to heal as well, and the doctors would not allow food to pass through my lips until it had shown signs of improvement. I did not have a breakfast tray to look forward to each morning, so after one of the doctors stopped by, I would roll off the bed, and, escorted by my parents, walk down the halls, leaning slightly from the tightness of the incision and grasping the pole on which my IV hung suspended, still dripping a tasteless breakfast into my vein. During these strolls, my "nose hose" was detached from the suction mechanism and clipped to my gown like a hideous corsage. At first I was embarrassed by the decidedly gruesome appearance of the hose, filled as it was, with mucous and blood, but eventually I grew accustomed to the people on the floor and discovered, also, that others wore my unusual apparatus as well. Perhaps misery does not love company as much as it loves compassion and understanding. Thus I would skirt the corridors in both directions, heading "right" toward the craft room, or "left" which lead to the canteens. Usually taking a left turn out of my room, I would amble down the hall to contemplate the vast selection of cold sandwiches, snacks and candy which could be had simply through feeding one's pocket change into the coin slots. I stood wistfully before the machines, pointing out to my parents what I would choose when I could eat food again.
Although the stomach suction prevented me from feeling hunger pangs, it was the taste of food that I so horribly missed. Moreover, mealtime broke the monotony of a bland routine; it was something pleasant to do, exercising the mouth. It disturbed me to see someone jawing his food disinterestedly or poking at a meal which, in his opinion, lacked aesthetic appeal. Meal trays would often be returned sporting a delectable piece of dessert or fruit; I would peer at the specimens, sighing that I could not save the morsel from the trash heap.
Food became my favorite mind-game as my stomach gradually healed. We pursued the canteen route quite frequently throughout the day, and each time I would gaze at the treats, yearning for a taste of something. . . anything. . .besides the mint of my toothpaste.
I was not allowed to swallow food or liquid of any kind; even water was forbidden. My throat became dry, despite its occasional rinsing, and the tube which ran from my nose to my stomach only hindered the situation. I decided to test my luck and ask for ice, reasoning that the excessive coldness might aid my throat to a degree, even though I could not actually swallow any of it. Since my saliva would become frigid through the presence of the ice, perhaps the throat would benefit from the slight trickling of cold moisture. To my amazement, they agreed to give me a glass of ice chips at various intervals through the day providing I would only chew the ice, and then spit it into a metal bowl for that specific purpose; I shook my head "yes" in vigorous excitement at the proposal. In time, I was even allowed to swallow one or two teaspoonsful of ice each time. It was a small, but significant favor, for which I was exceedingly grateful.
As I improved, I sought other forms of entertainment aside from watching television, which included the use of my hands. In my opinion, the hospital craft room was an ingenious installment. I had always loved art, and in that room, one could purchase various kits which were self-contained, having all the necessary tools and materials, for a minimal price. It took no time at all before I had selected two kits, and dispatched myself to my room to begin the projects. I also enjoyed drawing, and having remembered my sketch book from home, I made several drawings from the items in my room and the objects I saw in magazines. When I was not involved with drawing, however, I lusted at the food photographs and greedily read each mouth-watering recipe. It must have seemed a curious endeavor, for my parents would watch me in good-natured humor as I sat enthralled, a mere twig propped between numerous pillows, lingering over pictures as if I was haunted by food's memory.
Mom and Dad would eat lunch outside of the hospital, and often walked about afterward to exercise their stiff limbs. Neither of them were idle folk, and the long, exhaustive hours spent with me were difficult for that reason, as well as many, more obvious ones. It was fortunate that I happened to be hospitalized during August, for the weather was fine and conducive to jaunts through a park or the city streets. A shopping mall was located in the area, and they would often stop there to buy a small gift, which they would present to me upon their return. As the weeks progressed I had collected a menagerie of small clay animals which I displayed on a nearby nightstand; it was affection made visible. When my parents were gone, the treasures were a reminder of their love throughout the night; staring vacantly out the window, I knew that despite the impersonal glare of the city lights below, two of the people out there cared for me.
Mail delivery was an exalted highlight of the day, arriving sometime after the lunch hour. I had always loved mail, yet this lavish assortment of cards and letters was a recipe for happiness, and helped to alleviate the disappointment of not having received a lunch tray. The opening of mail was a tremendous pastime, bringing rhyme and laughter to the afternoon. After reading the cards, I would reread them, picturing the individual or family who took the time to send the cards. The familiar names written at the bottom of a card or note conjured images of home… and of friends, which instilled my parent's day with warmth, even as it had enlightened my own.
