Through these Eyes Part 51

Amid the rising flood of new treatments and landmark cures which lapped temptingly at our doorstep, I began to wonder if any supposed cure really honored its name. I was tired of the restrictions which cancer had placed on me, and my interest toward alternative methods of treatment grew as rapidly as the size of my liver. I even questioned whether a liver transplant was a possibility, but was forever wary of the suffering involved; though I desired health, I would endure no drastic measures toward that end, and knew also, that most "possibilities" could never, for me, turn into a reality.

Though not actively pursuing articles, I would read or hear about the progress of various treatments as discovered by my parents; I was never surprised to learn that the drug or method in question was ineffective with my type of cancer; characteristically a slow grower, a leiomyosarcoma was also remarkably tough and resilient to the most terrifying of chemicals.

Not easily persuaded into the acceptance of hopelessness, however, Mom and Dad continued to inquire into the success of publicized drugs at their source. The more controversial forms of treatment were also investigated, and naturally their administrators claimed to have realized at least a modic.u.m of success. Admittedly, the thought of undergoing treatment about which little was known seemed disconcerting, and a mere description of certain treatments nearly made my gums recede. One such method which sounded horrifyingly barbaric called for the boiling of one's blood; after it had been "purified," it would be routed back into the system once more. "If he lived..." I thought.

However, I had been on the research file while undergoing chemotherapy, and it had been no delight either; no one of faltering strength could long tolerate its effects, although some individuals have been known to have received an injection on the day of their death. When man realigns his values, perhaps one day chemotherapy also will be thought of as barbaric and indeed, inhumane.

After countless suggestions and subsequent dead ends, we were given a new lead from a woman who worked at the church; a lead which, in her opinion, sounded quite promising. Quizzing her for every detail, my father immediately fell to gathering phone numbers, including past patients of the doctor and the number through which an appointment with the doctor could be made. A travel agency in California would set up the time of departure and also take care of every detail of the stay, from hotel accommodations to the treatment itself. Incidentally, the treatment was administered only in Greece.

Excitement pervaded the atmosphere at home as more information was procured. The treatment boasted rave reviews, stemming from renewed vitality to complete cures, yet side effects and discomforts as a result of the injections were few and insignificant; indeed, the method used sounded the least objectionable and the most productive of all those that my parents had pursued.

Once all readily available information about the treatment had come into our possession, we phoned several former patients who lived in our vicinity to interview them, so to speak, and obtain any additional thoughts concerning the trip as a whole that might otherwise have escaped our knowledge had we only read the pamphlet prepared by the agency. We wished to receive no surprises of the negative kind through ignorance, especially in a foreign country. Real or imagined, however, the patients all expressed a degree of faith in their progress after having undergone the series of intravenous shots; if nothing more, perhaps this "doctor" administered high-priced hope.

We discussed the option of a trip to Greece as thoroughly as possible, not only among ourselves but with friends. Nearly everyone thought our idea was quite splendid, and were happy that we were planning to try it; they offered strength and support to our decision. Only two individuals, my brother and his wife, voiced overt objections to our plan; they questioned the authenticity of the treatment, not wanting to see us be taken by quackery and false claims. We too were frightened of that aspect, yet amid our uncertainty we thought that such a chance, however questionable, should not be relinquished through skepticism alone. "What if. . .?" was also a question too great to overlook when the decision involved life and death.

Housing slight reluctance, I agreed this new option was one that I should try. Quite conscious of the amount of money which the trip and treatment would ingest, I felt the affair was an extravagance of which I was not worthy, but my father insisted that he would spend his life's savings if it would restore my health. The money spent on the trip would be an investment in happiness should it prove worthwhile, and the risk incurred was an integral part of it... for we were dealing in "futures." The return we sought was not of the tangible sort; it existed as yet only in our dreams.

Although I remained skeptical toward the validity of the treatment, I could not suppress a glimmer of hope despite the h.o.a.rd of fears that took refuge in my restless mind. When the word "treatment" was denoted as a "cure," an involuntary spark of anger was kindled in my chest, spurred from present doubt and past disappointment; I wished to shield myself from the gloom of overridden hope due to an empty cure, and therefore attempted to foster little actual hope for any development related to the disappearance of current symptoms and health disorders.

