Discovery of Tumor
"There is always too much time before an unpleasant event; too much,
yet not near enough."
CHAPTER NINE
Discovery of Tumor
By the end of seventh grade, Jr. High no longer seemed an immense
edifice, and my confidence, as well as my acquaintances, grew. Each
day, before or after lunch, depending on one's lunch schedule, we would
assemble in our respective "homerooms"; here we could talk among
ourselves if we did not become noisome or in any way obnoxious. I made
two acquaintances in the room, and between the three of us, idle
chatter abounded. One day I remember above all others. I was involved
in conversation with the two girls when I looked down at my stomach and
noticed that it was definitely lop-sided in appearance. I called their
attention to it so that they also could share in the humor of my
distortion. We all laughed in simultaneous bursts of wonder at the
spectacle, then moved on casually to other things. I figured that my
stomach was bloated from gas. "No big deal." However, for the next
several weeks, I maintained a vigil on my stomach, and to my
perplexity, the odd "lop-sidedness" persisted. Eventually I decided
that I should divulge the discovery to my parents.
It was summer vacation, and school would be in the past for three
beautiful months. The annual family trip was only weeks away, and I
could barely wait. When Mom said that I would have to go to the
doctor, I felt an eerie certainty that something was drastically amiss,
and therefore requested that we first go on our trip to Colorado; I
knew that if my sensation was correct, I would never be able to see the
mountains...at least not that year. The trip, I felt, could not be
postponed.
A brief time later, I found myself in Colorado. The unchanged beauty
was without flaw, yet to my dismay, I was unable to fully enjoy it.
Even small trails, which I had previously made with ease, I could not
manage without an overwhelming urge to vomit. The thought of food was
not at all welcome nor appealing, and my energy waned; I felt as if I
had another mild case of stomach flu. My sister who, along with her
family, had accompanied us on the trip, confided to Mom, "Laurie looks
so fragile..." My weight loss was more apparent to her since she saw
me on fewer occasions. My appetite had slowly declined, and I had
complained of stomach discomfort, prompting me to squeeze a pillow
through the night. Occasional bouts of stomach flu would evoke such
violent stabs of wrenching pain that I could only stand with my stomach
tucked in, my back bent at a 45 degree angle to my legs. We never
suspected that anything was wrong until I discovered the unusual
appearance of my stomach. Even those with keen eyesight can be blind
when gazing into a mirror, especially when the changes seen therein
have occurred gradually, over a period of time. Moreover, I was always
a rather finicky eater and found mealtime to be one of those obligatory
necessities of survival. I was also quite prone toward nervousness,
which wreaked havoc on my stomach as well; certainly my pangs were not
abnormal, as I'd experienced them as long as I could recall, and they
inevitably would render me without an appetite. A lack of interest
with regard to food on my part was nothing new; for years Mom urged me
to finish my food or eat my vegetables, coupled with a lesson on
nutrition or a threat that would not allow me to partake in later
treats, such as cookies or ice cream. Feeling that I was healthy
enough, I cared little about "sound nutrition" and "balanced diet" yet
Mom's "cookie clout" sometimes carried a fair impact, (depending on the
vegetables I was to choke down, as well as the type of dessert which
taunted my eyes and tongue). No threat however magnificent was
sufficient for me to make beets or spinach disappear; that was asking
too much, and I gladly relinquished my treat. My appetite posed little
cause for worry and, as before, the symptoms of stomach flu soon were
but a memory. The lump remained, however, glaring suspiciously from
beneath knit shirts; the appointment with the doctor could no longer be
delayed.
It was a sunny day when we pulled into the doctors parking lot, and I
was in good spirits despite the natural qualms one encounters upon
venturing into the typically noiseless waiting room. I was
characteristically happy, and although I knew not what news my physical
exam would unveil, I felt no need to punish the doctor for doing his
job; he deserved a smile too.
Dr. Murrell was a man of few words, who wielded an aristocractic air
with the unimposing quality of a true gentleman. He appeared to own a
sense of inate calm which allowed him to divulge even the worst
verdicts with unruffled dignity and composure; he transmitted ease to
the waiting patients and relatives as if through a sort of osmosis and,
I'm sure, avoided many hysterical outbursts as a result.
As he methodically inspected my stomach region I found it extremely
difficult to refrain from laughter. Ticklish and quite unused to being
touched, his various pokes evoked embarrassing jolts of muscle spasms
as I tried, without success, to squelch my chuckles. When he had
finished, he announced that he wished the opinion of his associate
doctor and departed for several minutes. Arriving once again with Dr.
Errico, who then took a turn applying pressure to various points on my
sensitive stomach region, they asked whether any specific areas brought
about pain when touched. I replied that I had experienced none, and
they nodded in silence.