Two weeks had passed since Dr. A. had started my IV in the ICU when it began to infiltrate. Hating to remove it, the nurses would fiddle with the needle's position, pushing or pulling, and try to ignore the fact that it, like all good things, must come to an end. I tried to bear up to its failure, but also hoped wildly that the IV would function for one. . .more. . .day. The trials I had endured before Dr. A.'s success were still fresh in my memory.
Despite repeated attempts to save my two week old ally, its rapid failure demanded attention as my hand swelled like a balloon and the vein in which the needle resided stung intensely; it could no longer remain unnoticed in my distorted hand. The needle was pulled, and the nurses went in search of a willing person to "install" another.
As a replacement for my duo-purpose IV, which dripped nourishment as well as an anti-infection drug into my system, I somehow found myself with an IV in both arms, one for each purpose, leaving my hands virtually immobile and completely useless for any sort of craft that I might have desired to undertake. This certainly was a lousy state of affairs, I thought, contemplating the television rather sullenly amid my twisted array of tubes. Dr. W. entered the room holding his clipboard and beheld the new entanglement which extended into both arms. "Well, looks like you won't be putting in your contacts tomorrow." I thought I detected a note of triumphant glee in his voice. "I don't know. . ." I answered, my voice trailing off into nothingness; the new day would reveal what I could and could not do.
With the dawn I found that many things were considerably more difficult to accomplish. After bathing, with Mom's assistance, I succeeded in the insertion of my contacts, however, even though the process required more time and effort than it had previously. Shortly thereafter Dr. W. pranced into the room. "Hi!" I said cheerfully, eyeing him with obvious mirth and unaccountably good spirits. He looked at me from behind his clipboard. "I put 'em in!" He gazed at me with dumbfounded astonishment and self-consciously adjusted his glasses. "I didn't think you could possibly do it with IV's in both arms. . ." he said, his voice shedding its tone of superiority and knowledge. I grinned at him widely from my bed.
The following day, Dr. W. wore his contacts.
After Dr. W. had departed, blinking with stolid determination due to his brave and noble undertaking, Dr. T. paid me a visit. Asking about my condition, I could not refrain from lamenting my lack of mobility; I no longer was able to draw or take up a craft, among other difficulties. He easily perceived my frustration and proclaimed, "Well then, this won't do!" and made plans for an alternate solution; I beamed with joy to think that I would be able to resume my former activities.
That afternoon, I was greeted by Dr. M. who had received instructions to replace one of my IV's to a vein located slightly below my neck, which would be a more permanent, as well as a more comfortable position. He asked my parents to leave the room; I began to panic! If the insertion of the IV was going to create a lot of pain, I wanted no part of it. I was suddenly stricken with fear, as if all of the events of the past weeks were thrust upon me at once. I could bear no more, and tears welled up in my eyes in apprehension for the relatively simple procedure; I had already withstood much worse, yet my emotional limit had been reached.
I sat, set-eyed, while Dr. M. set to work. Trying to anticipate a stab of pain, I watched him nervously as the minutes sailed by. "There," he said, leaning away from me. "You're not done, are you?" I asked, quite certain that the worst was yet to come, for I had felt no urge whatsoever to flinch or grit my teeth; I had felt no sensation at all. "I'm all finished," he said with a smile. "But it didn't hurt at all!" I said incredulously, nearly wanting to hug him. "Like," I said, "sometimes people feel pain, and other times they don't." I looked at him in admiration.
After the episode with the IV, Dr. M. won my undiluted and devoted trust; he was the doctor who actually performed the bulk of the work load in my case, and as the weeks passed, I knew it was he who I would miss, more than anyone, when I had shed my hospital gown for street attire. Whereas Dr. T. seemed rather like a paternal figure, and Dr. W. a sibling rival, I came to look upon Dr. M. as a friend. It was a shame, I thought, that some patients never regard their doctor as a human being, seeing only the suit or white jacket and ignoring the features beyond.
As the days wore on, feeling myself to have become a permanent fixture, I developed a friendly relationship with one of my numerous roommates. She was slightly older than myself, fifteen perhaps, and had come to the clinic from a southern state. As we rattled on, I found myself unintentionally mimicking her accent, as I often would do when engaged in conversation with one boasting a heavy accent. I always tried to control my propensity, and succeeded when speaking to someone else, yet to her I would inevitably twang the words off my tongue with a hint of a southern drawl; she did not appear to notice, however, and I am sure that if she had she would not have been insulted.
Julie resided across the room for more days than anyone else, for her condition quite perplexed the physicians. She, as well as her entire family, suffered from acute fatigue; throughout the better portion of the day she felt sleepy, and could nap at any time the order was given. Eventually they released her from the hospital's care, unable to pinpoint the problem after countless tests, both mental and physical.
