Through these Eyes Part 20

May 6, 1976... I wish the magazine would come soon! I hope to get tons of pen pals.

By the middle of June letters began to arrive from all parts of the country. I was ecstatic, and diligently wrote correspondence in return. After a pa.s.sage of a month or more, the letters from new pen pals dwindled in number, and I was able to establish firm postal relationships with many individuals. In all, I had received over 50 letters; and to my agitation, one phone call from a nitwit who claimed that he wanted to be a "phone pal." (NO thanks). Although I responded to all letters except one, which was from a guy desiring a full-length photo of me in a bathing suit or shorts, some never wrote again or so infrequently that I was uncertain who actually lost interest first.

However, these partings did not bother me since I still wrote regularly to over 20 people and that number alone kept me running to the post office for stamps and buying paper on a grand scale.

The business of writing letters became an outlet for creativity and self-expression which, at that point in my life, I needed very much.

While one's circle of friends changed with one's interests and values, pen pals were sufficiently detached from the prejudices of the immediate atmosphere and therefore became friends at a safe distance to whom feelings could be written without the usual fear of confidentiality. Actually there were only two or three pen pals with whom I shared any depth, for many desired only to speak about their boyfriends and favorite things to eat, and refused to rise above the superficial acquaintance afforded by one page letters and a 15 cent stamp. Expectations and needs varied with these individuals, just as they did within local relationships. Some needed only a correspondent and others, a confidant; the duration of mutual interaction via post depended on the compatibility of these aspects.

I wrote "Definitions" on May 10, 1976; it captured a bit more introspection than some of my writing.

Definitions

Dreams are like the eagle When it is in flight, Plummeting down a mountainside Or soaring out of sight.

Success is like the sky When clouds roll away And beckon to the sun To brighten up your day.

Failure is a shooting star Which hurls itself around And makes a crater in your heart, Crushing spirits to the ground.

Birth is like a flower As its' leaves unfurl, Rendering its' love for G.o.d To city, country, world.

Death is like an endless night To those who don't believe, Cloaking them in darkness, The old to the naive.

Lauren Isaacson 9th Grade 1976

May 16, 1976... I went to church with K... just Sunday School, tho'...

Man, I thought our cla.s.s didn't pay to much attention and those guys threw stuff, wrecked Bibles and everything. K. dropped me home around noon. I was real depressed for some unknown reason.

Thus, Sunday School was a scene I loved to avoid, even in other churches. I felt incredibly guilty that I did not have the fort.i.tude or spirit to deride the callousness enacted by some of the kids; since I was already miles from their friendship, I should not have worried, yet I wished to draw no attention to myself, especially that of the negative sort in their eyes. My internal suffering would then have been much worse; I opted for alienation over derision. My idea of a "religious lift" was a sojourn of solitude among the woodlands.

For my mom and dad, though, my sickness created tension in itself. Its presence, and the nausea, hairlessness, and so forth that reminded them of its presence dined voraciously on their happiness. During the day they both immersed their energies into their jobs; exertion was only a temporary relief, however, and years later I learned that my mom had sometimes let out an involuntary sob after the dismissal of the kindergarteners when her thoughts encompa.s.sed my loss of hair. I rarely saw their anguish, for it seemed that they concealed it very well. Occasionally, when it ran over, I did not know how to react; their pain caused pain for me.

May 22, 1976... Didn't do much today. I dusted and then cleaned my room (and) listened to records. (I was sorta depressed and I guess I made Mom depressed too, because I asked if it was OK to use the record player and she said "sure, that's what it's for. I always told Norm that but he'd never use it. I guess I just raised the whole bunch of you kids wrong." And then she started to cry).

"No, Mom," I thought, standing silently in the doorway. Depression weighed heavily on one's self-confidence. Luckily such feelings within Mom were transitory and soon replaced by her characteristically positive att.i.tude; aside from her good nature she did not have time to be depressed, for she rarely had time to sit. Maybe it was just as well, since there was hardly a shortage of worries. The time and energy she could expend in worry was more productively spent mixing and baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies (and it certainly left a better taste in one's mouth).

Generally my visits to the clinic were clearly punctuated within my diary; in effect, five pages were barren of script except for a quickly scribbled sad face, each accompanied by a concise four letter word, "BLAH." The text would resume on the day following my last treatment.

