Through these Eyes Part 22

It was difficult to maintain my courage after hearing such threats, but I knew that if I allowed myself to cower in fear before the aggressive words, the likelihood of my avoiding further taunts would have been reduced. That day, without saying a word, I turned a searing, humorless gaze upon my potential attackers, whose faces were forever branded in my memory. They never followed through with their suggestion, but if they had, it is my belief that they would have sustained more astonishment at my hairlessness than was their intention; word of mouth transactions possess little accuracy, and some individuals, perhaps, thought I wore a wig over my own hair for the fun of it.

I had few problems surrounding the wig after the first weeks of school, and the kids realized that I was not among the gregarious crowd, who would adorn themselves for amus.e.m.e.nt and attention, but rather sported the hairpiece through necessity. Although the "necessity" for my wig remained vague for certain individuals, other people were blatant in their curiosity; one such individual was the girl described as having "stared at my head," who wasted little time before quizzing me whether or not "that" was "a wig." I was almost relieved that she was bold enough to ask, for I hoped that, once her inquiry had been satisfied, she would cast her annoying gaze elsewhere. Masking any embarra.s.sment I might have felt, I looked at her directly and admitted that, yes,I did wear a wig, and that I had to do so because I'd taken chemotherapy treatments for cancerous tumors in my stomach; the treatment made me lose my hair, but it would eventually return. Her gaze softened, and after a.s.suring herself once again that my hair would grow back, turned around to face the front of the room. I heaved a sigh of relief and applauded the usefulness of honesty.

As I reflected upon the various traumas a.s.sociated with my lack of hair, I was amazed at the power which people wield over the moods of others whose lives are touched by their kind or abusive words or actions. My cousin Gary, who lives next door, came over one morning before I'd donned my wig, yet due to his natural and inoffensive att.i.tude toward my appearance, I remarked in my diary that "He saw me while I didn't have my wig on, but it didn't bother me too much tho."

How different was his reaction than that of another relative who lives across the country; this relative derived immense pleasure from forcible, obnoxious treatment of children, over whom he reigned absolute bodily control albeit their distaste for his repulsive presence. I attracted his s.a.d.i.s.tic attention in his later visits since I was the youngest of our family, and so it was that on one occasion he grabbed me in an attempt to make me sit on his lap, and I, struggling to free myself from his vise-like grip, found myself wrestled to the floor, pinned beneath the stench of his armpits and unwholesome breath.

The more I writhed to flee from his ugly imprisonment, the more he seemed to enjoy his power. I looked around at the group of family members who encircled the living room, but no one found anything amiss in his actions, perhaps considering the scene of no more consequence than innocent horseplay. But I knew better; this was a man whose fixation for children pa.s.sed beyond benign teasing and friendly adoration; something in his touch spoke of an urge to seize and capture, to hurt and control... his touch was wrong.

I was able to feel that which the attending adults could not possibly have seen, and every ounce of my strength resisted his force. Since it was late in the evening, I wore pajamas and a bonnet, and I strained desperately to a.s.sure that the latter remained atop my head; I could not escape his paws, perhaps, but I had resolved that he should not see my baldness, pulling the bonnet closer about my head when the chance presented itself.

It seemed that the struggle was without an end. Then he suddenly plucked the shielding bonnet from my head. His action drained the fighting spirit from my mind and replaced it with humiliation. I felt as if my dignity had been raped, and sunk to the carpet in exhaustion.

A heavy silence draped the conversation in the room as all eyes focused on the scene before them. My sister's eyes narrowed sympathetically, and the light-heartedness drained from her voice as she uttered a long, descending "Ohhhh!"... and fell silent. Considering the fun was over, he released my captive arms, wearing a wide and sickening grin on his face. I immediately rolled over without a word, ran from the room to the bas.e.m.e.nt, where I hid behind the sectional couch.

Clasping my bent knees in a tight hug, I cried silent tears of rage and degradation, and stayed hunched in the corner for at least ten minutes.

I hoped wildly that he would not pursue me, and when I heard heavy foot-falls on the upstairs landing, I held my breath. "Bye, Laurie."

