Through these Eyes Part 63

Aug 27, 1984... I had a tension headache tonight. It finally went away after talking with Mom. Sometimes I wonder if I'll die the same way Norm did... I have a b.u.mp on my thigh... who knows what it is! Then I was thinking how every time someone sleeps in the other room or near me on trips, I wonder if they're "gonna die on me." What a drag it was to find Norm. Strange how I always kept an ear peeled for Norm; sometimes I wonder if we have a 6th sense that tells us things apart from the conscious world.

Sept. 1, 1984... I'm such a t.u.r.d sometimes; I hate myself. I always balk when someone starts to sing, no matter who it is; Mom loves to sing, and with her it's also an emotional outlet. Whenever she sings though, I cringe and she stops. Today she was going to sing a song (that told a story). I uttered a small protest. She stopped, apparently quite hurt. After I did that, I felt like nothing, but there was no way to recall my "ugh" once breathed into the air. She said, "I have feelings too," in answer to my, "I'm sorry, Mom!" and went downstairs. When I'm writing I'm an intolerable creep to be around. I don't know why I didn't think first and be considerate. She always listens to my writings, no matter how trivial; why can't I abide a few notes of song? I wish I knew why song grates so heavily upon my ears... it always has. I most certainly have a terrible voice and use it only on the rare "happy birthdays" and so forth. I'm kind to society in that regard, at least. For now, I wish I could find a .45.

Mom came up and we talked. I feel better now. She felt sorry for being too sensitive and what she called "uppity," and I expressed my regrets too. After a cry, we both felt better. I guess we both felt rather stupid!

Sept 6, 1984... Mayo Clinic sends out a form letter for its Statistic Unit. I wrote... "It has been nearly 3 years since my re-diagnosis of cancer and I'm still alive to tell about it. As the afflicted area is my liver, I experience the symptoms generally a.s.sociated with liver diseases (so I am told), such as over-heating and water retention. My liver has expanded to such a degree that casual onlookers sometimes mistake my appearance for that of a pregnant woman. I was once asked when I was "due"! Perhaps I should've said, "I don't know... so far I'm 36 months along."

So much for my reply to Mayo Clinic... I sometimes find it hard to believe I've lasted so long; liver cancer is seldom smiled upon as a long-time acquaintance. If it weren't for Big C, I'd be real healthy!

I also stated that should some breakthrough be discovered for the curing of leiomyosarcoma I'd appreciate notification. . . until then, it is best to create one's happiness each day. I worked more on my story... it's fun to do actually.

The Miracle Of Chance

The spider spins her silver threads Into a silken sheen Deftly pouring forth her self Unto the net which is her life.

Though possessed of marked skill This artisan shall reap no wealth Begotton of her grand design, And yet the misty hand of dawn Transforms her modest web of silk Into a diamond-scattered orb, Sparkling as a precious crown Before the rising sun; Thus wrapped in lace She mans her snare, Entrusting nature with her life.

The spider dangles weightless From her wispy spinnerette, As does all existence hang suspended In the grasp of chance.

For each successive heartbeat Froms the web which heralds every breath And leases yet another moment From the miracle called Life.

Lauren Isaacson September 19, 1984

QUALITY:

All things considered, I feel that I have had a beautiful life. I have loved, and been loved in return by a warm family, and developed a once-in-a-lifetime closeness with one of my brothers. I have been blessed with a certain degree of intelligence, common sense, and awareness. My countenance is agreeable and un.o.btrusive, and I have a pleasant, though realistic outlook on life. I am adaptable to change and strive for growth, not stagnancy of character. I have walked in the mountains, and seen the beauty surrounding me. I have heard the babble of a stream and the eerie hoot of an owl.

Though I am no longer able to actively pursue many of those diversions which have so colored my memories, I yet possess their image in my mind. I once felt the pleasure of vitality and physical endurance marked by an unblemished body, and though my body is no longer beautiful to behold, nor functions as it once had, yet it sustains me.

