Through these Eyes Part 17

If it were humanly possible to correct physical shortcomings, everyone would mold his face and body into perfect specimens; disease could no longer wreak havoc upon one's dimensions or features, and amputated limbs would quickly be restored. This is not life, however. No one chooses his personal characteristics or form any more than he chooses to be born or die; over one's features and time-ridden transformations, one exercises no choice.

Although I was a loner at heart, I became accustomed to feeling brief surges of loneliness when I would peer from a window and observe the activity that went on in normal lives. To be able to come and go, unhindered by any physical dysfuntions, must have been pure joy... joy which the vast majority of people took for granted. It was a shame that they did not pause for an instant with their bustle of plans and breathe in the fresh air of their greatest fortune, their health. To think people actually worried about popularity, or buying a certain brand of blue jeans, or getting their hair cut one half inch too short began to seem utterly incredulous. Those who doted on trivials I could seldom abide, but now I had to constrain fury; perhaps instead I should have pitied those individuals who, in their selfishness, dwelled only upon that which they lacked rather than their well-being. Though my life at the time was far from ideal, I still felt myself to be quite lucky; I had witnessed at Mayo Clinic various gruesome and startling examples of disease... one woman's face was riddled with large, fleshy b.u.mps... another woman's unearthly jaundiced eyes clashed with her dark complexion to bespeak trouble within... a pretty young woman with one leg nimbly propelled herself into the elevator, smiling, conspicuously contrasting with the throngs of people who walked about, eyes downcast and dreary, searching for the location of their next test or consultation. I felt a slight pang of embarra.s.sment regarding my appearance yet I was grateful to be spared the more obvious discomfort which would have accompanied drastic, irreversible abnormalities; my pain would end, and my hair would grow back.

For the time I had only to live with and learn from my physical restraints; fostering jealousy or bitterness punishes oneself and further mars one's countenance. When I found myself beneath the gaze of one seeing merely my features, I cringed, but then recalled who I truly was... and who no mask could dominate.

During January of 1976 I also began my first successful attempt at maintaining a diary. I wrote faithfully, daily inscribing the events of my life upon the pages of the small book which, by the years end, was battered and torn with handling, for it went on every clinic excursion or other journey which separated me from my home. In it I described the aspects which flavored my day; what I ate, interesting mail, homework, my crafts, and my general health.

Though I did not meticulously describe my emotions, I can recall the feelings which surrounded various entries, whether they were of selfishness, anger, fear, or otherwise. Perhaps I was initially scared to vent my frustrations lest my book be read by searching eyes; written word is no longer secret, and I trusted my memory far better than my hope of privacy, and therefore rarely indulged in expressing confidences unless they were of the positive sort or so justifiable that their truth, though poignant, could not have been denied even by the subject.

Jan. 4, 1976... I got my make-up on...went to church,then to a restaurant. It's a real pretty day outside and the sun is shining through my windows. I just love my room. Today I'm going to work on my corduroy purse some more. I don't like any boys and I'm glad of that. I'm probably weird not wanting a boy to "go with" but I'm not ready yet. After all, I'm just 14 yrs. old. (2 relatives) came over and had supper. I came into my room because I felt sick. Finished my purse...I feel better now. That's good!

Throughout the diary, it became obvious that an internal struggle was present which haunted me at the time and annoys me at the present; nevertheless, it existed, as perhaps it does within all youth. That to which I allude is the battle between independence and dependence, the conflict waged by one mind against two wills; that of the adult and the child.

One of the most prevalent emotions I fostered throughout 8th grade was insecurity. It was a by-product of sickness and frequent aloneness.

Desiring to live unnoticed, I began to feel guilty about the kindnesses I received. I wondered whether I deserved such special treatment; when I voiced my feelings to my parents, they quickly pointed out that people wanted to do things for me since my life was tainted by an illness. "You don't have your health, and that's the greatest wealth on earth." I nodded at their statement, yet something still seemed amiss; I finally discovered that my guilt was fueled by jealous acquaintances that rather begrudged my attentions.

