In keeping with my redesigned stomach, I ate a small meal at supper time. Before setting back to the motel for the evening, though, I decided that it might be fun to sample one of the famous pies that my dad had been enjoying throughout the month, so we turned into the cafe, and luckily, spied several pieces that still lurked in the pie cabinet. A slice of apple pie caught my fancy, and Dad selected another. He had not bent the truth; the pie was delicious, and I unhesitatingly devoured the entire piece.
Once returned to our motel, I began to note the uneasy qualms of an upset stomach gradually gaining momentum. I decided to lay down, incubating the nauseousness until it had transformed into an unquenchable, relentless monster.
Before I was able to run, or even think to run, the beast gave a mighty heave and unloosed its hold on the contents of my stomach. Apple pie. The reason was now quite evident for the necessity of the plastic pillow covers. Apple pie in reverse was a sight most gruesome. I looked once more at my pillow, a wrong move, and bolted for the toilet as the beast ventilated its frustrations a second time by bellowing vehemently into the porcelain bowl.
I don't blame my stomach for its mammoth revolt; it had not needed to function at all for well over three weeks, and then, after a mere five days of work, it received an entire slice of rich apple pie. Not pleased, it decided to send it back. Thus my Big Day ended on a rather sour note; but perhaps sweetness, tempered, forms the groundwork of memories far stronger than those composed solely of sugar and honey.
"Uncertainty wielded mighty weapons and sharp words. What IF. . .was too persuasive to warrant refusal."
Chemotherapy
With the new day, I was more cautious in my choices of food. We breakfasted, then lunched, milling about the city until it was time for our afternoon consultation.
We were to meet with a Dr. E., an oncologist who specialized in cancer treatment; the surgeons would also attend. Playing the usual waiting game, we sat first in the lobby, and after our names were called, found ourselves in a room similar to that in which the initial pre-operative consultation had taken place. Neither Dad nor I knew what this meeting would portend; yet I felt that, although my hospital stay had reached its end, my wings were clipped, unfit for flight. There would be more trials, and more obligations; uncertainty seemed to breed obligation, for to it, I was unextricably bound.
Muffled steps were heard outside the door, and I had a slight sensation of de ja vu. Then the door burst open, and a tall man entered, booming a friendly "hello" to both of us. We all shook hands and seated ourselves; soon afterward, the three surgeons, Drs. T. M. and W., entered as well as a young smiling doctor who was there simply to observe. Dad rose again to greet the new comers. As the pleasantries died away, the business of the meeting came to our attention.
Because my tumor had been cancerous, there was naturally the question of whether surgery alone had been action enough to free the entire cellular structure from my body. As far as the surgeons could recognize, they had removed all cancerous cells, but since cells cannot be seen by the naked eye, the doctor's supposition could possibly have been incorrect; for this reason the meeting was called to determine the next course of action. Since mine was a rather unusual case, they felt at a complete loss as to the route which should be taken, and having stated several options decided to privately confer the matter. The doctors filed out of the room. Dad and I looked at one another. The whole situation seemed ridiculous. The surgeons were "certain" yet the state of my health was rendered "uncertain" by the presence of cancer. One word, and yet it made such a difference; it was almost mathematical; just as surely as positive and negative numbers, multiplied, equalled a negative response, certainty coupled with uncertainty yielded uncertainty. Moreover, I began to feel like a subject, someone against whom plots were devised; there was to be no specific method, no scientific plan in my treatment. . . and while I reserved faith in the doctors, I knew that an end had been reached wherein my self-confidence was worth just as much to my well-being, if not more.
When the doctors returned, they confessed that, although a decision had been determined, their means of arriving at said decision was quite simplistic and utterly devoid of calculation. The decision was literally pulled from a hat, producing a solution which read, "Chemotherapy," and to which they would adhere unless our wishes were opposed to it. At this point, the surgeons took their leave of us, and I voiced my farewells; they disappeared into the hallway, and the door slowly drifted back, to close silently and blot their retreating footsteps. It seemed strange that I should never see these men again when, for a month, they were daily visitors and trusted allies.
We were now alone with Dr. E. and the silent, smiling observer. Dr. E. explained the situation which had formulated, defining chemotherapy as a means by which cancer was cured, sweeping any and all lingering cells from the body with a deadly blow. In my case, the treatment was viewed simply as a protective measure, a guarantee, that all cancerous cells were wiped out; given such a characteristic, especially when considering my previously mentioned uncertainty, it was already obvious to me that we would not refuse the proposal. As we sat motionless to hear the rest of the definition, I became aware of the observing doctor whose eyes were riveted to my face with an uncanny, relentless fascination, while his lips remained curled in an unwavering smile; it mattered little where I would place my eyes, his gaze feasted on my features, ingesting hungrily every emotion my countenance displayed. I listened half-heartedly to Dr. E.'s conversation; he explained that treatments would be paid through the research funding since my cancer was a rarity, and would therefore place my family under no financial burden. It was nice that my experimental therapy would be no cancer on my parent's bank account, I thought dimly; my concentration was withering under the infernal scrutiny of the observer's beaming eyes and steadfast smile, for there was no benevolence in that plaster-cast smile, only a keen desire to devour one's expressions; and I knew that he waited for a certain look, a show of anguish, an emotional outburst.
Dr. E. continued. He was explaining the ways in which chemotherapy affected the patient. Something within me did not want to hear what would happen, yet my mind took it in; I would feel sick, nauseous, weak. I would be susceptible to infections and viruses… I would be afflicted with occasional aching… I would lose my hair… I could die. Tears, unbidden, welled up in my eyes so I tried furiously to will them away; I did not want to cry in front of those lidless eyes. It was rude, callous, to stare so unflinchingly as another's future was verbalized and deftly illustrated by a doctor who knew all of the hideous cruelties of which chemotherapy was capable.
Dr. E. passed a form to my father, instructing that both he and I read carefully, and sign if we were in agreement to its statements; our obligations, their obligations, etc., etc., etc. I was staring at my knees, fighting tears desperately. My head was bowed low to escape the face which would not leave my own, which granted no peace or meditation. Dad balanced the paper on his knees and signed his name with confident strokes; he passed it to me. "You can read it first," he said. My eyes were a haze which saw through the page. I did not need to read it, for I knew what I had to do; knowing, however, made it no easier.
