Through these Eyes Part 9

I was not quite certain of my status in that regard, but knew immediately that my health declined the instant in which I donned the hospital gown. It was depressing; I blended so well with the room that I thought I would disappear in the ethereal whiteness. To my later dismay, however, I was easily distinguished and forced to submit to various manifestations of barbarism; never having stayed in a hospital, I had no idea of the rigorous torture treatments which were actually only routine and lawful tests. I write the above with an air of sarcastic jest, for obviously not all of the tests incurred techniques of bludgeoning, prodding, or other undue discomforts for the patient; an X-ray, for example, has never once evoked the slightest twinge of pain. There are tests however, which disrupt one's level of comfort substantially, and unfortunately, those which can prove fatal. For my part these latter tests always spurred the reflective statement, "There must be a better way!" coupled with the hope that one day there would be a technological breakthrough in the field of medicine, wherein one merely stepped into a box and, after manipulating several b.u.t.tons, he could step out again and the doctor would know immediately whether anything was wrong with his patient. (My mind later devised a second box into which one would step, and after several minutes, step out completely cured of all the ailments discovered by Box #1. This transformation occurred without pain, of course. Although I could endure pain, usually without protest, I was always eager to avoid it whenever possible.) To my knowledge, no such boxes have ever been invented; but it would be a grand idea...or maybe only a wistful thought.

Of the tests taken while in Moline, the stomach X-ray utilizing barium was my worst. Although the "chalk milkshake" was a displeasing effect on the taste buds of even the most starved individual (for one undergoing the X-ray must have an empty stomach), the degree to which I abhorred it was augmented by the fact that my stomach had been quite p.r.o.ne toward nauseousness of late. When I was told to sit in a nearby waiting room until I drank the last of the abominable shake I came fearfully close to vomiting; I hung my head and began to cry, knowing that if I did drink the liquid it would be spewed onto the floor and I would have to go through the entire process again. At the sight of my tears, a nurse quickly ran in search of my mom (who was left in an altogether different part of the hospital) and returned with her, sporting the hope that a mother could persuade more of the chalky fluid down her daughter's throat. The nurse's hope was in vain, however, so the staff quickly ushered me into the X-ray room again to complete what work they had begun. First standing against the platform, the X-rays commenced; soon I found that the platform was actually a movable examination table, to which I was securely strapped, and it began to recline toward a p.r.o.ne position. To my surprise, it did not stop when it leveled, but crept backward until I felt I was dangling from the ceiling and the entire world was reversed. I gawked at my hapless predicament, throughly amazed. Had my stomach been more cordial, I might have enjoyed myself. It was not unlike taking a carnival ride after consuming a greasy hotdog and an ample dose of cotton candy.

I was joyous upon returning to my room, even though the moment I arrived another nurse popped in, bearing a fluid which its creators had tried desperately to make resemble prune juice; yet prune juice this definitely was not, for no juice could taste so horrid. Despite threats that I must drink the laxative solution or the barium would transform into cement while yet in my intestines, I refused to drink the awful liquid. It was utterly repulsive to my stomach, and again I knew what the future would have in store if I forced it down.

With all the tests behind us, I could now relax throughout the rest of my stay at the hospital. The part I most enjoyed was filling out my daily menu cards, which arrived with each preceding meal; while munching on my morning toast, I could choose the items I preferred at lunch. It was enormously entertaining, and sparked my day with antic.i.p.ation.

As usual, Mom strolled into my room and watched while I explored the contents on my breakfast tray; her appearance punctuated the beginning of another hospital day, and she made certain that I consumed a nourishing breakfast; without prompting I had done so, for I was delighted with the realization that I could have an egg and Rice Krispies and toast merely by so indicating that desire on the menu card. The array of choices seemed endless, no preference was greeted with questioning eyes or poorly concealed mirth as often can be the case in a restaurant.

Some time after the breakfast tray had been whisked away, Dr. M.

entered, saying that the test results had been a.n.a.lyzed and therefore wished to speak with Mom candidly about the indications which they had revealed. They departed, accompanied by a nurse, and entered a room which Mom later described as being very long and narrow, containing only a table of similar description, and covered completely with an ample thickness of cushion. The doctor and nurse placed themselves on the opposite side of the table from Mom, and he began to relate the fact that the barium X-ray showed a sizable ma.s.s in the stomach region, and though he could not be certain, it held the possibility of being cancerous. It was a hideous impact for my unsuspecting mother, and she felt that her body had been engulfed in a searing, internal fire; she placed her arms on the cushioned table before her and bent her head as one reacting to a heavy burden that must be endured and said, "Life can be so long."