Julie accompanied me on my trips through the halls, and grew accustomed to standing beside me as I stared dreamily at the canteens. Her companionship helped to stave off monotony as the month of August limped along. Even after she was dismissed, Julie still came to visit, as she was staying in the city while tests on other family members were run.
Perhaps there were those who were lonely in the hospital, yet I seldom felt so myself. Having my parents throughout the majority of the day, augmented by patients that one would inevitably begin to recognize and the friendly staff of doctors and nurses, I lacked no conversation. The hospital was quite populous. At night though, when the bustle of the day had diminished and the corridors fell silent except for the rumbling of an occasional cart, and the muffled steps of the nurses performing their nightly rituals or answering a patient's light, I would often lay awake and think of my home far away or watch the people hurrying along the sidewalk below my window, disappearing into a car or stepping from beneath a street lamp into a pool of darkness. How I longed to be out there. . . to feel the breeze, cool on my face, and hear the faint scraping of my footsteps resounding on the cement sidewalk. . . All other desires were overshadowed by the wish to be free, to live as one was intended to live, unhampered by tubes and needles; once I was released I wanted never to return. Evening was often characterized by a slight melancholy, a stab of homesickness, perhaps; yet I knew that mourning for that which one does not have was a pointless, self-destructive endeavor, and I would focus my eyes on the present, resolutely determined to face each challenge as courageously as I possibly could.
I welcomed each new dawn, thinking it to be the start of one less day in the hospital. I was used to the routine now, every aspect a natural part of this temporary form of reality. One day, for amusement, I decided to count the pinprick holes on my thigh, which attested to their receiving a ritualistic shot both morning and night; I came up with a total of 32 in one leg alone, equalling 16 days. It was no great wonder that my muscles were rather stiff and inflexible for this was quite separate from acupuncture, especially on the few occasions when the needle was a trifle dull.
Every day one of the doctors would call on me, asking how I felt. "Fine" was always my automatic response; but for the tube in my nose and no breakfast tray to look forward to, I had no complaints. My incision was healing quite well, and with the new IV, I was relatively capable of anything, within reason, of course. I was becoming stronger, and oddly enough, gaining weight. This latter fact seemed to please the doctors and they would smile, saying my IV solution was like eating a steak dinner each evening. "No offense" . . . I said, "but I'd rather enjoy the traditional kind!"
All of a sudden, amid their daily pre-rehearsed set of questions, I was asked whether I experienced any gas. "A little," I said amusedly. "What about a bowel movement?" Somewhat aghast I looked at them and replied that I had not; "Why?" I asked, quite perplexed. "Well, you see, we don't want to start feeding you until we know the system is functioning properly." I raised my eyebrows and wondered where in the world they thought a bowel movement would come from; admittedly, I devoured the thought of food daily, but that would produce nothing of interest to them. "How am I supposed to go if you don't feed me first?" I asked. "Other people move regularly who are on IV's," they said. I knew I had a problem on my hands. If other people generally "went" it meant that I probably would not; in a world of rules, I was often the exception. There was no rhyme or reason to my physiology. What was "was" . . . for example, I always sneezed in threes. It was a simple fact. "I have to go before I get to eat… oh great!" . . . I may never eat again, I thought dejectedly.
For the next few days the doctors would ask if I'd had a bowel movement. "Nope." "Any gas?" "A little." I tried to surmise how long this would have to continue, and began to use the little persuasive ability which I possessed. "How about feeding me something… you'll get what you're after!" Well, they didn't know. As the days progressed, fruitless in respect to their tall order, they began to soften. "Any B M yet?" "Nope!" "Gas?" "A little. . . how about some food?" "Well, everything seems to be healing well . . . we'll see. . ." I sat back in bed, thinking that maybe I would eat again after all.
With the new school year close at hand, Mom began to think about her kindergarten: her room at school was disheveled and barren; still wearing its stark summer time guise. She would have to restore order to the chaotic array of boxes and create an atmosphere of warmth and welcome for the children who would soon fill the room with energetic enthusiasm; Mom needed to return to Moline. A plane reservation was booked, and Dad drove her to the airport with the understanding that she would fly back to Rochester on the coming weekend. It was different with Mom gone, more quiet, understandably, yet the difference extended beyond all those of the physical nature. Perhaps there is an instinctual essence within us, as humans, which desire maternal companionship in times of emotional turbulence or physical weakness. It is unfair to fathers who love, and are loved deeply in return, but the mother, the protectress and shrine of life, shall always be the sustaining end of the cord which had bound her child to existence.