I signed without thinking, without reading one word. The observer was grinning widely now, a sadistic glimmer of pleasure seemed to sparkle in his eyes; I did not have to look at him directly; his luminous frame of mind pierced my unseeing stare. Tears shone on my face. I wondered bitterly if my performance had satisfied him.
To conclude the business of the hour, a date was determined for my return to the clinic; the commencement of treatment was two short weeks from the present, and time would not slow its tempo for me. I would have to enjoy those days while I was able. Dr. E. stood, signifying that the meeting, and his time, had reached its duration; I bid him a respectful good-bye and he ushered his abominable side-kick out of the door. Dad and I gathered our belongings and departed in their wake, walking toward the lobby. Climbing in the elevator, descending to our floor, climbing out of the elevator, walking to the car… it all seemed mechanical. While our bodies glided toward our car, self-propelled, we decided to leave the town that afternoon. Somehow, the future demanded that the need to go home be satisfied. We went.
The September sun crept low, tempting winter as it reclined toward the western horizon. After we had left the city behind us, and found the route which would lead its weary travelers home, Dad broke the silence of our brooding minds. "Would you have been satisfied with just the operation? Would that have been enough?" I shook my head slowly back and forth, sitting quietly and gazing as the pavement was consumed by the miles. "No…" I said, faintly echoing my mute reply. We drove on, into the fading light. Uncertainty rode with us; it was the impetus which quailed for insurance, taunting our future-bent minds with doom and dread. Uncertainty wielded mighty weapons and sharp words. "What if…" was too persuasive to warrant refusal.
We arrived in Moline long after sunset; it was a beautiful sight, crossing the Mississippi, for the river reflected the street lights in a profusion of multi-faceted bands which sparkled like a king's hoard of precious jewels. It seemed a warm welcome, though few people were stirring, and those that stirred knew us not. That we knew the land was enough.
The streets on which we drove seemed like old friends, unchanged, and somehow dearer to the heart after the extended absence; Fourth Avenue, whose narrow confines should never have known four lanes of traffic; 53rd St., which boasted one of the few brick surfaces still in use; and 7th Ave…. the corner mail box, the parallel rows of houses, and finally, our gravel driveway…. home. As we neared the end of the avenue, the headlights caught a curious banner of white which appeared to stretch over the entire drive. We approached and stopped beneath a sign which read, "Welcome Home Laurie," professionally lettered in blue and red; it was the work of John Moore, Steve's father. Welcome home?… indeed, yes!
The following days seemed a continual welcome; my aunt made some of my favorite rice pudding, neighbors dropped in, friends visited… and to my surprise I received more cards in the mail. I busied myself writing numerous notes expressing my gratitude for all the demonstrations of concern which I had received as well as a note of appreciation which appeared in the church bulletin in reference to all the cards sent to the hospital; it was a job I viewed seriously, because no one had been obligated to do anything for me. Just as I was doused with affection, I might have been completely ignored; thus, I believe it is of the utmost importance to acknowledge another's selfless expenditures, whether their value be measured in hours or coins. To turn one's back upon the kindness and concern of others is a silent, but effective voice which speaks of one's own innate selfishness and dearth of love, for although giving should be a pleasure unto itself, it is a human propensity to seek further pleasure from the fact of the recipient, and if the latter remains expressionless and verbally dense, he denies the giver of his utmost joy. Giving is more than simply the ability to spend money; the ungracious and ill-mannered are often unaware, or perhaps more accurately stated, heedless of this fact.
School was already in session when Dad and I returned home from Rochester and although Mom and he went to work regularly, I refrained from going to classes for several more days. I was still quite weak from my operation and related weight loss, and my stamina and endurance were a mockery to their former capabilities, but my underlying strength helped me overcome all of the obstacles which I had hurdled, as it would similarly allow me to master those which lay ahead. I was strong; cancer was my solitary barrier to a clean slate of health.
Returning to school, which was always a nerve-wracking experience for me, was further complicated that year by my late arrival; moreover, my health dictated that I use the elevator instead of the stairs, an instruction which I abhorred because I felt myself to be a spectacle. Had my personality enjoyed ladles full of attention, my reaction would have been that of pure delight, for in addition to utilizing the elevator, I was allowed to select a friend to carry my books, and together we would leave the classes early to avoid the jam of hallway traffic. I was also instructed to come to the nurse's office to eat a morning and afternoon snack, as well as to rest during the physical education period. I characteristically despised being singled out from the crowd in such a way that everyone's attention was momentarily turned on myself. This time, however, it could not be avoided, and with a plea for inner fortitude to my mind, I followed all of my directions obediently. When I was able to forget my embarrassment, I was quite grateful for the special treatment which I was given.
As it was, I attended school only three days, but in that time I reacquainted myself with my schoolmates and was readily accepted in my former circle of friends. I was unused to such attention which my late arrival and circumstances seemed to evoke, yet it was pleasant, just the same.
A memory which surfaces in connection with my few days of school was my guarded reservations toward my appointed English teacher whose innate haughtiness took on the unfriendly guise of derisive sarcasm when one of the less fortunate students directed his attention. He enjoyed the reprimand to an excess which was unprofessional and beyond reason, as he would rend his subject before the other student's eyes to gain their general humor, and camaraderie. I would sit quietly throughout the class, listening carefully to the lesson lest through inattentiveness, I be attacked by the ruthless teacher and then breathe a great sigh of relief when the clock read five minutes before the bell.
Very few memories formed during the three days of school, indeed none which dealt with curriculum or activities; those I described were pinpoints of feeling, of emotion, rather than events that were special unto themselves. Such, it seems, is the manner of my existence; thoughts and feeling compose myself; events simply form the backdrop against which, while it remains intact, memories are viewed.
It was a Friday evening when Mom, Dad and I set out to Rochester again. Because Dad had already taken many days off work, he would only drive up to the clinic with us and then catch a return flight into the Moline airport on Sunday; the shop rules had been relaxed (when I had surgery) for Dad's benefit, and as grim as the circumstances were, the boss could not abide the thought of sending Dad forms to complete to satisfy the company, especially considering his flawless work record. Nevertheless, it had been over a month, and Dad could not expect to take more days without giving a formal written explanation and statement of intent as well; with Mom's vast accumulation of sick days, there was no need for my father to remain during my treatments.