Toward the end of May we drove up to Mayo Clinic for my third to last series of treatments.

May 26,1976... Woke up (DAAAA!) had X-ray and blood test. They took so much blood that I got sick to my stomach and dizzy. When I got to the "finger p.r.i.c.k place," I was sobbing and crouching over, so they took me in a room to lay down. I cried in my little room they put me in for awhile. Then I was all right... They p.r.i.c.ked me in that same room!

Service!

I remember that day very well. It seemed that I did not feel quite right as I walked toward the waiting room for the blood test that morning, and once I was forced to talk, I realized how displaced my senses were, for I could not even answer their routine inquiries of cordiality.

"Take a seat, please; make a fist." The nurse tied a rubber strap tightly about my arm and began to search for a vein.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"Lauren Isaac..." I stopped abruptly, looking up at her as embarra.s.sment painted my face a brilliant hue of red.

Thinking she'll try another question, perhaps an easier one, she asked, "What's your name, huh?" To which I replied, "Moline, Illinois." My head began to spin in confusion and I wondered if I was going mad.

"I'm sorry... I don't know what's wrong with me today..." I said, my voice trailing off as the dizziness intensified. Nothing of this sort had ever happened to me. I was extremely relieved to exit the vicinity of the blood test, for I despised losing control of myself in front of others. Feeling like an idiotic fool, I wondered if the nurses thought I was new to the procedure, or scared, or squeamish...

The remaining portion of the day went smoothly after eating breakfast.

Mom and I went shopping after taking Dad to the airport. I got a new wig, a brush, and wig shampoo.

A new wig. It took some persuading on the part of my mom, but I finally agreed to try on some new hairpieces. My wig was beginning to show signs of wear after constant daily use and, admittedly, it was looking rather tacky. Despite these facts I was reluctant to go through the nerve-wracking process again, especially since I was now completely hairless and found the idea of publicly displaying that trait in a department store utterly repulsive. We browsed through the maze of styrofoam heads and many-hued tresses until a sales lady approached us. I studied the floor intently while my mom explained the color and styles I wished to try. Immediately the lady produced several boxes housing clumps of curled hair which resembled dead animals, and motioned to the mirror. "Uh..." I stammered, trying to muster up my courage. "Could...I...try them on in a dressing room or... something? I take chemotherapy and I... don't have any hair..."

The woman hardly flinched. "Sure, go right over to woman's apparel..."

What a relief! Behind the curtained part.i.tion I shed my relic and, standing before the mirror, tried one wig after the other. "I swear, n.o.body has this much hair!" I exclaimed, frustrated. "Think of the milk you'd have to drink to grow hair like this!"

I selected a wig which closely matched my old one in its younger days and vowed I would somehow smash it down to the proportion of real hair.

Would you like to wear it?" Mom asked, referring to the new clump of hair slumped inanimately over the edge of the box. "No way," I plastered my tried and true wig on my head and it unhesitatingly fell into place, conforming to my head like an old felt hat.

The following afternoon my treatments began. However, we received a pleasant surprise by learning that we could transport the last two days worth of drugs home with us and allow the hospital to administer them to me. Thus, after the third treatment, we were given the expensive vials of yellow, clear and ruby red liquid, along with instructions for the doctor, and placed the potent ammunition in a cooler.

May 29, 1976... Took Chemotherapy and headed for home. Got home around 3:00 or 4:00 p.m. (TWO relatives) were already here. (one) gave me a book on beauty... maybe she's trying to tell me something! HA! HA!

May 30, 1976... Had chemotherapy at home. It took a long time to get all of the things situated. It was injected, I threw up, etc., and then we went home.

May 31, 1976... Had Chemo. It took an awful long time today. Home.

Watched T.V.

Chemotherapy, administered at home in Moline was an improvement which boosted my morale. For the first time my diary entries did not consist merely of sad faces and hurriedly scrawled "BLAH'S." I didn't feel "good," but I seemed to feel "better." I could breathe fresh air instead of the motel's stale stagnancy of bygone cigarette ashes. I could even throw up in my own toilet. Home treatment was indeed a delight.

June 2, 1976... I got sick tonite. I guess it's just the chemotherapy doing its duty! I made myself barf at 10:00 p.m. I should have barfed sooner.