Dad, also, experienced a void in his day with Mom at home. Mom seemed to have a calming effect upon him, and coupled with her innate optimism, her presence buffered his reactive temperament. I worried about Dad; Mom seemed always to have something to divert her attention, he had only the daily newspaper, occasional stints in front of the television, and his frequent strolls through the hospital corridors. Apart from the routine of his job, and the countless repairs of a home and car, and now stripped of his wife and companion as well, I could easily understand his restlessness.
With the noon hour, Dad would take his leave of me, and lunch in a nearby cafe. He soon found a favorite restaurant, which served freshly baked pies daily; this treat was better eaten at noon, for procrastination resulted in thorough disappointment. . . often all the pie would be gone by the time the thought of supper struck a pleasing note in one's stomach.
When he had finished lunch, his next priority was a walk, which grew quite lengthy on certain days; this was an indulgence which I never thought to impede or discourage, for he needed a reprieve from anxiety much more than I. It was always a great exasperation to me when I would see a patient, whether he was a child or an adult, deny his family members of their need for space and a sense of normalcy. Simply because a patient feels caged by his hospitalization is no reason to expect a constant bedside companion, thereby imprisoning his loved one with a greater sentence than that on which he himself felt imposed; the patient is better able to withstand the hours of boredom, for he is ill, but the relative, having his usual amount of energy cannot bear the strain of worry coupled with a patient's demand for vigilance. Occasional loneliness is far easier to overcome than emotional fatigue.
I entertained myself when Dad was on his walk; it was easy to do. Often I daydreamed in the midst of a television program, or stared at the pages of a magazine, never having read them at all. I rarely read magazines, although I enjoyed them heartily; most of their appeal derived from the photos, imprinting them in my mind and drawing hours of fantasy from the images alone.
After the passage of two hours or more, Dad would return, faithfully maintaining his daily surprise. The gift would be placed among my other treasures to be enjoyed and to become part of the memory which was already forming in my brain. The mail had arrived, and he would look through the cards, reading slowly the message or poem, then flipping to the front of the card once again. "That's nice," he would say, and pick up another to read. Dear 'ol Dad, I loved him so. I wondered why it seemed more difficult to let him know; I had no need to fear him, his brusque overtones were not always the fruit of anger as much as despair. I knew that when I hugged him, his heart nearly burst, his was no cold, indifferent demeanor. . . Dad's heart possessed the hardness of an eggshell.
The remainder of the day would pass according to routine. We took walks through the halls, longer now that I was gaining endurance, and began to trod on unfamiliar ground, past dimly illuminated passages and ancient, rather ominous corridors which had never worn a bright splash of paint. It was depressing and almost scary in these foreboding extremities of the hospital, and I was glad for Dad's company. On one particularly memorable excursion we had reached the end of the lengthy, darkened corridor and stumbled upon a window, situated next to the elevator, which faced the pediatrics ward from whence we had come. As we were surveying the scene, the elevator door opened, and a woman appeared, clad in a hospital gown, whose visage shocked my young eyes; her eyes bore the sign of a failing anatomy, jaundiced to such a degree that they seemed to have the uncanny glow of a neon sign. She carried on her face an indisposition to speak; I turned away, but not with obvious haste, trying to feign a degree of casual preoccupation toward the window as she moved into the hallway. The whites of her eyes, yellow as buttercups, were entrenched into my memory, haunting me after she disappeared around the corner. Such sights were not alien to the hospital or clinic buildings yet they could not pass one's notice without delivering a jolt of awareness, of pity for the individual whose grasp on mortality was waning beneath humanity's unsettled gaze.
Somewhat disturbed after encountering the unusual pair of eyes, I was content to return to the comparative gaiety of the children's ward. Giving up the desolate sea of green wherefrom we had emerged, we were received by a conglomeration of lights which imparted to us an aura of welcome and flooded the ward with a sense of security.
Dad remained with me until his supper hour, at which time he would again be transported into the functioning world, where normalcy, rather than malaise, reigned complete. Following supper, he again returned to the hospital; our evening was generally spent in front of the television, taking in what entertainment it had to offer, and then between the hours of 8:00 and 9:00 o'clock he kissed me good-night, and walked to his motel, located in the immediate proximity of the hospital.
On the eve of Labor Day weekend, Mom flew back to Rochester, and Dad left for the airport soon after eating his last meal of the day. He was always punctual, preferring to wait several hours at his destination rather than lounge about at the home base until the last minute lest one of a hundred mishaps occurred. Such was the scenario depicting that evening, and I felt I could look forward to a night bordering on the exact characteristics of the one before, distinguished only by the fact that my father was absent.