As the two doctors prepared to leave the room to privately confer the
meaning of my symptoms, Dr. Errico extended his arm to place a fatherly
pat on my shoulder. As he did so, I felt my spine turn to ice in an
unexplainable sensation of pure dread; it was as if his gesture
foretold doom and I recalled the persisting thought which had echoed in
my mind since the moment I discovered the lump. The news was not going
to be good; I knew it now.
Dr. Murrell returned to the room alone, seated himself before the desk,
then turned to face us. He was unable, as yet, to draw any
conclusions, but desired me to check into the hospital for tests as
soon as possible, and the preparations were made. I can no longer
remember how I felt when I departed that day from the office drear to
the bright flood of sunlight; I cried no tear, and spoke no words of
resentment or anger, for those I would have recalled. I knew only that
I had to discover the truth about that mystery which lurked behind a
mask of skin.
The hospital, I found, was no place to be unless one was horribly ill.
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 buttons, 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
prone 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 prone 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
anticipation.
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 analyzed 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 mass 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
assortment 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 assure 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 mass; 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
institutions.
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 assistant 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 assistant, 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 pricked. I said "merely" because, in my opinion, the
prick 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 space 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 analysis 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 buttocks. 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 hell 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 knob turned and a doctor burst into the room, extending his
hand to my father and offering a friendly "hello!" 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 circumstances. 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 embarrassed, 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
mass 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 mass, I had every reason to believe in my
health as a matter of fact.
The mass 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 embarrassed 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 shores of a small lake, and had grown haughty from
delicacies thrown to them by passers-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 shores where life was
hard, yet sweeter still than risking to the malicious child a twisted
neck for scraps 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 glass
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.
Saturday 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.
I had landed an excellent seat; the story drew me in, as my senses were
unimpaired, and I slowly left Rochester, and hospitals behind to
immerse myself in the image captured through my eyes. The movie was
horrifying; the people in the audience screamed and jumped in unison.
As the actors pursued the vicious shark, and more unsuspecting
individuals fell prey to the maniacal monster, one began to feel
helplessly self-protective, as if caught unaware, one might be torn
limb from limb. Then, in a brutally raging climax, the shark was
overthrown, and a tumultuous sigh escaped from the lips of on-lookers;
everyone was safe at last.
When I rose from my seat to file out of the building, reality slapped
my face. I was not in Moline, I was in Rochester. Tomorrow night I
would admit myself into the hospital, and Monday would be inescapable;
by Tuesday I would sleep beneath the surgeon's blade and awake to the
answers of unfulfilled questions. Yet I was pleased that, for two long
hours, I had, without prompting, laid my worries aside; forgetting was
a business best left unto itself.
Sunday was spent musing through shops in the local mall. I delighted
upon finding several pairs of pants and two knit shirts; it was a chore
to fit clothes, since I was tall and, admittedly, too thin. So happy
with the new purchases was I that I asked the clerk to remove the tags
on two articles and reappeared from the dressing room feeling very much
in style.
In another store I spied a purse that looked nice, but cost fairly
little. I looked down disgustingly at the worn bag which dangled
lifelessly at my hip, and felt the purse would be a worthwhile
expenditure. Digging into the old one for my money, I finally
extracted a disintegrating leather wallet; it's appearance so shocked
my mom that she immediately offered to buy me another.
Generously outfitted, I dismissed the mall with my parents for the more
pleasant atmosphere of the city park. The afternoon was disappearing
rapidly, and we no longer tried to rid our minds of distressing
thoughts, for they were altogether too prevalent to wish away.
Strolling through the grass, we did not often speak; we merely waited
for evening to descend. There is always too much time before an
unpleasant event; too much, yet not near enough. The afternoon
stalled...it seemed never to end...and our conscious minds sustained
heavy blows.
We walked near the lake, where geese stood craning their necks and
bickering among themselves. I looked away; the sight offered little
solace to my restless mind. I longed, almost, to fling myself upon the
hospital steps if I could but in that way escape the awful
waiting...waiting...waiting.
Dad glanced at his watch; five o'clock, suppertime. Eating; it was
something to do, so we welcomed the thought wholeheartedly. Our
therapy consisted of such occupations; as long as one remained busy,
the job itself mattered little. Thus, the main objective of the hour
encircled the procuring of sustenance.
I knew that the meal that evening would be the last I would share with
my parents for several days, yet I no longer remember what I ordered or
if I ate well. I recall only that I had been told to finish eating
before a certain hour, so that the following morning the test could
begin early; under the strict instructions, I lamented that I would not
be able to partake of the customary late-night snack.
We did not linger over our dinner plates. The tension had become too
great; I wanted the hospital to be our next destination. I carried my
few belongings for I needed no suitcase; my underwear I stuffed in my
purse.
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