Through these Eyes Part 21

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Chapter 14 Summer 1976

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Summer 1976

Summer was always a time of change, and many transformations touched my life with the coming of the month of June. School was out of session, and consequently, my tutor's last day was the 3rd; I now shared more in common with the other students in that a three month recess from education had just begun, and the fall semester would find me, like them, returning to junior high.

Mom, too, closed the door of her Kindergarten cla.s.sroom for the summer, although she still persisted in pursuing various projects which related to her employment during her free time. She was home, however, and that was the most important thing. It seemed to me that life was returning to normal and I felt less alienated from society since there was more activity surrounding my home. Despite other changes I still looked forward to mail, especially with the advent of my subscription for pen pals; however, I also found my other mailings to be of great interest, and appreciated each envelope with my name on it. An advertis.e.m.e.nt for the sale of Christmas cards found its way into my hands one morning, and after reading all of the information, I wondered if I should try to sell the cards door to door for added Christmas income. As I mulled over the idea, Mom noticed the pile of literature scattered upon the kitchen table, and briefing herself slightly, proclaimed that it would be a wonderful way to "present myself to people" through my own initiative and heartily applauded the idea.

Several days of thought ensued before I decided to sell the cards; the profit eventually cinched the matter, overshadowing my fear of knocking on doors and being rejected by potential customers. It was fun to see my neighbors, and I felt comfortable standing outside their doors even if my visit was basically business related. I walked up and down my block, collecting orders and trying to gain courage through the sales which I had already enlisted, for I would soon scout further territory wherein I knew few names and equally few faces.

As I had suspected, my sales declined rapidly once I ventured outside of the neighborhood, and my bravery and spirit departed "en ma.s.se." I had detested trying to sell Girl Scout cookies, and I strained to find a reason why I felt that selling cards would prove to be any different.

It was different, however, because it was worse; no one recognized the company whose cards I was attempting to sell, and furthermore, I had to collect the money and make the necessary change (which horrified me) at the time of the order, rather than the delivery of the cards. I soon had more than enough refusals to warrant my dismissal of any idea of making further sales.

June 25, 1976... Got dressed and went out on 53rd St. selling (or trying to sell) my cards. No one bought a thing. A lot of 'em gave excuses like, "I just got home from the hospital" and "I buy from a girl down the block and don't want to hurt her feelings" ETC. !!

What do they think they're doing to me?

July 1, 1976... This week has seemed endless. I wake up and Mom says, "You'd better start selling your cards, hadn't you?" and so I do and I come back half zonked and then I do some ch.o.r.es around the house and then write letters. I feel real depressed... I didn't sell any cards today. . . didn't feel like it. After some persuading I went to (the mall ) with Mom. Ate supper. Did dishes, piano, wrote letters... the same old grind! I'm taking a bath and I wish someone would buy me some bath oil... I think I deserve it after this week!

July 3, 1976... Counted my money for Xmas cards and I came out $17.00 short. After all that work! I cried for at least a half hour. I was really broke up. I did a lot of change making wrong.

Salesmanship was definitely not my station in life, and not understanding how to make change supported that belief. If, for each sale of a $4.95 box of cards, I was given a five dollar bill, my notion of making change concluded that, since it was under five dollars, the person should receive one dollar, plus five cents to bring the 95 cents to a dollar. My only salvation came by way of checks or a patron telling me the amount of change he was due; otherwise, my blunders rampaged unnoticed, or at least, unrevealed.

Had I been of stout health, my disappointment would not have settled so deeply on my heart, but the embarra.s.sment and mental fatigue doubled with the recollection of the energy I had expended... I felt used and humiliated "after all that work!..." and the tears flowed unrestrained.

Unasked, Mom and Dad made up the difference in the end, thus rescuing me from the depths of self-wrought despair. My work had not been in vain after all.

July 29th was my dad's last day of work as a tool and die maker at John Deere Industrial Equipment after 17 years of service. The following day, a Friday, he appeared at the shop for a final farewell.

Retirement for my dad was a rather melancholy affair; it was the end to an age, and the commencement of a new and different lifestyle. He had worked since he was 18 years old with the idea that work...

productiveness... paralleled one's self-worth, which, in a society that is inter-dependent upon each other's conscientiousness, is quite useful... until a good worker retires and considers himself to be of no more importance than a bald tire. A full life of integrity on the job is all that society requires of anyone; retirement viewed in this scope is justly earned.