I could not, however, deny my family their renewed hope by objecting to travel to Greece; I envisioned an image of boundless joy which my health would generate among the family and circulate through the homes of friends.

A beam of hope infiltrated the confines of doubt in my mind also, and I felt ready and rather anxious to accept this treatment as a means toward the rebirth of health; this was one chance I could not pa.s.s by, and perhaps there would no longer be a need for groping in the obscurity of medical scams and hypocrisy if truly it was a cure.

I hoped the doctor was worthy of the trust which he had apparently secured, for I was about to bestow upon him some of my own; if he begrudged my lack of complete and unadulterated trust, so then it must be, for such was the limit which my heart could withstand.

Although the journey would be no pleasure excursion, traveling to a strange and distant continent with uncertain health, I understood the expectancy and purpose behind the trip, and vowed to follow the instructions given by the doctor carefully. If the treatment demonstrated no result, it would be through no fault of my own.

PAGE 254

Chapter 34 Journey to Greece

"Perhaps the sky is the sole glimpse of home that I have here in Athens . . . the sky is always a constant factor."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Journey To Greece

The day of our departure arrived amid a tidal wave of apprehension.

My excitement was not of the healthy, gleeful breed, but rather the stomach-clenching variety that I would "wish away" if it was possible.

It was, once again, fear of the unknown that a.s.sailed my thoughts when I should have been looking forward to new and interesting sights.

Making the diagnosis was simple; believing in it enough to admit the silliness of my fear was not as easy. . . and nothing but confrontation would smother that fear.

I stood in the airport lobby wishing I had already gone and returned.

As the gate opened, I decided to take one large jump and move through the metal detector and on to the official waiting room, where I proceeded to stare a hole through the floor. Shortly before the plane was to be boarded, a group of friends appeared to bid me farewell. We were separated by a railing, but their warmth pa.s.sed over the barrier and embraced me. While the hugs and fair greetings did not dispell my fear, I realized the amount of love which would be packed in my suitcase for the month. Norm, my Uncle Les and a couple from our church had also seen us off; love would sustain and lend buoyancy during the hard times.

I felt my stomach surge as the plane taxied near the gate and people in the waiting room spilled out of their seats toward the doorway. It was time to go. Sharon was traveling with us to Greece, inspired to go through curiosity and concern about my health and the Greek doctor's proclaimed cure. She had always wanted to visit Greece, and when such an opportunity presented itself, it seemed ridiculous to simply let it pa.s.s.

I definitely was not traveling alone; the four of us formed our own support group en route, exchanging conversation and smiles through the dubious hours in which we flew over land and sea. Despite my family's presence, however, homesickness began to set in shortly after lift-off and graduated as we progressed. While the American top hits buzzed happily through the headphones oblivious to the foreign s.p.a.ce below, I thought of home; when the snow capped Alps crossed our path, I thought of Norm. Home. . . Norm. . . I knew they would be missed. Frankly, they already were.

Diary:

Jan. 12 1983... Last night there was a party, as antic.i.p.ated, for the Americans; it consisted of numerous Grecian delights, such as bhaklava, and various other pastries. . . many of which were laden with honey.

There were also filberts and almonds, as well as beautiful steaks for those desiring to partake. As for myself, I committed the irretractable message that I was a "liver patient," and thereby was denied the joy of a potentially ambrosiac steak. Such is life, (no luck at all).

Today I woke up at 6:30, as well as every hour on the hour throughout the night! I went to the clinic... with Mom, this time... I received my shot. The moment he administered the shot, the reaction began. I felt as if my entire body had been a.s.saulted by a blow torch! Several minutes later, my face turned a lovely shade of red. Also simultaneous with the shot was a distinct flavor of salt. I returned to the Akrion and rested 'til 11:30, at which time I ate a breakfast of oatmeal with honey and two pieces of toast (the latter of which I learned were forbidden until after the 19th treatment. Oh well, hopefully that will be the least of my follies). After drinking nearly an entire carafe of water, I returned to the room and slept until 6:00 p.m. Following my lengthy siesta, I ate a meager supper of greens, cuc.u.mbers and carrots (salad) and a baked apple with honey and walnuts.