Dr. Murrell who knew quite well our family history and its motley a.s.sortment of dread diseases and dysfunctions, could empathize with my mom's sole comment of numb disappointment; the nurse, however, scanned Mom's face after each successive statement made by the doctor. Mom felt scrutinized under her persistent gaze, and it was now obvious that the cushions covering the room were so adhered for those who, after receiving bad news, literally bounced off the walls for a time until their energetic madness diminished to a state of mild panic.

Feeling that my health problem was one which had risen beyond the hospital's capacity to manage properly, Dr. Murrell thought that it would behoove us to travel to one of the larger clinics in the region; without a moment of indecision Mom expressed her preference for Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and the doctor gladly hastened from the room relieved by the knowledge that his subsequent phone call would at least be progress of a positive nature.

As Mom gradually regained strength, the nurse continued to remind her that it was too soon to tell whether the growth was cancerous, yet soothing words could not dispel the lecherous threat and uncertainty which she carried with her. In a further attempt to comfort, the nurse suggested that Mom first settle the hospital account at the billing office to a.s.sure that her composure was intact, and then return to my room. Mom took the nurse's advice, feeling relieved that she could delay our reunion through a valid excuse; yet as she rose and walked toward her destination, she felt as if she was under the unsteady control of a novice puppeteer who guided mockingly and without precision until she was seated once again.

By the time Mom returned to my room, my lunch tray was already poised in front of me on the portable night stand. She had somehow managed to persuade her face to don a cheerful countenance as she entered and remarked, "You can go home now." An elated smile spread across my face upon hearing those precious words, and my interest waned toward the contents of the lunch tray. I knew that I hadn't heard the entire story, however, because Mom had been absent so long; if nothing was wrong, the doctor would not have wished to discuss my health in private. Suddenly I became annoyed; I wanted to know the facts. The few facts were that I would have to go to Mayo Clinic for further tests because of an abdominal ma.s.s; though Mom said nothing about cancer, that possibility was not yet a fact, and she hadn't actually lied by withholding any related remarks. Her answers satisfied my curiosity, yet simultaneously fueled the fire of dread in my mind which had begun as a mere spark several weeks before. It seemed that my earlier fears were justified as time progressed.

With quiet resolution, I knew within myself that I must face whatever adversity would befall me head-on; I could not march backward into the darkness. Once home, my Mom led me into the living room where we seated ourselves side by side on the couch. I looked at her face, steeped with anxiety for me, yet trying desperately to feign a degree of happiness for my benefit. It was evident that she knew more details surrounding the situation than she cared to confess. "You can cry if you want to...it's all right to cry," she said. "I can't," I replied.

"I've nothing yet to cry for!" She hugged me and we sat in brooding silence. Since my health was a mystery, I felt no urge to cry; and, I thought, if I knew, what difference would tears make? The problem would still exist. Tears, I felt, demanded a tangible impetus to be worth their salt; like pain or horrendous fear. As yet, I felt neither; but perhaps I would experience both soon enough.

I knew the trip to Rochester would be no pleasure excursion, but I maintained high spirits despite the purpose behind the journey. It was a beautiful drive, and I dearly loved to travel; besides, what better reason could one have for dining in restaurants?

Because of our late evening arrival into the city and the fact that my appointments were scheduled for the latter portion of the week, nearly all of the motels posted "no vacancy" signs, and we found ourselves humbly situated in one of the older, run-down hotels in which the bathroom was located "down the hall." I was not overjoyed at the prospect of week-ending in the hotel, but I had little choice in the matter. The depressing mood of the place was over-shadowed in part, however, by the many attractions of the surrounding area; we learned of parks, shopping malls, movie houses, etc. from the local residents, and planned to do as much as I wished after and between my various tests.

Rochester was a quiet city; it was geared for the convenience of its many guests, of which the majority were patients or the family members of the former. There was an entire network of underground corridors which connected several primary clinical buildings, hotels, hospitals and various businesses. With cleanliness an obvious objective, the maintenance crews made perpetual rounds through the marble columns and artistically tiled floors. Excepting few, the employees and staff were friendly and approachable; even the doctors radiated character rather than the cold indifference sometimes prevalent in large or impersonal inst.i.tutions.