Jan. 6, 1976... I'm trying to "use up" my cologne and perfume so everybody won't keep saying "how much I have." Another acquaintance would continually quiz me, wondering where I got the money to buy things as she glanced around my bedroom. My allowance was healthy, to be certain, especially if I drank my quota of milk each day; however, the earnings I acquired were determined by my parents, not me, and I was expected to use the money wisely. I often deposited portions in the bank, saving diligently for a nice purchase. Otherwise, my funds were transformed into stamps for letters, gifts, appointments for my room, or movie tickets. I didn't feel frivolous; whereas I was given an allowance, my friends had to twist their parents arms for their desires. It didn't appear to me that they were deprived.

Jan. 30, 1976... Sharon, Brad and I are going to the florists in a bit.

Gosh just 'cause I talk about things that would be neat to have, and I know I would not really want all of it, Sharon says "Boy, you really have a lot more things than I ever had and you know you have to pay me back for these things. You have more than I do considering inflation."

Well, I had known I was 'gonna pay her back even if she wanted to give them to me as gifts. Sometimes I wish I was starving and poor and everything!

Coming from my sister the statement was quite a shock, evoking self-pitying sentiments from me in my last sentences, which now strike me as a literary pout of pure distress. I had always considered Sharon as a statuesque epitome of goodness, incapable of resentment of any kind; after the initial surprise had worn off, I was glad to know she was human, for maintaining such sanct.i.ty 24 hours each day was impossible.

I learned during the year that people felt obligated to be nice to me (and, indeed, they wanted to be nice) because of the trials which I endured. Since they were human, however, their jealousies and stored grievances would sometimes appear in a choice moment wherein their self-control was at a low ebb. I believe that everyone, including those having well-aligned values, possess a foremost problem which, despite even the greatest amenities of good health and even a loving home, can exist within the minds of the most fortunate individuals; indeed, some people are ashamed of their "problems" since they appear so insignificant when compared to those in other lives. Nevertheless, the problem lives within them and causes real emotional duress.

Returning to my observation, I realized that people who, within themselves, felt that my problems were essentially greater than theirs, still needed to air those complaints. Feeling hindered by me, to a certain extent, their frustrations would sometimes be directed at me while their true source of anger remained unspoken. Such was the case with my sister. Following the small episode, I was less enthusiastic about revealing my catalog reveries, yet I recovered fully, losing a goodly spirit and gaining a fine sister.

It seems everyone likes to receive mail, especially when the mail carrier leaves a bundle composed of more interesting things than just bills. My love for mail grew into an obsession while I stayed home, and many days found me impatiently glued to the window, glaring up the avenue when a subst.i.tute carrier delayed the hour of delivery. Worse, however, than waiting for the mail carrier was when the mail arrived having nothing addressed, or of interest, to me; I was not picky... I welcomed even "junk mail"!

Jan. 31, 1976... I woke up again, which is a miracle in itself (followed by a dissertation explaining my plans for the day).

I was aware of the implications behind my sickness, yet I do not recall having believed that I would die; my pain was of the temporary kind, I thought, and having confidence in my elders and those of the medical profession, felt certain that my life was not threatened. Death itself was obscurity, and only took on the characteristics of ultimate slumber and freedom from pain; this image brought no fear and occurred mainly in times of physical discomfort. I wished neither to delude myself about my condition nor dwell upon its negative features; my statement from the diary ill.u.s.trates that att.i.tude quite well, for, although the sentence was written in light-hearted jest, its dry humor depended, as do all jokes, on either an element of truth, an attempt to mask seriousness, or sheer incredibility. As the latter was not a factor, my expression was a truthful and simultaneous outburst, defining my life in a concise and un.o.btrusive manner; I was not depressed that day, but rather, honest in a wry sort of way.

Humor is an a.s.set when one is faced with serious problems, for laughter unleashes tension, like crying, which otherwise can become self-destructive. Laughter and tears are closely related, as is evident in cases of hysteria or other mental disorders wherein the mind no longer effectively controls one's emotions in the manner which society deems proper for a particular occasion. Mom once related an incident concerning Lynn, who from birth, was severely cerebral palsied; strapped in her high chair, she watched Mom cry over distressing news and in response, began to laugh, bespeaking her inability to react by shedding tears, as would a normal child.

Generally, sadness evokes sadness.