I had observed a fair amount of television when the nurse entered to read my vital statistics and administer the nightly shot to my thigh. Feeling also that I needed to utilize the facilities, she escorted me to the door of the bathroom, pushing the IV pole beside me. Suddenly the IV tube swung out before me, dangling crazily like a wind-blown vine; it had become detached from the "socket" which protruded from my skin. I saw no cause for alarm, yet the nurse wheeled and darted up the hall, leaving the muffled remnants of an explanatory reason for her flight, to the effect, "I'm going for a syringe. . ." I hadn't seen the tube touch the floor, although contamination was the cause of the nurse's anxiety; I decided to stand at the bathroom door and await her return.
No sooner had a minute passed when my body took on a strange weakness. My head felt heavy and my eyes were oddly rebelling toward my desire to focus clearly; I knew if I did not sit down, I would fall presently, so I leaned against the wall and slid slowly to the floor. I had gained a sitting position, yet, that too, was being drawn from my capabilities; a determined force beckoned me toward the floor and I sunk resignedly down, unafraid and rather indifferent, as a ship, torn and buffeted, would relinquish herself to the fathoms of a gaping sea. As my body was ushered to the tile, I glanced helplessly out into the hallway and caught the eye of a doctor, unknown to me, who was walking briskly past through the untouched silence of the ward. He stopped abruptly, eyeing me with marked curiosity and asked "Do you need some help?" "Uh, yeh" I said, thinking I could, indeed, use some assistance. It struck me as incredibly humorous, even though I was not fully able to exercise or convey the entirety of my comic faculty at the time. He asked what had happened and why the nurse had left me; I told him, for my mentality, though buffered, was intact. He wanted to know if the IV had touched the ground. As I did not believe that it had, he gave it a swift, cursory inspection and plugged it back into the socket. By then the nurse had returned and was instructed to round up several others; they had to carry me back to bed, as my legs were rubberized and altogether useless. I felt as if I had entertained a drunken stupor within the passage of minutes, and without having passed a glass to my lips.
The episode must have resulted from the rapid denial of the solution to my system; since the IV dripped steadily into my veins, my body reacted to the change as it would any shock. Moreover, the fact that the IV was so near to my heart, and the realization that I was standing when the incident occurred, both render the semi-faint more understandable. At any rate, the doctor and several nurses flitted about me until they felt quite satisfied that the better part of my siege had ended; I immediately reflected how fortunate it was that the stated occurrence happened during the absence of my father. "Well," I thought lazily, "miracles do happen; or, at least, my luck isn't all bad!" Dad, I knew, would not have reacted with the lack of agitation that I had portrayed toward my rendezvous with the hospital floor, and I was extremely grateful that he did not have to witness the affair. While I was musing upon the above thoughts, the telephone's harsh ring clamored to be received. I laid in bed, still awash in a sea of partial coherence, allowing the nurse to answer the call. It was my oldest brother, Todd; somewhat dazed, I grasped the phone and attempted to carry on an intelligent conversation, explaining that which had transpired directly preceding his call. Once I replaced the receiver, I collapsed again into the bed's rigidity, perceiving that my former energy, absorbed into another sphere of existence, had not been repleted. My strength was of no consequence however; it had grown late, the plane's arrival was delayed, and nothing was required of me except to wait for the appearance of my parents; waiting was something to which I was now accustomed.
It was good to see Mom again; Dad drove her to the hospital albeit the fact that visiting hours had long since elapsed; in the pediatrics ward, such rules were often relaxed or ignored for the benefit of the family, and it was not an uncommon sight to observe a parent slumped in a corner chair, stealing what replenishment the cramped, make shift bed would afford. My parents did not tarry in my room that night, as the minutes marched heedlessly onward and the night aged before us. I reviewed for them the main excitement of the evening, briefly filling their inquiries and in return receiving a small dose of chit-chat for my own reflectance. As they bid me goodnight, I knew that tomorrow would be merrier for everyone; the main family unit had been reunited.
Parents are the foot-holds and building blocks that sustain the growing youth; while other individuals may very well flavor the insights and spice the outlooks of a maturing mind, the parents yet possess the solid, nurturing ingredient… stability… to which he can, and will, turn in trying hours. I knew that I would forever be my parents' little girl; it was of no consequence that I would age into adulthood; I would always be a fruit of their existence, and while we all had possession of our senses and general mentality, I would, as would all of my siblings, return to their sheltering arms in fear, in pain, and in turmoil. Such was the nature of the bond of father and mother to their children, creating a debt which can seldom be repaid. I hoped that, in my small way, I could give them strength and answer their needs, and prove to be an enrichment to their lives.