The hour of our arrival was quite late, but since we had two weeks to plan the trip, we had the foresight to make reservations at a nicely furnished motel rather than leaving our luck to chance. It was a marvelous improvement from the motel of our initial excursion, having individual bathrooms (instead of one down the hall) and kitchen facilities which we would use later.
We indulged in sightseeing and shopping throughout the weekend until Dad's departure, lending to our time the best possible sense of normalcy by pursuing the activities which I found most enjoyable. It was impossible to forget the promise of Monday's treatment, however, and it seemed to me that I was followed by a haunting shadow of unrest, while before me, ticking loudly, was ever the face of a clock. Too soon Sunday came and Mom and I watched as Dad's plane taxied down the runway, turned and scorched a misty path into the blue sky. We drove back to the city, stopping to buy groceries to outfit our kitchenette, and then arranging them in the cabinets of our temporary home before seeking a restaurant for the evening meal.
The so-called "last supper," my last meals taken before all eating had to cease to comply with the demands of the morning blood test, were traditionally grand affairs. I ate whatever struck my taste bud's fancy, which in my case, was always a chicken dinner. I doted on fried chicken to such an extent, ordering it on every occasion in which we ate dinner at a restaurant, that Dad eventually blamed "chicken" as the culprit behind my development of cancer. Although the doctors assured him that my love affair with fried chicken had played no part in germinating my disease, he still "hated the stuff"; as with all unreasonable, unexplainable, occurrences the desire to find a reason is a fiery quest, which unfortunately is not extinguished by merely pointing one's finger of blame on a subject. Only acceptance can wash away the flames born of despair.
The morning was fine, with the exception of the knots in my stomach. We drove to the clinic buildings, finally parking in the Damon car ramp. From the garage, it was easy to get to the various buildings, as an elevator ran directly into the subway system of the clinic. When the doors of the elevator parted we no longer needed to pause to read the informative signs posted on the facing subway wall; we were acquainted with the network of intersecting lines and headed right, through glass doors and followed the aging, dimly lit corridor until, a block or so down, we met with the fastidious decor of the Mayo building. Still we maintained our course, past a fleet of elevators and its waiting patrons, a pharmacy and bookstore, and a corridor which sloped slightly upward leading to the Plummer Building; we covered more ground skirting a hallway which allowed a brief glimpse of sunshine through vertical windows in the wall, and plants began to appear, growing fiercely toward the light. They were scattered in artistically positioned containers, guarding the final corridor which led to the Hilton Building in a stately, yet beautifully satisfying manner. The Hilton Building itself had even more plants in the waiting room of Desk C; indeed some of which were better described as trees, noting the vigor with which they seemed to soar skyward. If only I had such luck with plants, I thought, seating myself on a fiery orange chair.
Blood tests weren't so bad, unless my vein didn't want to cooperate, in which case, they fell into my "tolerable" category; although I seldom uttered a word, pain did not thrill me and I suspected that, underneath the person labeled "a brave little girl" was a very yellow human being. I knew it would not alter a thing if I professed to being "lemon-yellow"; life coexisted with pain, and if you felt pain, well, that was life… but if you didn't, chances were, you were dead. Everything had its alternative, and considering the uncertainty riding piggyback on my shoulders, I felt that I had only one route to pursue, even if it included pain. I didn't consciously think about my future, despite the promise of a cure after the siege, it seemed more appropriate to dream and take each blow of reality as it was dealt, without thinking at all.
The blood test accomplished, we left the brightly painted, plant infested waiting room and retraced our steps to the Mayo building, at which point we milled about the elevators until finding one which was not already protesting its capacity. It was a busy place.
When we reached our floor, excusing ourselves around those who had packed themselves tightly in the elevator rather than opting for another "flight," we found an excess of space in the form of an immense waiting room. It had the snob appeal of a library; no one spoke, and few looked up from their magazines except when the nurse would stand by the front desk to read her list of names, after which, a slight transformation of the waiting room would take place as the selected patients strode up to her. Within seconds, the room again reflected studious tranquility and heads sank below the horizon of newspapers or books. In certain situations humans were so predictable. Here they were so reserved, so introverted, so unapproachable that smiles were left untaken simply because they were not seen; if one existed in such a location, he would believe that cordiality was dead, severed from the world. I looked around and wondered whether anyone would change his disinterested stare if a loud sneeze issued forth. I doubted it. And with that, my name was called.
Forming a troupe of several people the nurse escorted us to individual dressing compartments and we were issued hospital gowns. I had been instructed to undress to the waist only, since my test was a chest X-ray, and then wait in the claustrophobic booth until further notice. I finally unlatched the door and sat in the corner seat of the booth with the door agape, however, disliking my inability to see the nurse should she have happened by my door; I did not wish to be forgotten in the maze of hallways and felt more secure with a view. I had to know "what was going on"; blindness would be paranoia in its highest form for me.
Finally my name was called and I popped my head inquiringly out of the door, hoping that I could attach a face to the voice I'd heard. A technician in a blue jumpsuit was waiting in the intersecting hallway, and I followed him to a bench where I sat until they were ready to take my X-ray. It seemed such a dismal place; there were so many doors, and so few lights.
A door whipped open. "Lauren Isaacson?" I stood up and filed after the woman who led me into a dreary room that somehow reminded me of a bomb shelter. "Put your chin against the bar, here, shoulders forward, and take a deep breath." at which point she ran behind a heavy wall and peered out at me, continuing, "hold it now… hold it" Click! Rumble! "Keep holding…" The machine silenced, rendering its five photographs of my lung onto the X-ray plate. "Breathe…." The woman was so businesslike; I wondered how often she repeated those words… I wondered if she said them in her sleep.