My first appointments were to report to "desk C," which was located underground. The entire lobby was decorated with colorful seats and healthy plants, as well as people whose faces revealed moods of many different hues. At varying intervals, a nurse would step in front of a brightly painted door, grasp a microphone and bid those persons whose names she announced to come to the "blue section" or the "red" or "orange," as the color near which she stood indicated. When my name was called I heaved a nervous sigh, walked to the appropriate door, and was dispatched to a smaller waiting room in which those already seated appeared glum and apprehensive. The place reeked of alcohol. Again I waited until my name was called, watching as each "victim" reappeared from behind the curtain which housed the inevitable needles and syringes, sporting a bandage in the crick of his arm.

"Lauren Isaacson."...I swallowed hard and stood up. "Oh...I was expecting a boy." I smiled as pleasantly as I was able, and reminded myself that this was the person who would extract my blood, the needle wielder. "Most people just call me 'Laurie'," I replied. I was seated and told to make a fist as the nurse applied a tourniquet above my elbow. She prattled on, simultaneously producing a needle attached to the largest vial I had ever seen; it must have been five inches long and the diameter of a 25 cent piece. "Where are you from, Lauren?...You'll feel a stick..." "Moline, Illinois," eyeing the vial as it plunged into my vein. "Have you had your blood drawn before?"

"Yeh...a few days ago..." The vial filled and an a.s.sistant handed her another of the same size. "Uh...how much are you gonna take, anyway?"

I asked, feeling strangely self-protective... "Just a little more...you have many tests scheduled..." She popped out the second vial and handed it to her a.s.sistant, replacing it with yet another, though shorter and about the diameter of a dime. It filled more slowly, almost unwillingly, perhaps. Eventually the nurse decided that she had drawn enough and whisked the needle from my vein, binding my arm securely with the gauze. "You can go to the green door now, Lauren." I smiled and departed, happy that I had one test behind me.

The green door housed another form of blood test in which one "merely"

had his finger p.r.i.c.ked. I said "merely" because, in my opinion, the p.r.i.c.k hurt much more than did the former blood test, because one's finger tips contain so many sensitive nerve endings. After having my finger stabbed, its bright red blood squeezed onto multiple slides and in miniscule vials, I was free to take my leave. As I returned to my parents in the lobby, I found the nearest trash receptacle and disposed of my reeking, alcohol-doused bandages; I disliked the odor for its strangely lingering overtones. It was amazing to me that the nurses could draw blood hour after hour; I would detest such a job; yet it was comforting that there were those who could aid humanity in such ways.

Walking to my next appointment, I wondered casually whether they ever felt like mosquitoes!

Holding the various appointment cards I noted that, of the remaining tests, all were X-rays except a suspicious card which read "Bone Marrow." Marrow, I knew was located inside the bone, and dreadful thoughts danced nervously about my brain. When we finally reached the desk behind which lurked the mysterious and disconcerting test, we found ourselves amid stately decor, closely resembling the impeccably correct taste of an Old English library. Hues of rich burgundies and browns, accented by marble floors and columns, marched down shadowed, slightly ominous hallways and beneath closed hardwood doors. It seemed appropriate to whisper, as even footsteps echoed through the corridors.

I was very ill at ease. My name was called and I hesitantly strode forward, accompanied by my mother, who was actually beckoned to follow.

"The doctor's real good-looking," the nurse said confidentially. I didn't really care; I was far too nervous to be impressed, for I knew the test would be painful if they wanted my mom to come; generally speaking, parents took up too much s.p.a.ce if they became shadows.

Moreover, parents can actually impede the efforts of the doctors and nurses through outright intervention, or, due to their presence, transform even an adolescent back into a child.

The nurse was correct in her a.n.a.lysis of the doctor's appearance. He was a young man of Irish descent who spoke with a delightful brogue. I was cordially greeted and then instructed to lay on my stomach; the section from which he would extract the marrow and a small sampling of the bone was located somewhere on my back, to one side and slightly above the b.u.t.tocks. I disliked the process before it commenced since I was unable to see what the doctor was going to do; it helped if I was aware of an imminent jab, rather than being taken by surprise. In this I had no choice, however, and the process began.

Mom stationed herself near my head, over which she gazed as the doctor applied a local anesthetic to deaden the area. "You must stay very still," someone said, as the pain crept from a mild ache to a splitting level. Gritting my teeth, silent tears welled up in my eyes and fell; with muscles taut and rigid I clenched the upholstered table with a vise-like force until I was told that the brutal pain would come to an end.

The test was over. Relieved, I slid myself off the examination table to pull on and zip my pants; the wound throbbed at varying intervals above a constant, underlying ache.