There are times, however, when grim situations accompanied by humor should not be looked upon as a "sick" reaction. I truly believe that one can find humor in most occurrences, even some of the brutal realities of life and death. Ideally one should find the utmost humor within his own life... he need not search elsewhere; to laugh at one's own problems divides their weight significantly, so that it is unnecessary to scoff at another's ill fortune and place humorless weight upon his ample burden.

Laughter was not only for myself, however, for I had to maintain a degree of humor regarding both my appearance and my general situation, spanning isolation to body dysfunctions, to retain my normalcy in the eyes of those around me. Laughter makes an unpleasant event more acceptable despite its inherent distastefulness; even my wig afforded certain individuals with unbridled laughter when I would put it on backwards and, playing a mock guitar, pretend to be a member of a rock band. Had my reaction to adversity brought a shadow of gloom over my face and personality the suffering endured by my family and friends would have been greatly multiplied; as a result, my isolation would have grown. Depression is as catching as humor, yet unlike humor, it is not sought and possesses no magnetism of itself.

Feb. 1, 1976... I got sick in the night last night. I was real cold, then really super hot. I started to make little whines, hoping Mom or Dad would hear me. Finally, Mom heard me and Dad came to see what was the matter. He helped me get situated on the sofa. I slept all the rest of the (next) day. I can't remember if I even ate today at all.

All I know is that I'm having super weird dreams all of the day.

When my mom began to teach, I remember my jealousy toward the faceless names which daily she brought home. Conversation I did not mind, yet her employment involved much more than that. She sometimes came home quite late, and even after working over-time at school she managed to tote further work to our house. If she asked for help, I would do so begrudgingly, knowing that the time she saved by my a.s.sistance would only sp.a.w.n other ideas from her conscientiousness. When I no longer wanted a stuffed animal or toy, she quickly rushed it to school; this was a true blow, for the kindergarteners were not only benefiting from her time at school and at home, but were now receiving my old and once-beloved belongings! My displeasure voiced itself in a cantankerous fashion as I stewed my over-all annoyance for small children's propensities (irrationality, brazen and loud mouths, uncouth mannerisms, and their tendency toward the profuse utilization of tears) under her nose.

I finally discovered that, no matter how truthful my statements had been, she found a way to ricochet them back to my behavior as a child.

Dad was sympathetic, for he knew that Mom's attempts to parallel one's behavior to that which one found disfavorable in others was one of her habits. I asked him whether I was like "this" or like "that,"

ill.u.s.trating for him the exact scenario which I had placed before Mom, and often he would say, "No, you didn't do that... or at least not that bad." I only complained about those things which I felt I had not done, for I could not condemn a road that I had once walked as if my feet had never carried its dust. Finally, in exasperation, I decided my war against the kindergarten children should no longer be verbalized.

Feb. 4, 1976... I still have the runs, but the tutor came anyway. I didn't have to go while she was here anyway! I'm glad she came though, because it helps pa.s.s the day a little better. I stopped drinking the lemonade as it seems to "go right through" me. It made my diarrhea all foamy and icky. (Not to mention that the runs aren't icky and gross and all of that anyway!)

Feb. 9, 1976... I'm sure glad I don't have the runs anymore. Tutor came today. After she left I wrote 2 poems, although I still have to do some changing and correcting. One is about food, and the other is about the bed pans.

My idea of comic appeal found its way into the creative outlet of poetry. I figured that everyone could relate to the nastiness of having to use a bed pan even if they never had the misfortune to encounter one; after all, going to the bathroom was funny, if for no other reason than the fact that it brought humanity down to the elemental functions of the smallest insect. No one was above it.

"Diarrhea keeps the world running," and as long as I was able to keep laughing it didn't seem so bad. I showed two nonsense poems I had written to my tutor; she rewarded me with a smile. Neither of us mentioned submitting them for the yearly Junior High poetry collection, however. After she departed, I turned toward my lessons.

Homework. I held the word in my mind and reflected on my life. The word was befitting of my study habits; all my work was homework this year.

When You're In The Hospital

I say this from experience For I know it's not much fun, When you just gotta use the facilities...

But you can't get up to run!

There's a b.u.t.ton that you push for a nurse, Located somewhere near your bed, Just hope she gets there in a hurry, Or you've really something to dread.

She'll pull out something resembling A well bent silver can...

Now you're the center of attention Seated on that cold bed-pan!