A terrific addition... I got diarrhea... (pew). Must be because I'm screwed up (times, meals, etc.). Sorry to say, impinged on Sharon's right to fresh air while she was showering...

The people, both patients and families and Greeks... all nice.

Jan 13, 14, 15, 16... Never have I felt so utterly depressed in a place as I do here in Athens. Perhaps it is due to the fact that I am here for the purpose of cancer treatment, not merely diversion. I have not the energy nor the desire to do much sight-seeing. My meals are routine and boring, not to mention that they do not provide sufficient energy. Indeed, they are a hindrance to activity. Breakfast is oatmeal with honey and a baked apple. Lunch is a salad and baked apple, and dinner consists of a salad, apple and rice (if they have the latter). I was so worn down after the bus tour Sat.u.r.day that I nearly cried when the waiter said there was no rice to be had. Nuts provide energy, but too many of those can be a sickening experience.

The first two nights I nearly went without sleep. Sharon snores excessively while I, on the other hand, am quite a light sleeper (hear all). In addition, a hi-way pa.s.ses close to the hotel with motorists ravaging the noise level at all times of the day and night. I began to wonder if I'd sleep at all, so Mom and Sharon changed rooms. I guess I needed Mom's support much more than I knew. She is quite mellow. . .

and I need all the relaxation I can possibly have. Somehow, I couldn't handle Sharon's intensity, and I became more and more on edge.

Yesterday I got too tired on the tour and broke down in the afternoon.

Once again I was glad Mom shared the room with me. Never before have I been so easily shattered as here. I cannot seem to handle anything...

usually I never cry or get too terribly upset. Traveling is usually a blast.

I slept well last night... I didn't have a nap because by the time I got hold of myself it was time for supper. I got down to the restaurant quite ready to eat, but when the food came I couldn't eat much and nearly lost control of myself again. We went back to the rooms and I had another attack (with several more to follow) of diarrhea. Glorious!

We tried calling Norm but the line was either busy or kept ringing.

I called Jon but he wasn't there (at school) so I talked to both of his parents. Slept very well.

Jan. 18, 1983... Things are gradually becoming easier to handle, although my desire to return home as soon as possible is yet a prominent thought in my mind. Today I had my 5th treatment; I didn't seem as hot or as red as I had yesterday, although the taste of salt still remained as usual. My right arm is bruised due to some seepage during the injection; it is a small price to pay to allow my left arm free for both the 6th injection and blood test. I learned today that if the blood count failed to drop at least two points, the doctor dismissed you as a lost cause. Diarrhea has accompanied each bowel movement, which makes defecation less than a delight. However, this symptom often occurs among those being treated, so I settled into accepting that my upcoming weeks would prove likewise. I wonder if the injection is made up at least partially of Vitamin C; large dosages cause a red face and diarrhea... Time pa.s.ses much more quickly than I antic.i.p.ated it would. Hopefully the remaining weeks will be similar.

This afternoon I began to feel rather dizzy. The room would swim when my eyes were open, while I would be in a half-nightmare when my eyes were closed. I was tired, but didn't wish to sleep; closing my eyes brought on imagery too strange to describe... I merely saw the other hotel guests coming toward me, then falling away. Open or closed eyes, I remained rather dizzy. When I got ready to go to the Tuesday night party, my hands and forearms would get sporadic surges of numbness each time I would grasp a certain way. Scary. I went down for a short while but was soon escorted by Dad to my room due to dizziness... and I had begun to cry! Freaking out again. I guess the shots work on the nervous system. What a fiasco this is.

Dad brought a tray of food to me. Slept great... Mom had to turn off the bathroom light and cover me!

Jan. 21, 1983... I have never seen such a day as this wherein the wind whistled through the halls and rattled the windows yet ceased not once throughout the day. If storms be the wrath of G.o.d, winds surely must be a prominent accomplice in the tumultuous siege.