I am fortunate to live in a comfortable style among furnishings and sentimentalities I love, and have the option to be alone should that be my need and desire.

I am thankful for my many blessings, for I have a good life. Quality cannot be marked by time, but rather, by the smiles along the way.

10/1984

Oct. 5, 1984... When I dropped the film off yesterday, I was mentioning that I wish I knew some practical use for the film canisters. The clerk said, "Now that you're pregnant, maybe you can use them as rattles if you fill them." It always is a cold blow and it strikes me speechless.

I wonder what people think; I wear no rings... oh well, I know I'm straight! That's what counts. I'm enjoying the sheepskin rug I bought in Estes Park. It's gorgeous!

Traces Of Autumn

Autumn plays no timid song And wears no modest vestment, Flourishing its last hurrah Before a restful interlude.

Dying leaves fall to the ground, Whispering in the gentle breeze To haunt the heels of pa.s.sers-by And gossip to the cold north winds.

The sweetly reminiscent smell Born of leaves now laid to rest Permeates the autumn air And bids the traveler raise his head To breathe the singular perfume Before the icy gales of winter Rob all traces of this heady scent, Left to linger only in the mind With autumns pa.s.sed and indistinct.

Lauren Isaacson October 14, 1984

Oct. 19, 1984... I took a drive but was fearful of stopping to take pictures while alone... what a chicken. My Beauty Book order came.

Everything is nice; items will make perfect gifts.

Destiny

Though autumn weaves its image With an all-pervasive air, Encompa.s.sing one's senses in its splash of brilliant color and the rustling of the leaves...

in the scent of drying foliage blowing freely through the trees...

and the taste of ruby apples and the crispness of the wind, The barren months which lie ahead Touch upon one's very soul; The slanting sun sets trees aglow, Their leaves a restless fire Kept alive by northern winds until, As embers blackened by the flames of yesterday, They tumble to the ground...

Carpeting the well-clipped lawns And waiting for the icy hand That shall transform their shape to dust.

Like the child who aged beyond A once-beloved bear, Leaves--uniform as paper dolls Cut by fingers deft and sure-- Casually are flung aside As if their purpose has expired.

Quietly a funeral dirge Mourns balefully amid the breeze, Heard by all and yet ignored As if death denied may not unfold.

So silently the coldness seeps Into the autumn breeze And birds fall mute before its touch So one might think the very chill Had robbed their throaty cries.

No more leaves cling to the trees, Making idle chatter, For winter siezed their quiet voice And hid it deep, 'neath frosty snow.

Silence reigns ov'r one and all While clouds converge in murky skies; Death obscures ones vision To a darkly shade of gray, And yet in time, the clouds recede, Rendering warm the gloom-filled heart And purging sorrow from the mind.

Lauren Isaacson October 21, 1984

Oct. 22, 1984... It was a great day, until after lunch. I got sick...it was extra discouraging when I realized the beautiful day was pa.s.sing me by. I finally settled my stomach and Mom and I drove on some rural roads. Later, while in the safety of my home, I had the runs.

... Sometimes when I feel so sick, so lousy, I cry... but this time I feel too sick to make the effort... so I just sit.

Oct. 24, 1984... Mom and I took a drive to Loud Thunder. I took some pictures... it was beautiful out. There was a stick bug on me...

they're strange little creatures. Later we drove to Petersen Park.

Mom suggested I write a poem about the man who was using one of those metal detectors. He was the inspiration; I did so, once home...I like the poem.

Copper Pennies, Golden Leaves

An old man strolled through autumn leaves Waving slowly 'fore his path A wand to guide his watchful steps.

Were it not for earphones Clapped upon his graying head And a tiny garden spade Warming in his gnarled hand, I'd have thought the man was blind; Yet blind this man might well have been For all that he refused to see; With eyes feasted on the ground, He looked for copper, bronze, and gold.

A rusted bauble on a chain, And perhaps, some pocket change Lying 'neath the colored leaves Was an afternoon's h.o.a.rd...