"You can go get dressed, but don't leave the dressing room." "Okay," I answered. I stepped reluctantly from the armored room, unsure which direction the room was, and throwing caution to the wind ambled to the left, and then to the right, and amazingly, I found my room. What if the door won't unlock? I thought, appraising the space beneath the door and floor; I did not have the best luck with locks, and remembered many a time when, on a vacation, I could not succeed in entering the motel room after scouting for a can of pop. Mom or Dad would always let me in from their side of the door, while I was still fumbling with the key. The door opened easily and I signed with relief; from the inside I latched the door, still wary of the lock and key, and proceeded to dress. Several minutes passed, then a click from the loud speaker broke the silence. "Lauren Isaacson… you are free to go." In other words, it was breakfast time and I galloped from my booth like a horse from the starting gate of a race.
Hungry though I was, when I seriously began to attack my plate, nervousness uttered a complaint which I was eventually obliged to acknowledge; it was just as well; my stomach was not adjusting to the idea that it had to get back to work, and strongly repulsed a large meal. Even my small breakfast conjured rebellion and I sat on the edge of my chair, sweating and quite nauseated, while Mom finished her plate of food. I tried not to watch her eat; the sight of food, the smell of food… it was everywhere when I felt sick. Leaving the restaurant I found the fresh air to be a measurable improvement; at last, when my nausea subsided, the visions of food danced from my mind and haunted me no more.
It was beautiful outside; autumn was reaching its peak of glory in Rochester and Mom and I poked about the streets, waiting for our early afternoon appointment at the Curie Pavilion. There was a slight chill in the air, despite the ample sunshine and our light coats provided the warmth we needed as we kicked through the leaves. It was always cooler than in Moline, it seemed; fall had not quite arrived at home. I was glad; I didn't want to miss the color of the oaks, the acorns and the busy squirrels around our woods either; I wanted to take it in, to wrap its vision in my memory so that it could never be erased… autumn at home… would have to wait another five days.
Mom watched me with feigned happiness; she looked at my hair, a flowing, healthy mass of gold which cascaded about my shoulders, and felt sickened that it would soon be replaced by a wig. She knew that my hair was my foremost joy in the spectrum of physical traits and would be a difficult loss. Hair is vanity, to be sure, yet that observation counts little to the individual who must bear his bald reality with courage. Appearance does not make the person, but to say that it does not matter is a falsity.
I had remembered to take my camera, a small instamatic, which was an early summer purchase and my latest, greatest hobby. At various intervals Mom would snatch it from my hand and position me in front of a glorious tree or upon a rock, capturing the moment with a click and a smile. Later we would look at the photos and the smiles, yet remember the trauma of our thoughts; the deceptive faces in the photos did not fool our eyes, though they painted appeal in the visual world. The hair, the glow, the newly gained energy… all would be changed by the time the pictures were developed; we would be seeing the past and, I felt, by that time, the past would prove a better reality than the present.
It was time to go back to the clinic. Curie Pavilion, a cylindrical building from the perspective of an outsider, was located near the Damon parking ramp, and across the street from the Mayo building. Actually, from the street view, Curie was only a glassed in elevator. We entered the curious building and pushed the elevator button; we had no choice of destinations; the only way to go was "down." Once below ground, we emerged from the elevator and plunged through a set of heavy glass doors into a waiting room. A bust of Madame Curie was observing her flock of patients from one side of the room. We strode up to the desk, relinquished our appointment card and took a seat. The people were quiet and grim; it was sometimes difficult to discern the patient from the relative in the unhappy place; worry pervaded the atmosphere. I wondered what sort of fate I had accepted for myself; I wondered what joy could possibly exist for these people, what hardships they had endured, what expectations they possessed.
"Lauren Isaacson?…" We approached the desk; I smiled to break the tension, to soften the blow. We followed the nurse into a room and were told that the doctor would be around shortly. Everything was white or polished chrome. Sterile. Antiseptic. Professional.
I was seated on the examining table, swinging my legs, when Dr. E. strolled in the room. "Hello, Lorn" he drawled, "Mrs. Isaacson…" nodding to my mom. He spoke with us for a brief period, asking about my health and referring to his clipboard of papers to tell of my "good" blood test results. Everything seemed to be in order. "Well… we'll get a nurse in here to get your IV started, and then I'll see you again tomorrow morning." "All right," I said.
As he had promised, a nurse came in, shutting the door behind her, and produced a syringe. "This is a shot to help keep your nausea down a bit," she said, motioning for me to unclasp my pants and bend over. What a mosquito bite, I thought, pulling up my pants.
Shortly afterward another nurse appeared bearing IV solution, tubes, syringes, needles… the works. I laid down as she strapped a tourniquet around my arm and began her search for a vein. It was a slow, meticulous search, which necessitated a smaller needle; she knew she would never probe the large one into any of my poor, tiny veins. The nurse opened a drawer, producing a needle which had plastic tabs on either side of it; "This is called a butterfly needle," she told me. "Butterfly…" I echoed, peering gratefully at the tiny needle with plastic wings. She drew the tourniquet tightly about my arm once again, this time hastily securing a usable vein and taping the needle in place; wasting no time, the IV bag of solution was hung from a pole above my head, into which a syringe was emptied and consequently diluted. Immediately I began to taste the liquid running through my vein, but I subdued my discontent, hoping that the sensation would disappear; it did not, however, until the drug had filtered into my system completely. As the bag of solution gradually coursed through my veins, slowly, due to the small size of the needle, the nurse re-entered the room to watch its progress. When it had emptied, she raised the bag from its pole, removed the tube connected to the needle in my arm and opened two syringes; hooking them, one at a time, into the butterfly unit, she squeezed the drugs from their containers. My vein which accepted the drugs felt icy, as if a frigid breeze had been directed on my hand from an internal source; an involuntary shudder passed through my body.
"Okay… you're all finished," the nurse said, smiling widely. She pulled the needle swiftly from my hand, pressing a square of alcohol saturated gauze to the arm, then wrapping more gauze tightly around the needle "wound" to prevent further bleeding. I found that pressure applied to the area helped immeasurably to ward off bruises and I would therefore often hold my hand or arm in a vice-like grip for several minutes after a needle had been removed, thereby lessening the chances of a gruesome bruise and its accompanying discomfort. Thus, I held my hand tightly with the other and slid off the table as my Mom stood to leave. "What are those?" I asked the nurse, pointing to two white canisters made of cardboard. "Those are in case you get sick… do you want to take one with you?" "No… I feel okay so far. I'll see you tomorrow," I replied, happy that one injection was over, yet realizing the fight had just begun for me.