Dad's party was an acknowledgement of his worth to us, which grew only greater with the pa.s.sing of one year to the next. His labors around the house amplified his presence, and it seemed that all he did for us were reflections of his love. Dad most certainly did not waste away in front of the television or newspaper in his retirement; work was more than ethical... it was a welcomed pastime.

We departed for Colorado the day following Dad's retirement celebration, and for awhile, it seemed as if nothing of such consequence had occurred in the family. Vacations were a summer-time tradition which, that year, meant a ten day absence from home while we skirted the southern Rocky Mountains and climbed about ancient Indian villages, nestled under precipitous overhangs in cliffs. I eagerly tested my new camera, a purchase of several weeks earlier and harvest of many months of saving, as each new scene presented itself.

Initially battling with the aperture and speed controls amid haphazard focusing, I eventually began to understand the mechanics of my machine and concentrated on the actual making of photographs. Scenic vistas and close-ups became my favorite subjects, since people often cringed at the sight of a camera and I did not desire to fight derision with obstinance; flowers were far more cooperative, especially on a calm day.

A trip from home always made me appreciate the routine which was temporarily discarded. As we began to find eastbound routes, my excitement rose almost to the point it had reached upon our departure; and while I was happy that we had gone west, I delighted in the knowledge that my own bed was hours away.

Shortly after we arrived home, Mom and I had to leave for Mayo Clinic.

We had planned our vacation according to Dad's retirement date and the latter portion of time between my treatments; the close proximity of the dates made our adrenalin race, yet all appointments were easily kept.

We had reached a turning point, for the series was to be my last set of injections and miraculously, I did not feel as nauseous as in the past.

After the second day of treatment, we headed home with the costly drugs. With the final three days of chemotherapy administered at home, I had a better selection of appealing foods from which to choose my infrequent snacks, and found popsicles to be a boon to my situation; each afternoon I returned from the doctor's office and raided the refrigerator.

My final treatment was administered on the 20th of August, and happened to be a memorable affair. The drug infiltrated into my arm. It hurt like crazy. The scarlet-hued drug seeped onto the flesh of my hand as well. Once the feat had been accomplished and the needle withdrawn, I did not stop to wash the red drug from my hand, but exited gratefully from the doctor's office to the summer day outside. The treatments were over! It was hard to believe! Now "the end" was reality rather than a fantastic dream beyond my ability to reach! Once home, I tried to wash the red stain from my hand. Curiously, it eluded the soap and water; I stared at the spot quizically, wondering when it would disappear. It never did.

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Chapter 15 Return to School

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Return To School

August 21, 1976... got sick. It was around 11:30 p.m. Dad got up and helped me. I barfed and then my throat burned. I never had that before. Dad held me awhile... He's the best dad in the world.

The end of the treatment did not mean that I would no longer become sick or weak, and as I prepared myself to return to school, I knew it would not, at first, be an easy adjustment. The calendar did not pause for me to gain strength, however, and five days following my final injection, I went to register for fall cla.s.ses. The administrators were quite understanding and tried their best to ease my nervousness, making it clear that I should come to the nurse's office for a daily afternoon snack and at any time I felt ill. I would be excused from physical education cla.s.ses through a note from my doctor, and spend that hour in the library. I felt encouraged to know that I could escape the horrors of P.E., especially since I had to wear a wig and my energy level was quite below normal. Perhaps the reinitiation into junior high would not measure up to my fears, I thought, and went home relieved. Five days pa.s.sed and the schools opened throughout the city.

August 30, 1976... Got up at 6:30 a.m. and got dressed. I ate some Cream-of-Rice, but not much since this is the first day of school.

Left and picked up Kristi...I saw some of the kids I knew and some didn't recognize me at first. Went to my homeroom and stayed there an hour. We filled out our schedules and that's about it.

August 31, 1976... Couldn't eat breakfast very well. I was so nervous... saw Kristi after Dad dropped me off and we talked awhile before we had to go in the cla.s.ses... Some kids said stuff about my wig. A girl just stared at my head and a guy behind me suggested to another kid to pull it off. He didn't, and thank G.o.d! I was p.o.o.ped when I got home. I was upset, too.