Through these Eyes Part 13

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 appet.i.te 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 repet.i.tion before the doctors were a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.n.a.lyzed for bacteria in the laboratory and, at the sight of the grisly thing, I immediately pitied the individual who would be a.s.signed 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-rehea.r.s.ed 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 una.s.suming, 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 a.s.signed 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 embarra.s.sment 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 a.s.sertion 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 ch.o.r.e 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, pa.s.s 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 c.u.mbersome 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 st.i.tches.

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, pinp.r.i.c.k 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 st.i.tch 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 inst.i.tution 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 gra.s.s, 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 pa.s.sersby.

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 cla.s.sroom 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 ma.s.sage 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.

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.

PAGE 70

Chapter 12 Chemotherapy

"Uncertainty wielded mighty weapons and sharp words. What IF. . .was too persuasive to warrant refusal."

CHAPTER TWELVE

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.