"You're a very brave patient," the nurse said. I smiled knowing that I was too cowardly to undergo that type of h.e.l.l again, for it was no longer a mystery what the words "Bone Marrow" on an appointment card implied.

Before exiting I asked the doctor if I had healthy bones. "Yuv' gut fine bunes, Laaren," he replied, giving me an excellent, unforgettable sample of Irish-flavored English. He seemed to be a very amiable man, and, now that I was turning to leave, I was better able to appreciate his undeniably good looks. For my part, I was sorry that he was not an X-ray technician.

Whether walking or sitting, I experienced twinges of pain, a constant reminder of my last test of the day; but that did not hinder my fascination for gift shops, and I eagerly plunged out of the confines of the clinic walls to the beautiful July morning. We were famished, as none of us had eaten due to the fact that I was instructed to have an empty stomach for many of my tests. Since the next few hours belonged exclusively to us, we decided to eat and then mill about the stores until it was time for my mid-afternoon consultation with the doctor in charge of my case.

When our afternoon of leisure had come to a close, we made our way to the Mayo building and took the elevator to the designated floor. By now we were quite used to waiting, and after registering my name at the front desk, seated ourselves in the expansive lobby.

The test results would have been scrutinized and second opinions heard.

We now awaited the doctor, and, in certain respects, the future; each of us sat in silence, nurturing one's own worries, until my name was announced. The three of us rose in haphazard unison, glad to have a reason for shifting our position, and were guided down a hallway to a private room. Again we awaited the doctors arrival, yet felt more inclined to engage in conversation now that we were removed from the stifling quiet of the lobby.

Finally I heard footsteps outside the door. The feet paused, while a faintly audible rustling of papers issued beneath the closed door.

Silence again. Then suddenly, as if uncertainty had been washed away, the door k.n.o.b turned and a doctor burst into the room, extending his hand to my father and offering a friendly "h.e.l.lo!" to us. We all stood; I smiled. I had no fear of doctors; the fear stemmed from that which they knew, and I the patient, as yet, did not.

We seated ourselves once again, and the doctor began questioning me about the way in which I felt, physically. To nearly all of the disconcerting questions, I replied in a positive fashion, which to my parents was a "good sign" and indicated that my health problem "couldn't be that serious if everything seemed so promising." Then the doctor asked the color of my bowel movements. I started to laugh.

"Brown." "But what color brown?" he persisted. I laughed some more; turning my face to the floor, I noticed that the tiles ranged in color from yellow to the deepest brown, and wondered if the staff had requested that particular tile for the express purpose of color clarification. I smiled, and selected a nice, warm brown. "That looks about right." Then he inquired whether my stools had ever been black.

My eyes flew open. "BLACK?!!" I lost control...to me this was a horrendous joke. He had his answer, and quickly scribbled "no" on his note paper.

I was having a grand time, under the circ.u.mstances. After the question and answer session ceased, I was instructed to lay on the table; he wished to take a look at my stomach region. Applying pressure to various areas, and gently tapping others, he asked if I felt any pain.

I did not, so he invited other doctors into the room, creating a troupe of seven in all, who took turns prodding my stomach, and in my opinion, tickling me to death. I flinched as each new hand poked my bare flesh, and embarra.s.sed, tried desperately to control my convulsive muscles and fits of laughter.

When they had seen, or in my case, felt enough, the doctors filed out of the room to "gossip" about me beyond earshot. Eventually the first doctor reappeared and began to divulge the conclusions rendered through the tests and consultation. It was clear that I had a large abdominal ma.s.s in the vicinity of my stomach, yet its composition was uncertain, and he would therefore offer no statement either way as to it being cancerous or benign. The bone marrow was unaffected and healthy, my blood count was good, and the chest X-ray showed no signs of abnormalcy. Aside from the ma.s.s, I had every reason to believe in my health as a matter of fact.

The ma.s.s would have to be removed; that, also, was a matter of fact.

An operation was inevitable. Since it was the beginning of the weekend, however, I would not be admitted into the hospital until Sunday evening. Monday morning I would undergo an arteriogram to chart my veins in preparation for surgery, and the following day I would find myself in the operating room. Relieved that I had two days of freedom before having to exist in the confines of a hospital, I found the arrangement as agreeable as the situation allowed, and my parents and I determined to make the most of it!

The only hindrance I was obliged to endure was the weekend urine sample, which stated that the bounty of each trip to the bathroom had to be collected, rather than flushed away. I was given a large plastic canister, a small cup and a handy-dandy green tote bag in which to stow the former for reasons of discretion.

