Through these Eyes Part 12

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 l.u.s.ted 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 a.s.sortment 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sistance, 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 gla.s.ses. "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 n.o.ble 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 antic.i.p.ate 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 pa.s.sed, 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 tw.a.n.g 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 m.u.f.fled 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 sc.r.a.ping 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, I decided to count the pinp.r.i.c.k 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-rehea.r.s.ed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sage 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 eggsh.e.l.l.

The remainder of the day would pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sages 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 b.u.t.tercups, 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 pa.s.s 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 m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sistance. 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 pa.s.sage of minutes, and without having pa.s.sed a gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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.