Cancer invited numerous battlegrounds and INCALCULABLE wars. Researchers were plagued by their hope to unmask the potion which would be the cure, the precious liquid or pill which would purge cancer from our bodies and crush its memory forever. Doctors invested time and energy to diagnose the most beneficial methods of treatment, prescribing the horrifying potent drugs to their patients while promising better days to come. And the nurses were great. Many of them were quite young, beautiful girls. They didn't seem to mind their daily business of poking and jabbing, despite the occasional "wailers" which could be heard, protesting the needle prick or the mere thought of it, from somewhere down the hall. They walked about, wearing pleasant, genuine smiles, as if their appointment in life was a joyful one; dealing out poison with a steady hand, trusting unquestionably its supposed ulterior motive of killing cancer cells and saving lives.
And yet, battered lives were everywhere, scaling all age groups, races and religions, for cancer knew no barrier and bore no prejudice; cancer took the weak the strong, the indifferent, the proud, the cheerful, the embittered… it took all, greedily, in an unquenchable hunger. Some it took slowly, savoring each minute, while others it consumed rapidly, stealing life with a voracious appetite; still others, a paltry few, were ignored and allowed to linger awhile on earth, facing the question of death while embracing the essence of life, until another hand embalmed their existence.
Cancer searched for one's true friends; it could bolster some relationships and destroy or alienate others, for the word was as malignant as the disease and struck fear in the stoutest minds and the truest hearts. Its scars were inflicted on the patient, his relatives, his friends… and its wounds were deep, blackened by the apprehension of death; a will to survive could challenge the meek while the ultimate humility scoffed at another's pride until it bent into humble disquietude. Inner wars evoked change; in this area cancer posed great opportunities, for it was the pirate of both time and the quality of life, and if one neglected to acknowledge these as life's greatest assets, he was living valueless and blind; money, power, prestige… vanity… were rendered obsolete worries or gained a new perspective for those who saw the need to change and courageously sought that end, whether through insight or the forced enlightenment of unavoidable death.
Secure in my values, cancer itself could not crush or debilitate my inner self; it clarified myself, bringing forth both fortitude and frailty, defining my character; I was who I always had been, emotionally enlarged and with a keener sense of awareness. The physical battle with cancer is enough without also having to struggle to regain or develop one's values and relationships; I was fortunate, indeed, to be packing the right ammunition to the front line of battle.
We dismissed Curie and the subway, ascending to our car's level in the parking ramp. The sun shone brightly through the ramp's open construction of cement and steel. I squinted instinctively and turned my head away.
Once in our kitchenette, I turned on the T.V. and stretched out on the couch. The drapes were drawn shut and I preferred them to remain so; natural light never seemed to enhance the appearance of a motel room and lent the furniture and other appointments a rather brash, gaudy flavor. Light brought forth defects with indisputable accuracy; as the drugs flowed through my body, I knew that the awaited irregularities of treatment would soon parade victorious and unabashed about the domicile, and out of sheer discord, I too, would shun the sun's scathing glance. My only wish was to blend into the shadows and lie completely unobserved.
The TV was, at once, a blaring disturbance and a welcome distraction. It helped pass the time, but also reminded me of the slow rate at which time was drifting away. Between soap operas and game shows, advertisements about detergent that actually conditioned one's hands, and gasoline; "Ping, ping, ping, Leonard…" filled the afternoon. Suddenly I realized that my first post-treatment symptom was beginning its onslaught. Nausea woke my deadened senses and I sat up, nervously alert, trying to decide whether I should make my painful exodus to the bathroom or stay seated on the sofa a brief while longer; sometimes the mere sight of a gaping toilet bowl was enough to prompt my nausea to overflow, and picturing the sight in my mind, I decided to put off the inevitable until I was certain I could wait no more.
As it happened, within minutes I could wait no more and ran headlong for the bathroom, emptying what little remained in my stomach from breakfast into the toilet's wide jowls; it was a small offering, yet peering at it wrenched my stomach's deepest confines and I vomited again and again, flushing the awful stuff from view.
Relaxing as best I could, I exhaled and sunk back on my haunches, then slowly shifted until my legs were crossed. Resting one elbow on my knee, I cupped my hand under my chin and listed to the right. Mom stood outside the bathroom door, worried and helpless. "Can I help you?" she asked cautiously. "No" I said into the palm of my hand, not wanting to move, knowing the surges within had just begun. She brought me a glass half-filled with 7-Up, which I accepted gratefully. The putrid taste in my mouth was masked after bathing it in soda, yet my stomach did not allow it to be digested, and I quickly relinquished my meager sampling to the stool. Water affected my stomach in the same way; nothing was accepted.
Soon I was retching violently and my stomach, long since devoid of all possible contents, began hurling its digestive acids up my throat, followed by bile, bitter and green, which burned like fire. It seemed to me that I would turn my stomach inside-out or vomit my intestines if the battle did not end. I felt poisoned, as if every living cell was fighting to live and dispose of the vicious drugs which were entrapped in my veins.
Until 9:00 p.m. my stomach raged, while I bleated and hacked loudly, uncontrollably, wracked by the seething nausea of my body's turbid rebellion. Then as if the effects of the drugs had ceased warring against me, I was able to safely withdraw from the bathroom and fall into the enveloping softness of the couch. I felt exhausted, and extremely wretched and demeaned; such futility, such utter vulnerability, I had never before experienced. To think that this abuse was welcomed seemed an incredible madness, especially with the voice echoing, "It's for your own good!" in the back of my mind.
I was able to eat a hard-boiled egg before going to bed, which Mom gladly prepared. Her face was drawn into symmetrical lines of pure sympathy which she could not conceal, and was distraught because of her inability to alleviate my misery; although she could not share the physical burden with me, I felt that she bore emotional pain beyond that which I took upon my brow. She wanted always to do "more," yet her presence alone was, for me, more than enough.