The weekend passed rapidly, but it was appreciated by everyone. Mom, it was clear, had to return to her children; though they were, as yet, names without faces, her obligations as a kindergarten teacher existed with more prominence than my health situation; I was out of danger, and my recovery was ripening gradually; soon I would be released from the hospital and live once more.
Three weeks had elapsed, and still I had tasted no food, nor had I swallowed a mouthful of water. My yearning for the sensory delight of harboring various flavors and textures in the mouth and intermingling them with cool draughts of liquid refreshment had not abated; indeed, if the truth must reveal itself, I exalted the characteristics of mere sustenance to magnanimous proportions, certain that I would heartily enjoy food of the most modest preparation; dishes which had formerly sobered my features and impaired my appetite I fancied inviting and delicious.
My exuberant preoccupation with food was alien to no one. I would sit in bed, cutting recipes and their corresponding pictures from women's magazines then, in turn, would glue them to recipe cards, as the tasteless weeks began and ended. One might have thought that food would have been a vexation to my mind, yet dreams never inflicted pain upon my heart, and because they were figments of imagination, mere mental sketches, their failure in existence caused no dilemma; only, perhaps, mild disappointment.
The daily visits by the doctors seemed to meld together, echoing the remarks and questions of the previous day. "Any bowel movement yet?" "No." "Gas?" "A little." The questions had taken on the pure monotony of a scratched record which played the identical phrase over and over, into oblivion. How many days, I wondered, would my ears endure the repetition before the doctors were assured of the normalcy of my stomach and pancreas? I tried to close my mind to distressing thoughts; I knew nothing of my physical condition and through the doctor's restrictions, I would return to health; I had far too much confidence and hope to fly to the arms of despair, for in despair one finds no warmth or comfort.
Having passed my third week in the confines of the hospital, the doctors finally concluded that the signs were such that they could risk the removal of the nose tube and allow me to slowly test my stomach's endurance and tolerance of a liquid diet. The prospect elated me, and I promised to abide by their cautious instructions.
Removing the tube which issued from my stomach through my nose was no major operation; before I had enough time to be scared, the tube was out and my nose, clear. Dr. M. said that the tube would have to be analyzed for bacteria in the laboratory and, at the sight of the grisly thing, I immediately pitied the individual who would be assigned to the horrid occupation. Turning my thoughts inward, I found that, other than a soreness of the throat, I had no complaints to offer; to be free of the tube improved my appearance and heralded the commencement of food into my daily routine.
The first sampling of liquid sustenance proved to be a shadow of my expectations. I was served bouillon broth and green tea, both of which hardly satisfied my stomach's desire; the broth was intolerably salty to my unused tastebuds and the tea unfamiliar. Nevertheless, I consumed a fair amount of each simply as a reminder that I was licensed to function as any other human, eating and drinking as a matter of course.
Within 24 hours after my first ingestion of liquid food, I proclaimed that I felt an urge to go to the bathroom. The nurse excitedly told me not to flush the bowel movement until she had inspected the stool; it was to be a clearly monumental event! After having proudly enacted the endeavor of which the absence had, for weeks, instilled nervous qualms into the doctors' thoughts, I emerged from the bathroom; the nurse quickly surveyed the matter, simultaneously taking notes. It was as if I was a hen who had laid a golden egg, except for the humbling fact that my offering was soon flushed from view.
I greeted the doctor that day with an unusually wide smile, knowing that when he asked his well-rehearsed question, I would be able to answer in the affirmative; however, he had already received the news by way of the nurse's chart, and beamed with apparent happiness. "You had us worried for awhile there," he said. "Well," I countered, "I told you that you would get what you wanted if you fed me." I sat upright in bed, grinning tight-lipped and amused by the sheer commonality of the entire situation; only in a hospital would one find so many individuals whose good tidings could be realized through such unlikely aspects of life. Actually, it was rather refreshing; if the bulk of society could gather contentment from such normal functions, such simple pleasures, what an unassuming, peaceful world it would be.
With the advent of my ability to utilize my stomach, came other surprises which were beneficial to my happiness, if not also my thighs; instead of morning and evening shots, I could now receive medication orally, thus sparing my legs further abuse. Dr. W. was assigned to prescribe the medication replacing the shots; when I told him that I was unable to take pills, he studied me from behind his clipboard, and a wry smile spread slowly across his lips. "You can't swallow pills?" he asked. "No." was my firm reply. My dad, who had been observing the entire scene unfold, queried, "Laurie, after all you've been through, that would be easy!" It was of no consequence to me how "easy" swallowing a pill seemed to them. . . it was unnatural. I had no intention of trying, especially after all I had been through.