His words a.s.sailed my ears like fingernails grating across a chalkboard. I hated to reply, but feared that silence on my behalf would stir a need in him to "seek and find," as if involved in some childish game; I gathered my faculties together and forced a faint "Bye" from my lips. I did not sound enthused, but it produced the desired effect. The back door closed abruptly and silence followed.

As I adjusted to school, I became more outgoing, reacquainting myself with former cla.s.smates and introducing myself to "new" students. A teacher allowed me to join the year book committee, and I was selected as one of three "Art Editors." School was actually beginning to be fun for me, and my inhibitions were swallowed by enthusiasm. My wig, though a constant awareness, was not a source of fear and nausea, though an inconvenience, was something with which I had learned to live.

While I was not "popular" at school, I was accepted and had several good friends; it was all that I had ever desired from social groups, and was as comfortable as my self-consciousness allowed. Because I had begun a new year, my parents compelled me to go to church and its related functions as well. I hoped for the best, and for a brief time I felt somewhat attuned to the group and attempted to involve myself in conversation. As the year progressed, however, the tightly woven friendships no longer peered outside of their circle, and I once again felt shunned; there were several individuals who were always friendly to everyone, yet without their support, my alienation from the group seemed as concrete as the church's foundation.

Oct. 10, 1976... Church and Sunday School. Felt really out of things.

I almost cried.

Oct. 28, 1976... Share Group tonite. Only one person said hi to me when I came in. Cried at home.

That which I found most distressing was the fact that I had to be among people who did not care for my company and simultaneously engender religious and meaningful growth through this a.s.sociation and interaction. I was being asked to fulfill an impossible dream.

Religion was intended to be an uplifting experience; I felt only emptiness. It would be a long and solitary road, perhaps, but fulfillment would come. I would side-step the busy highway and seek my peace alone.

The changes at home were now quite visible, for Dad had transformed into an all-day phenomenon, righting wrongs, remodeling and redecorating with such diligence that, to watch him, one might well have thought his employment was for pay. Throughout the week, he retrieved me from school, and often we would stop for a snack, browsing in shops afterwards; I enjoyed these outings, especially after a wearing day. Dad was now the one who received news while it was still fresh, gaining first hand knowledge which often a child would neglect to pa.s.s on a second time to a working father; with his retirement, it was especially important that he did not feel cast out of the mainstream.

Another visible change in the household was the reappearance of my brother Todd, who, following the collapse of certain jobs and aspirations in Chicago, decided to come home to more hospitable surroundings and search for employment opportunities. Although his eyes were blackened in the figurative sense, nothing slowed him down.

Each day his feet scoured the cement; no door was left unopened. If there was a job to be had in the area, he would find it.

It did not take very long for Todd's search to reach an end, and he gladly left the "street sweeping" to someone else. Working for an elevator company, as it turned out, did not have its ups and down, and my brother found himself adequately employed in a stable firm. I too reaped the benefits of his new position when he took me to the company's annual dinner. "You wouldn't believe the size of the roast and potato!" I raved in my diary; I was duly impressed. Meanwhile...

Nov. 17, 1976... Norm and Tracy went on a vacation. They may be gone a month. I guess they quit their jobs!

At the time, jobs were scarce, and most individuals were taking precautions to a.s.sure that they held secure positions and did not create any inconveniences within their company. The sudden flight on Norm and Tracy's behalf was a surprise and concern to us, yet nothing appeared to be wrong. "Maybe they are taking a honeymoon that is three years overdue," I thought, and wiped the cobwebs of apprehension from my mind; "It will sure seem strange without them on Thanksgiving, though," I reflected drearily.

My consultations at Mayo Clinic were scheduled every three months for the first year following chemotherapy, with the first check-up falling one week before Thanksgiving. The blood tests and X-ray were the only tests I was given, which did not seem at all rigorous to me. Although blood was increasingly more difficult to extract due to the scar-tissue present in my veins from the many needles they had endured, the blood tests were not a threat to my well-being; X-rays also, were painless.