The following morning I ate no breakfast, considering it would be an imminent folly so soon before my treatment was administered. Instead I got dressed and flipped on the set to stare at it blankly while Mom crunched delicately through her bowl of corn flakes. The toaster coughed up a piece of toast. She rose to fetch it from the machine, buttering it as the scent assailed my nostrils. "I wish you could eat something, honey," Mom said, reluctantly biting into the buttered slice. "Yeh…" I dreamed idly for a second, then replied, "I better not though." I didn't want to make a public spectacle of myself should the anti-nausea shot not take effect.
Our motel had a courtesy car service which we decided to use; by notifying the main desk in advance, the service was almost always available when we needed it, free of charge. The motel had both a car and a van, although generally the van toted us to the clinic and back again; thus, hastening to the lobby, we caught the van as other passengers hoisted themselves into their seats. The van droned into motion, taking us past residential streets and avenues until the clinic buildings grew above the trees with an air of infinite superiority. Pulling in front of the Mayo building, the driver coasted slowly forward, awaiting the closest parking place, and finally plunged toward the curb as a taxi drove away; then, braking quickly, he opened his door the moment the van stopped and dashed to unclasp the sliding door. We stood, each clumsily jumping to the curb as the driver supportingly grasped our arm. The door rolled shut with a bang. "See you later," the driver remarked as he swung himself into his seat. We entered the gray marble building and wove our way through the mass of people to the elevators. After watching and waiting several minutes, we finally found an elevator which could be persuaded to take us down to the subway level; in a building with nearly 20 floors, most people, it seemed, desired to travel up from the main lobby.
The traffic dwindled as we approached Curie. A long subway tunnel connected it to the mainstream of clinic activity, yet Curie itself was singularly remote from all else, as if, being the nucleus of cancer treatment and related disorders, it was purposely kept at a safe distance. Following the dim corridor to its end we met with a set of glass doors and admitted ourselves into the waiting room. I sat down, drained of energy; the room had not changed, yet I had. I no longer wore the smile of agitated insecurity and ignorance of the previous day. My smiles were only for people whose eyes met my own in a chance union. While Madame Curie looked over her patients, the receiving body of radiation or chemotherapy, she seemed to me a menace of happiness though carved of stone, for upon her death, she bequeathed no true wealth… her offering bore a great price for its recipients. Indeed, some "beneficiaries" paid with their lives upon receipt of Curie's great gift. "But it's for your own good," the voice echoed, pushing madness aside. If I did not believe the voice, I heeded it; perhaps it formed my sole resolve to continue, and to endure.
Once inside a private room, my anti-nausea shot was administered, followed by the injection of therapeutic drugs. Dr. E. appeared only momentarily, yet Mom followed him out of the room to question him beyond earshot. I later learned that, tormented of heart, Mom had asked the oncologist if he thought she should quit her job to stay home and care for me. "By no means!" he answered directly. "Quitting your job of teaching might make Lauren think that you have given up hope. You must continue your lives as normally as possible." She nodded with renewed understanding and re-entered my room. The IV had nearly run its course, and the nurse stood by, ready to remove the needle as soon as the solution had emptied into my veins.
"Is it okay if I take one of those?" I asked, pointing to the white canisters aligned neatly on top of the counter. "Sure," the nurse replied, handing one to my Mom. My stomach was already plotting its rebellion, and I wanted some security should an impulse overthrow my will before we returned to our motel. As long as I did not involve myself in conversation, and inhaled only short breaths of air, perhaps my qualms would subside. "There… all done," the nurse proclaimed, wrapping my hand in gauze. "Bye," I said grabbing the bandaged hand tightly; "See you tomorrow."
Mom and I traced our earlier footsteps back to the Mayo building and there phoned the motel. Several minutes passed, then the courtesy van rolled up to the front doors. A doorman issued us out of the building with a friendly, "Have a nice day, now." That man was the epitome of flamboyance; he struck everyone as a neighbor rather than a stranger. He must have loved people, for people were the essential ingredient in his position at the clinic. A genuine smile, a fresh hello; he too, doled out medicine, and maybe helped to ease a few aching hearts.
I was grateful to be able to collapse upon the couch and watch the T.V. from my prone position; I took no interest in books or crafts, for they seemed too taxing and exhaustive in my condition. Rest was my comfort between nausea and weakness; I welcomed nothing more than I welcomed the thought of quiet repose.
As I laid on the couch, the afternoon peeled away, passing much as Monday had done. It suddenly occurred to me that I felt tense, especially in my jaw, and curious, sat up to work my mouth. I was not nervous, nor had I need to be, yet the jaw clamped tighter still. I placed my hand on either side of my face to gently knead the apparently cramped muscles. "This is crazy," I thought. "A Charlie horse in my face!" I rose from the sofa, searching my mind for a reasonable solution to this dilemma. "I'll brush my teeth…" I flew into the bathroom, squeezing paste on my brush, and began to scrub viciously. Nothing improved. I looked at myself in the mirror just as a transformation took place. Having no control over my jaw, the bottom row of teeth pulled to the left, straining against its natural alignment and audibly cracking as it contorted my entire face. "Mom… I think I've got a problem." She came and looked at me, her eyes widening at the spectacle before her. "I can't control my jaw"; the obvious statement I blurted out of the side of my mouth made us envision the only possible cause we could ascertain; LOCKJAW.
Mom dialed the motel's front desk, stating firmly that her little girl had to be driven to Emergency right away, then grabbing her purse, her only essential, pushed me out of the door. We ran to the lobby where a driver was ready and waiting. "How embarrassing," I thought, looking down to shield my face from view. "A pimple on your face is nothing!"
Scrambling into the car, our transit was soon in progress. Meanwhile, my jaw had taken on a personality of its own. As it had formerly brought my bottom teeth to the left, it now forced its way to the right. Not content, it again pushed to the left. This continued all the way en route to the hospital, while I was wondering if I had come in contact with a contaminated needle and Mom calculated how soon I would die!
Once at the Emergency unit, Mom tried to give the doctors and nurses a coherent explanation of my situation as we saw it happen, as well as to alert them to my enlistment in the chemotherapy program, while they stared at me with disbelief. They nodded in response to the information, then allowed us to sit in a room by ourselves. A nurse came to the door, briefly surveying the scene, and wordlessly departed. I looked questioningly at my mom who shrugged her shoulders; "Maybe she had the wrong room…"
The time crept by while my mouth humored itself with further acrobatics. Bored with the lurch-to-the-right, lurch-to-the-left routine, it opened wide, beyond my greatest expectations, and remained thus for several minutes. I was lucky that there were no flies buzzing about; I could not have impeded their entry except with a rapid flick of the hand. A nurse looked in, then darted away.
I sat beside Mom, my mouth poised in the shape of a horrendous yawn and began to see the humor in my predicament. Open mouthed, it was impossible to smile, but my eyes began to glisten and I let go of a gutteral "haw…haw…haw." I must look like "Surprise," impersonated, I thought, my amusement gaining momentum.
Another nurse stuck her head inside the room. Mom glanced at her and she too, sped away. Mom grew angry; no one helped, they just came to see the spectacle. I was a side-show and could almost hear them talking excitedly among themselves… "Boy, that hit and run was sure gruesome, wasn't it?" "Yeh, but did you get a load of that kid in 2C?" "Ha Ha Ha Ha." So far most of the "peepers" only saw my profile. "Hey, Mom," I said, throwing the words carefully, "The next time someone comes to the door to look, how'bout if I give 'em a full frontal view?" She turned to look at me as my yawn slowly relaxed to facilitate yet another position.
This time my mouth puckered to form a tight "O." I looked at Mom whose worry was finally overruled by humor, and she burst out laughing. "I'm sorry," she said, "but you look so funny…" I didn't mind, for I was laughing heartily now, issuing strange "hoo hoo hoos" into the room through my tunneled lips. "Here we are," I thought, "laughing like lunatics, when I might have Lockjaw!" The doctors, however, didn't appear to be concerned, for there was still no word or antidote, and an hour or more had elapsed. All I desired was an ounce of relief; my jaw was incredibly sore from the forced contractions, and a pain pill would have brought immense satisfaction, yet I could merely wait, and try to relax.
Finally after countless repetitions of rights, lefts, ooohs and ahhhs, a doctor strolled in the room with a red liquid. I had, by then, given up my idea that I had contracted lockjaw and looked hopefully toward the man as he approached. The contractions had slowed in frequency as the hours passed, yet my mind still begged for relief.
"Well, we finally figured out that your muscle spasms were the result of the anti-nausea drug that had been administered to you; drink this and I'm sure you will not have any more problems… just don't let them give you any more of those shots!"
I took the red liquid and drank it down; it burned like fire. I thought of my stomach, hoping that my draught would not infuriate it to the point of plotting a revolt; I had been lucky through the afternoon, having experienced no symptoms of nausea during the facial contortions. Reflecting upon this favorable aspect, I realized the hours could have proven much worse, and was relieved that I had ignored my stomach's plea for breakfast.
The following morning I departed for Curie with an aching jaw; it was minutely reminiscent of the feeling I would acquire after chewing a large wad of bubble gum.
Once at Curie we promptly notified the nurses and Dr. E. of my unusual episode of the previous afternoon. Dr. E. nodded his head slowly, his mouth working nervously. "That drug will sometimes have that effect on patients, but it happens so seldom, I didn't want to mention it to you." "Gee, thanks," I mused, silently. Personally, I would have liked to know all the facts. "Oh, well," I thought, "maybe it was no big deal, but to us it was worth a good scare and a couple of laughs."
A nurse came in and shut the door, instructing me to drop my pants. "But I'm not supposed to have shots any more," I protested. "This isn't a shot," she said. "It's a suppository…for nausea," she added. "Oh!" I swallowed my distaste for the idea, dropped my pants, bent over and took my medicine.
By the end of the week we were fairly used to the routine. We discovered that the driver of the courtesy car would let us out and pick us up in front of Curie, which saved my energy. For security, I learned to carry my white cardboard "barf bucket" to and from Curie. Unless I was lucky, I would throw up all afternoon and into the evening; we therefore devised a way to make the bathroom comfortable by spreading a towel on the floor and placing a pillow nearby on which I could lay between seiges. Near 8:00 p.m. I could usually eat an egg,toast or a potato. Mom helped me clean up and dress for bed, then I would attempt to sleep until I had to wake and repeat the process.
After the fifth treatment, Dr. E. came into the room to set up my next date for receiving chemotherapy. My particular schedule was to appear approximately every six weeks for five days of treatment; each patient had his own ritual in which the drugs and their dosage, as well as the duration they were received, were as uniquely determined as his type of cancer and its extent. Chemotherapy incurred numerous variables, and the reaction depended on the drugs administered and the condition of the patient. I was amazed to discover that some recipients did not lose their hair or become nauseous in the least. Some even gained weight and carried on relatively normal lives, working and attending social functions, and basically thrilled they were alive; they complained only of their excessive rendezvous with needles. Although my effects were far from ideal, I was relieved that I was able to receive my treatments at Curie as an out-patient; free from the hospital. One's morale is better maintained, even if the breeze is felt upon one's face only to and from the clinic.
Dr. E. and my Mom conferred over a calendar, finally agreeing upon a date lying within the six week bounds. We would receive a packet containing specific appointment times in the mail shortly before our next visit. The doctor returned to my room as the nurse was wrapping my hand. After exchanging a few pleasantries of conversation, he sobered and said, "You'll have to buy a wig as soon as you can once you are home…" Hair loss would not be a gradual affair after having such a drug and his warning was not intended to be brushed off; I nodded that I would comply. "I'll see you in six weeks then," he drawled, and allowed us to depart from the room at our leisure. I took another white canister from the counter top and we stepped from the cubicle.
Mom had already stowed our bags in the car for our departure, so upon our return to the motel, we merely inspected the room once more for articles we might have overlooked and then made our way to the car for our homeward journey. I was seated beside Mom, outfitted with two white canisters, while she packed a sack of apples as an energy booster through the seven hour drive. Knowing that we would soon be wrapped in our own blankets improved my spirits to a great degree, despite haphazard retching sprees and pervasive weakness.