Thinking an injection of fundamental guilt or embarrassment would make more pliable my stiff-willed stance, Dr. W. raised his eyebrows and said mockingly, "My three year old can swallow pills." Surely such an assertion by a proud father of his youngster's amazing feat would be a sufficient reason to shame me into taking my medicine. I looked at him undaunted and unimpressed. "I can't swallow pills." Perhaps remembering my success at wearing contacts all day, despite his positivity that I could never insert the lenses, let alone wear them for the period of more than several hours, he nodded and selected an alternative to pills. The art of negative and positive persuasion had little effect on me if I had full reign over my senses. Eyeing each other like rivals, we broke into good-humored smiles as he turned to leave.
Sometimes one's dreams and aspirations bring more pleasure than their fulfillment in reality. Many, I am sure, have waited in gleeful anticipation for a certain event to take place, only to feel acute disappointment when its enactment failed to bring forth one's expectant jubilation; such was the case with the ambrosiac manifestations which I had bestowed upon food, and the effect which said food wrought upon my stomach. To explain further, eating brought about nauseousness; this surprise substantially daunted my adoration for food, and putting away my recipes, turned my attentions to other, less torturous joys of life. Eating was eyed with sharp suspicion; I was told that, since three quarters of my stomach was gone, I could expect nausea following meals and, because of the small capacity, should feed myself often. As a result, I would eat a small amount, become nauseous, recover, only to discover that another tray of food was being placed in front of me. I had to force myself to eat; it was a chore to maintain my existence, not a delight, as I had earlier supposed.
Another curiosity which stemmed from eating was noticed after the initial bite of jello; oddly, jello seemed to "stick" at the point of entry to the stomach, then, eventually, pass down into the stomach itself. Never having experienced this sensation before my operation, I mentioned it to the doctors. They were unconcerned, and felt that any difficulty would soon repair itself. I nodded, wondering if it would, indeed, recover on its own. I remembered the tender lump which my head had somehow sustained during my lapse of unconsciousness in the operating room. Five days later, approximately all of the hair in the scalp which grew within the sore region fell out, leaving a temporary oval bald spot on the back of my head. When asked about this curiosity the doctors were mute. Perhaps it was the result of an operating room panic; I could understand their silence amid such societal leaches as lawyers and "lawsuit" seekers. The lump would be a mystery.
Because the doctors offered no clues as to the cause of the "sticking" I managed to concoct several of my own; one possibility was that the valve between the esophagus and stomach, known as the cardiac sphincter, sustained damage in the operation or through the long-term presence of the stomach to nose tube; or, I thought, the muscles within the esophagus, which push food toward the stomach in swallowing, were not functioning properly. The actual reason was never drawn from my inquiries, and to the present, the sensation creates some difficulty; yet it, like the other questions, shall always remain a mystery.
With each day I was given more freedoms; the IV was removed, and the cumbersome pole escorted to the supply room; walks increased in number and duration as they were now unhampered by either tube or pole. My diet improved rapidly, from liquids to strained liquids, to soft foods, and finally to a regular diet, and albeit the fact that food was no longer a blissful thought, the small and frequent meals were a source of entertainment and added sparkle to my day.
Despite gastro-intestinal difficulties, I endured the final days in the hospital with a new strength; because I was eating and sustaining nourishment through my natural means, I knew the heavy burden of a long recovery was loosing itself from my shoulders; I had nearly reached the summit of self-restoration after physical toil and mental strain.
My personality was refreshed by the small delights which seemed to grow unchecked in my miniature world; I loved to sit outside on the roof-top "patio" of the hospital and feel the warm sun and summer breeze touch my face, while at night the distant lights of Rochester glittered and shed their baleful remorse before my eyes; they were tempting jewels no more, but sweet reminders that at the week's end, I could stand beneath their steady glow. I no longer felt imprisoned, an outsider to the stream of life. I was a part of humanity, an element of nature, a working vessel of creation. I was not constrained. If I so desired, I could dress in my civilian clothes and disappear through the yawning doors of the elevator, to be lost in a sea of unknown personalities, and unfamiliar faces. The idea of freedom was a comfort to my last days of hospital existence, for it was attainable; I had but to discard my gown, don my clothes, and flee. . . and it would be mine. True bondage, I found, existed only in the mind and the way in which one perceived his world; for whether restricted under lock and key or lack of health, the mind is still capable of limitless meanderings if one but remains open to himself and is aware of his dreams.