I was embarra.s.sed at the prospect of hauling the green tote everywhere throughout the weekend, but my dear mom volunteered without a single flicker of disgust, and shouldered the responsibility just as easily as she would have taken the smallest piece of cake or the burnt piece of toast. I really need not have worried, however, for I was not alone in my strange occupation. Dotted here and there, as we traveled about the parks and shopping malls, were similar green tote bags borne by smug faced patients, or conversely, those who would recognize the kinship and smile knowingly. I soon discovered that, actually, I might have carried the tote myself, for everyone who was familiar with its purpose seemed to know that it truly belonged to me; teenage self-consciousness is alien to no one, and remembered by all.

The weekend was memorable. I tried to take in the landscape as I walked freely under the mid-summer sky. The Canadian geese were numerous on the sh.o.r.es of a small lake, and had grown haughty from delicacies thrown to them by pa.s.sers-by; they pecked with idle disinterest at the corn we placed on the ground for their inspection.

They had developed a taste for the refined; mere corn would no longer suffice. Though the geese were considered tame by most standards, they yet held a firm bond to the wild which no human bribery could erase. I was drawn to this quality, for in their willowy black necks I saw the northern wilderness and inevitable flight; they were not prisoners of the city, but came and later departed through a will of their own.

Unlike the lazy human who clings fiercely to a generous hand, the geese were drawn in, but then drifted away to distant sh.o.r.es where life was hard, yet sweeter still than risking to the malicious child a twisted neck for sc.r.a.ps of bread. It had been said that nature is cruel; no, I thought, only people are cruel, for they alone can pervert that which by nature's intent was beneficial in moderation. Food, pleasure, death...man could leave nothing alone. I turned away from the geese, which were milling about and shifting their weight, first balancing on one leg, then the other, vigilant yet restful. I carried the tranquil image with me, and return to it still. Eyes focused through the gla.s.s of the car window, I stirred as Dad turned the key of the ignition and the car moved slowly forward. It was evening and the lake began to fade into an obscure haze; the hum of the engine gently brought my mind to the present and the distractions thereof. The darkness gradually melted away beneath the city lights, and I awoke to the startling realization that I was hungry. Under the glaring neon lights, one cannot long remain apart from the harshness of the city; neon lights invade one's senses and disrupt one's dreams.

Sat.u.r.day morning, after breakfast, we decided to find our way to a small town nearby that was holding a summer festival; once there we saw booths and tables housing various crafts or topics of interest, as well as food and drink. Weaving our way through the smiling, jovial faces, time slipped casually by. Mom purchased a rooster made entirely of dried seeds, while I inspected the tables of antiques. Nothing sparked my interest enough to pry into my wallet, so I quietly moved on.

We decided to await the afternoon parade, in which Dr. B. of yesterday's consultation said he would appear, playing an instrument in the band. It was he who had informed us of the small town festival, and we could not help but wonder if we would recognize him in a red jacket and cap. The band members were seated in trucks; blowing earnestly into their instruments, the musicians eyes sparkled behind puffed up cheeks. It was no use; they all looked like perfect images of each other.

Still quite early in the afternoon, we concluded that it would be nice to find a park which was in the area, and had no difficulty in its pursuit, for the road signs were plentiful and doubtlessly placed out of respect for the patient-tourist. It was a gorgeous day. The leaves were emerald green and at their foremost beauty; strong and pliant from spring's ample rain, and not yet touched by the autumnal sun...the drying kiln, the blistering gaze which ages all.

The leaves swayed in the wind, playing with the rays of sunlight which danced in countless patterns on the ground. Despite the beauty surrounding our every step, none of us could forget the reason we came to the park; we came, of course, to forget. The business of forgetting, however, meets with few actual successes; the more one attempts to forget, the less likely he is to accomplish his goal; but in trying the object of one's trial forever torments the mind. It is better to let the job of "forgetting" take care of itself.

That evening, following our meal, we decided a movie would create an exciting climax to the day, especially since our hotel room boasted no TV. The movie-house featured "Jaws" and I eagerly bounced down the aisle and selected a seat fairly close to the screen. My parents found two more agreeable seats toward the rear.

As the theater began to fill, I glanced about nervously, hoping wildly that no one with a spherical or bee-hive-shaped hair style would seat themselves directly before me. With good fortune on my side, I breathed a sigh of relief as the lights were dimmed and the curtain slid aside.