Toward evening my nausea subsided. We pulled into a rest stop and Mom stretched her legs. The sun hung low in the sky, undecided as to its course, casting shadows from the nearby benches and trees. I watched my mom as she walked about, surveying the fields under the suspended ball of fire, and then strolled back to the car. She suddenly seized upon an idea and opened the trunk, removing my camera from one of the bags. "I want to take a picture of you… your hair's so shiny." She positioned me on a rock and captured on film a being ready to metamorphacize; the changes had already begun internally, for bereft of energy, no smile escaped my ashen eyes or crossed my weary face. Soon my hair, shining in the sun's slanted rays, would be gone,too. Lives change not only by days, but by minutes as well. I slid off the rock and we climbed into our car once again; by late evening the streets of Moline were beneath us. It was good to be home.
Apart from the presence of drugs, I was able to eat tremendously for the first few days. The grayness in my complexion was fanned into a spark, and the return of my smile (which seemed to parallel my homecoming) added a small glow to my features.
My stomach muscles, which had for five days, been exceedingly over-worked, gave up their tenderness, and the needle marks disappeared. For two and a half days life leaned toward normalcy. It seemed a ridiculous idea to purchase a wig; as yet, my hair appeared fully intact.
The weather had been magnificent upon my return, with autumn's splendor at its peak. The skies were flawlessly blue, the deep sapphire blue of mountain lakes, and the oak trees sent down their wealth of acorns, grown ripe in the heat of long sunny days. The leaves were yellow, golden and red… the harvest was being gathered from the fields, and gourds were pulled from the vines. I rested in a lawn chair on the carpet of grass, while the northern breezes cooled the sun's touch on my face and wafted through my hair. I ran my fingers through its length; feeling the resistance of a snarl, I applied more pressure. It loosened and I glanced at my hand with the dull realization that I was losing my hair. Inter-woven between my fingers were countless strands of golden brown. I opened my palm to the breeze and let the winds scatter them on the ground. I gathered my hair together, draping it over one shoulder, and inadvertently harvested another golden handful. "It's happening," I thought. Rising from my chair I slowly climbed up three cement steps and entered through the front door, then threaded my way to the bathroom. My hair was detaching itself from my scalp as if embarking on a massive exodus to some other destination. I opened the medicine cabinet and extracted a comb, thinking that I would remove the loose shafts of hair to avoid snags and major entanglement.
I combed, peering into the glass before me and looked on helplessly as my scalp began to take shape between the strands of hair, and a circular bald spot formed on my crown. Setting the comb on the sink's porcelain edge, I turned from myself to find my parents, who were busy outside. They felt sickened at the horrifyingly malevolent blow which the drugs had bestowed on me, but there was little to be said, and nothing to be done. It was no surprise, yet the reality shocked the eyes and afflicted the heart with pity.
Feeling emotionally removed from the situation, I decided to save their eyes further anguish and re-entered the house, taking a seat in the kitchen. I was not particularly sad, nor was I angry or embittered; instead I was entranced, and oddly fascinated by the sudden change in my appearance. Reminded of a certain tree which, in autumn, boasts its splendor for many days and then suddenly abandons each of its leaves almost simultaneously, creating a barren mass of timber in one day; I felt certain that all of my hair would fall out by evening; I had never dreamed such a transformation could occur. It was happening so fast.
Mom came into the kitchen and studied me with shadowed eyes. Within two hours, the shine of my hair had been replaced by a deadness, a gray lifelessness, which prevailed over both the detached and sagging strands of hair as well as the healthier group whose roots as yet remained firmly implanted in their polluted ground. The invisible reaper moved stealthily through its crop, mowing random stalks with a keen-edged blade and littering the malignant, gray harvest aimlessly and chaotically above their once-healthy roots.
The sheared strands slid down my head, and converged into a heavily inter-woven mass of hair at the nape of my neck. It was matted and thatched, the dead clogged with the dead and dying. It was impossible to restore order with a comb; the only hope rested in the jaws of a pair of scissors. Mom took the clotted mass in her hands and clipped the length to my shoulders, discarding the ashen-gold into the waste basket. "Hair couldn't be dead," I thought,"but I have just witnessed it die." Why else would hair suddenly lose its shine and lapse into a gray-sheened, death-like shadow? Cut hair reflected life; my hair had been poisoned, robbed of its shine. It was different than the curl pressed between the pages of my childhood memories; no book wanted these lifeless strands, nor would any memory desire to recall them.
After supper Mom and I dashed to the shopping center to look for an appropriate wig. I wore a handkerchief about my head in an attempt to conceal my rapidly balding scalp, for baldness was not as easily accepted in a girl as in a boy; some men shaved their heads at the onslaught of summer heat; while others did likewise for sports.
When we arrived at the wig department, it was obvious that we had waited too long. I selected several styles that appealed to me, and removed my scarf, to sit self-consciously before the mirror as the customers filed past. Some glanced curiously at me, wondering about my noticeable sparsity of hair; I now had sympathetically few hairs left, and my part revealed an inch-wide swath of white skin. Donning a wig, I studied myself with amusement. The wig had so much hair. I never had that much hair. I lifted it off, replacing it quickly with another and adjusting the new one back and forth. I wanted something which was as modest and natural as possible. Why did they all have so much hair? This one stood two inches off my head; it felt like a hat. I tried another. Not bad. How about a blond one? Well, it was worth a chuckle or two.
I finally decided on a shoulder length wig which sported bangs and a slight curl. It was promptly boxed while I replaced my handkerchief around my head. I wasn't bald… yet. I'd have plenty of time to wear the wig. It was a relief to escape the peopled store. The wig would prove to be my ally and my foe in the months ahead, being both a concealment of the truth and an object of mockery and bewilderment.
The next morning I woke to find hair on my pillow, and rising to look at myself in the mirror, saw plainly that I could consider myself bald. No hair remained except for a few stubborn wisps which clung fiercely to my scalp like December leaves that refuse to fall even after winter's icy blasts. My lashes, brows… everything… had been depopulated. The mirror seemed to reflect incredible youth and fragility. Painfully thin and hairless, I resembled the gaunt and disciplined Buddhist student. Withdrawing from the mirror, I went in search of a pair of scissors to bob my wisps to a more reasonable length of one inch, then took my wig from its styrofoam head and placed it on my own. I peered at myself with disgust; "It couldn't be much worse," I thought, and headed toward the kitchen for breakfast.