On the day of my departure, Dr. T. dropped in to remove my stitches. Perhaps because he was the primary surgeon, this finalization was reserved for himself as the ultimate service and last detail of the operation. I watched while he snipped the threads, and tugged them from their month-long residency, some willing to give up their hold, others wrestling rebelliously with my skin. Here and there, pinprick points of blood surfaced along the scar, active protests of dislodged threads, which shined conspicuously beside the ruddy incision. Though alarming in its appearance, the skin would one day recover from its trauma and time would fade the scar; already it showed signs of rapid healing, itching uncontrollably, as with a vengeance; the soreness diminished, and I could stand upright with little pain or stiffness.
Dr. T. always appeared to share in one's concerns as well as one's joys; it was evident that my departure and good progress pleased him. Other than a slight loss of weight after returning to food, which was to be expected, given the side effect of nausea, I demonstrated every sign which indicated a splendid recovery was well underway.
Later in the morning, Dr. M. arrived to remove the drain in my side. The procedure was little more than a strange tugging and the length of flexible rubber was discarded. A stitch was also removed, and the business was finished with the placement of a gauze patch.
I was quite satisfied and ready to leave. The doctors I would see the following day at the consultation in the Mayo building, but to the nurses, I gave a word of farewell. In my own way, I would miss them, for I had grown to know their various personalities; but though I was grateful for their services, I would not pine my station in the pediatrics ward. . . even the stale, smoky scent of a motel room was a better place to spend the night. Gathering my belongings, I began the walk to the elevator with my father, beaming happily at my long-awaited descent into the real world. "Come back and see us!" shouted the nurses. I smiled. "Okay!" I said mechanically; although I was not intentionally insincere, I knew that I would never return. Once I quitted an institution or a segment on life's chain of events, I never retraced my steps. I looked not so much to the future as to the present, and in the present, I wished to live.
As I stepped into the morning sun, I tried to inhale the freshness, gaze upon the beauty and listen to the sounds; life swelled about me, too immense to take in at one moment. My spirits were frothing with excitement at each successive stride along the pavement as we paced toward our motel; it was a Big Day.
I rested briefly in the motel room and then we decided to drive around Rochester so I could see for myself some of the places Dad had visited on his afternoon strolls. Many of the streets were lovely, bordered with trees which grew from scrupulously trimmed lawns. The houses behind the green lawns and sculptured shrubs loomed with magnificence and grandeur; some displayed vast entry-ways while others boasted fine masonry and stonework. I had little doubt but that these were the homes of surgeons, businessmen and prominent city personnel. The outward appearance of the homes showed nothing but orderliness and tranquility, yet for all of the pervasive greenery, the scene lacked a sense of life; no one peered through the windows, no boy clad in cut-off jeans mowed the grass, no children played on the clean-swept-steps, nothing moved but the trees in the wind. I reflected on the sight dismally. Perhaps it was considered improper to be "seen" outdoors; I lamented the plight of some people, for whom natural beauty seemed not a thing to be enjoyed, but merely a device by which one's wealth could be measured, something tangible, something which could be had. I had once heard that through riches one might be free; yet that which I saw in these streets was bondage of the most pitiable sort, for it was entirely self-imposed. Restrictions and social codes made by and for the elite were gladly followed, and those who bent under their weight, stooped willingly. Conformity can eventually overshadow the individual, rendering his former joys meaningless, if he desires to exist amid prefabricated expectations as determined by status rather than true values. Such are the hazards of social living; personally, however, I would rather sit on my front steps and wave at passersby.
Then I remembered; it was noon, a September weekday. . . the children were in school, the parents at work, and youngsters were most likely receiving their lunch. It was I who was an alien spectacle, not the streets through which we were driving; had it not been for my hospitalization, I, too, would have been seated amongst a classroom of students, and Dad at work. Again I mused over the beautiful sights. Maybe I had simply come at the wrong time; every street can seem deserted. I hoped that these lawns were loved as I loved my own.
We roved about the city, finally stopping at an outdoor mall which extended far beyond my ability to traverse. Dad and I entered only several shops which contained the novelty items that had served as my daily surprises while residing in the hospital. I tired easily, however, so we found our way to the motel once more.
The lodging was plain, but serviceable and clean. My bed was commodious, compared to that which I had occupied for the past month; it boasted a built-in massage mechanism, which I tried immediately, and later regarded as a waste of both time and money. It was amusing, however, shaking vigorously, for about three minutes, like a belly of a rotund man engaged in hearty laughter. As I unloosed the bedspread from its clutch around the pillows, I noticed that the pillows rustled when touched; inspecting them further, I discovered they were encased protectively in plastic. My eyebrows arched quizzically at the sight, yet I said nothing; there must be a reason why the management was disposed to do this, but it mattered little to me at the moment. I wished to rest, and until it was time for supper, discarded all conscious thought and drifted into a peaceful repose.