In the afternoon we met with Dr. E. for the consultation and found that my health was perfectly sound. The only concern was for my lungs, which housed a small "spot" of unknown character; this would be monitored through X-rays the doctor explained, and should cause no worry. All signs were favorable; the lungs would be watched as a precaution, since those having recurrences of my type of cancer were affected in the lungs.

I was pleased with the outcome of my tests, but did not allow myself to overflow with enthusiasm. "Everything's O.K.," I wrote in my diary, followed by a happy face; beyond that, I preferred not to think about health, for exuberance seemed premature and inappropriate.

Norm and Tracy returned in time for Thanksgiving which delighted me no end. They had been absent less than a week, yet I spent little time pondering over their formerly stated intention of taking a month's vacation; practicality was probably the reason for their hasty reappearance, since smiles were in ample supply. Tracy even called to ask what to bring for the dinner, and on the day of the feast, presented a loaf of homemade pumpkin bread to my mom.

Everything seemed terrific and consequently, depression on Thanksgiving Day made no sense.

Nov. 25, 1976... Thanksgiving. I really didn't eat too much, I couldn't. I didn't feel too great. I was really depressed. Went outside to shoot some arrows. Tracy came out and we had a big talk about things...

I was becoming more susceptible to mood fluctuation as the year wore away, and knew that my depression was part of reaching adulthood.

Every textbook revolving around the subject of health made such statements, underlining the fact that one's teenage years were often the most difficult to bear. Instability appeared to be the rule rather than the exception as my body and mind secured various realms of adulthood yet failed to grasp the elusive wholeness of maturity.

Moments of bliss could be attacked by the shadow of torment and indecision. I wished to be the self-sufficient master of my life, yet I first needed to define my beliefs and pinpoint my destination. I wanted to make headway, to abandon the circular path of dependence and strike my own course through shaded lairs of uncertainty.

One area in which I had little uncertainty about my inevitable goal was the desire for my own home. Whenever I visited the homes of my sister or brother, I could seldom resist a long draught of intoxicating enthusiasm from the stream of ideas rampaging wildly through my head.

When I was back in my room again, I surveyed the purchases which I had made through the years and happily applauded my preference for mature objects (aside from the stuffed animals) and considered myself to be well on my way toward furnishing a place of my own. Cogwheels carrying new and magnificent ideas continually worked within my consciousness and refused to slow their relentless pace. When my zest was aired to my parents, their reactions sometimes grated with the ceaseless amblings of my dreams. Trying to ill.u.s.trate the fine proportions of an idea to them was like attempting to open a rusty lock; I would surrender in frustration and prepare an alternative route.

Dec. 27, 1976... Went to (the mall ) with Mom. Looked at china. Saw one (pattern) I liked and wanted to start a hope chest. Told Dad and of course he didn't approve. By the time I am allowed to get a set, that design will be obsolete.

At fifteen, my likes and dislikes were well established, and I did not fear that I would one day regret the rustic pattern which caught my eye. Never before had I seen china dishes that meshed with my idea of perfection, and I revolted internally when my proposition was dashed.

My dad stood firm, however, saying that it was pointless to store dishes, especially at my age; and he added, that I may change my mind about the pattern and what a shame that would be after investing in an entire set of china. I knew the situation was hopeless.

I had been through a great deal of pain and discomfort during my year of chemotherapy, and quietly resolved that I would never be subjected to such treatment again; now, in the transformation to adulthood, I felt pain and discomfort of a different incomparable variety, yet its pangs were just as valid as those which were purely physical in nature.

While "growing pains" were literally a headache, I came to believe that the term more readily applied to emotional stress and frustration; growing up certainly did not boast a red carpet welcome.

Dec. 31, 1976... New Year's Eve. I spent most of it having a migraine headache, sweating and throwing up. FUN!..The Isaacsons and Nelsons were here. I guess everyone had a pretty good time. I sure didn't.

PAGE 119

Chapter 16 Divorce

"No one forgets a past hurt; after a wound heals, scar tissue remains as a subtle reminder and effectively warns the individual against potential threats of a similar nature."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN