Diagnosis and Recovery
"It was a word which bit the tongue like the crab for which it was
named. Cancer. It was not a word which rolled off the tongue, and
once in the air it remained there. . .cancer maimed. . .cancer killed."
"I had far too much confidence and hope to fly to the arms of despair,
for in despair, one finds no warmth or comfort."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Diagnosis and Recovery
I opened my eyes to a throbbing pain, and saw that my parents were
standing nearby. Blinking at them idly, my mom inched closer and ask,
"Honey, do you know us?"
Suddenly I felt as if I was an actress in some ridiculous soap opera;
the elements were all there, from the tragic figure of the patient to
the damp-eyed parents. Do I know them, I thought. "Of course I know
you!" I spat the words at them in obvious rage. They smiled at my
fighting spirit; it was a good sign. Had I been too weak, I would
have been incapable of such an emotional outburst. I suffered no
delirium, only intense pain. I despised pain, but more than that, I
was infuriated by phrases which at the time seemed to be idiotic
cliches when words do not easily yield to the tongue. Not impeding my
rapidly surfacing thoughts, another jolt of pain opened my mind. "I
wish I was dead!" My ill-chosen words were daggers to my parents,
whose faces were wrinkled with pains of their own. "Don't say that,
honey," responded Mom, hurt by my instantaneous verbal combustion.
Speech is something which, once flung into the air, cannot be repealed;
language is a component of memories, at times forgotten, but more often
returning to the mind. So it was that the life of my last phrase
during the visit has not yet reached its end, and lives still in our
recollections, a youthful tongue which dared to speak of death, indeed,
to welcome it, was that which emblazoned the imprint with such
permanence.
I was tired, and after gratefully receiving medication to ease the
pain, sank my head into the pillow. Mom and Dad had taken their leave;
there was not a great desire for small talk, even if they could have
produced it.
The following day found me in a much more civilized mood. All
post-operative grogginess had long since disappeared; my exhaustion
resulted only from my body's mad attempt to heal its scars. I was
constantly under observation, and soon adjusted to the frequency of the
temperature, pulse and blood pressure readings; those simple matters
were not disruptions at all.
In the morning I was introduced to the bedpan, and although my ego did
not merit any cruel blow, I found myself further humbled. With a
deplorable lack of skill, I managed to dampen myself and the bed
considerably; I was miserable. Fortunately, in that respect, it was
time to be weighed, and the nurses lifted me onto a table-like scale; I
remained there until my bed had been prepared anew, then was happily
replaced despite the agonizing trip to and from the bed.
Any extensive movement seemed to evoke pain, and I readily understood
the reason for my discomfort when I was bathed. In addition to the
regular routine, the nurse also changed my bandages. Seeing the
incision for the first time, I gawked in amazement, thoroughly
repulsed. The seams of the long gash rose above the surrounding skin,
and with the multitude of black stitches, resembled a rail-road track.
It seemed to me that it would leave a scar of monstrous proportions
looking, at the time, so hopelessly grotesque. Then I noticed the
drain located to the side of the incision, and was shocked to discover
that the soft rubber tube extended to my interior regions through an
open slash in my side. I'd not have thought it possible that one
could entertain such an opening without risking complete loss of one's
blood. I was learning new biological facts with each passing hour.
My parents visited each hour, sometimes speaking with the family
members of other "unfortunates" when I was not awake. It is in the
confines of a hospital that one learns he is not alone in his pain.
The boy who laid in the bed next to my own would literally "poop
himself out" during a bowel movement, losing his insides as well as the
excrement, while a child across the room had a valve on his head which
he could push when water accumulated, thereby releasing the pressure
and accompanying pain. I wondered how those children could ever lead
normal lives with their present situation appearing so dismal.
Although I existed in the present, I lived for the future and my return
home; accepting each moment, I fostered no suspicions that I would die,
having tumors removed; I knew nothing, as yet, of my tumors being
cancerous, for the grave seriousness of the operation I gathered
slowly, as I gained physical strength, since spirit I never lacked.
The business of getting better was simply a matter of time; "whether or
not" I would improve did not enter my mind. Feeling sick, followed by
recuperation and health were as inseparably linked as popcorn and salt.
I always "got better."
Later that evening, I announced that I had to use the bathroom. After
two subsequent failures earlier in the day, I rejected the bedpan with
obstinance; the contraption was immodest and impossible to operate
without the patient feeling horribly unclean. Moreover, I preferred a
dry bed to a wet one, and having twice illustrated my inadequacy for
the nurses, who then had the extra chore of changing my bed, I found
them more than agreeable toward the idea of escorting me to the
bathroom.
As I was helped to a sitting position, my mom looked on in unconcealed
surprise, thinking that I would certainly cry out in pain. With an
inquiring glance at one of the doctors, who happened to be making his
rounds, he smiled proudly and explained that, although it was more
difficult, they had worked around the stomach muscles during the
surgery, rather than severing them. Thus I was spared the excruciating
pain which further cutting would have wrought.
The adventure across the room was a success, and from that triumphant
hour, I no longer necessitated a bed pan; I had secured a far better
means of relief.
Although most of my hours spent in ICU consisted solely of rest, there
were those aspects of each day which I learned to abhor. The most
objectionable was the routine of pounding my back, enacted by one of
the hospital staff, to insure that I would not accumulate fluid in my
lungs. It was an obligatory function, I realized, yet it hurt
dreadfully. As I was instructed to lay on my side, the ruthless
process would begin, thereby releasing my protests as well. I remember
that I would beg them to stop; angry that I had to endure such hostile
treatment; I feared that the incision would burst open midway through
the ordeal, spilling my organs onto the bed sheets; that frightful
thought never materialized.
After a week of this stomach-wrenching routine, I was given a
contraption which was composed of two bottles, connected by four
plastic tubes, two of which were mouthpieces. One bottle contained a
blue solution, while the other was completely empty. This, I was told,
would be a substitute for the back-pounding if I would promise to use
it often throughout the day. The object of the device was to blow
through one mouthpiece with sufficient pressure as to transfer the
contents of the full bottle into the empty one. Then, once completed,
one would take up the alternate mouthpiece and repeat the process to
return the fluid to its original canister. Even though this procedure
was rather slow from the outset, I welcomed it if it would spare my
incision the pain which resulted from the blows to my back.
Among my other daily routines were shots, administered twice to my
thigh, and the blood profile, in which blood was drawn in the morning.
Those who drew blood were quite practiced in that area and rarely
created any unpleasant moments; when the veins in my arms became
uncooperative through constant use, their faces did not waver in
protest at the thought of probing my feet or ankles, which were in
better condition and actually quite accessible.
On Friday, the IV which had been in position since Tuesday began to
infiltrate, wherein the IV solution no longer ran only into the vein,
but into the surrounding tissue as well. My hand started to puff,
swelling into a spectacle which was twice the size of my other; with
all of the misdirected solution seeping into the tissues, I also began
to feel an annoying tightness which pained me when touched. I hoped
that something would be done to alleviate my discomfort, without the
expense of additional anguish, for at times, a remedy invited
unforeseen unpleasantries greater than the one with which a patient was
currently battling.
Dr. W. was called in the room to start a new IV in my other hand. I
hoped it would not be an ordeal, and remained silent as the probing
began. Aiming for a vein, the doctor edged the needle through my skin
and missing his target, attempted to strike it again and again by
manipulating the direction of the needle. I looked on, wincing, trying
desperately not to think at all. His method was not succeeding, and
he withdrew the needle to make ready to try another vein. Shifting his
position, he pierced through the flesh, striving for another site. The
vein rolled about, eluding the valid efforts of the doctor, and once
again, he pulled the point from my hand to ready himself for his third
attempt. I was holding my breath, uncertain how long I could withstand
the slow, methodical jabbing. The needle was again thrust beneath my
flesh, poking back and forth as each try was foiled; in exasperation,
Dr. W. pulled the needle from my hand, stating resolutely, "I'm not
going to hurt you again!" and fled the ward in search of another doctor
to fill his duty.
Several minutes passed, and then a bearded doctor strode toward my bed,
introducing himself as Dr. A. I greeted him politely, though quite
wary, now, at the prospect of having to possibly relive the previous
experience. My fears were groundless, however, for he quickly guided
the needle into a vein and wrapped my hand to secure its position. I
thanked him gratefully, branding his face and name into my memory. The
following day I was transferred to the pediatrics ward, no longer
requiring constant observation. It was a pleasing change; the rooms
were light and cheerful in comparison to the ICU, and the hallways were
brightly painted, having here and there, small lounges for the benefit
of both the young patients and their families. The room boasted a TV,
which, after four days of silence, was welcome entertainment. As an
added bonus, I was now able to receive mail, as well as several lovely
flower arrangements, which had not been allowed in the unit, and as a
result, spent their first days at the nurse's station. The flowers and
plants brought life and color to the room's overall whiteness, and
reminded me of the genuine concern which, initially, I had been too
alienated by pain to realize. The most important part of my day was
the mail delivery; the majority of my cards and letters came from
members of the church and my family. The church response was utterly
amazing, and my days would have proven quite dreary had it not been for
their continuous demonstration of awareness regarding my condition.
I learned the full story behind my operation after my transferral to
pediatrics. "A base-ball sized tumor. . . ," I marveled. "Did they
keep it?" Mine was a question spurred by outright surprise and wonder.
I had no real desire to see the ugly mass. I remembered how the
various organs looked floating in a pool of formaldehyde on the shelves
of the biology room, and shuddered, not caring to see something which
was, most likely, far more grotesque to the eye. "It was a low-grade
form of cancer," Mom continued, "but they feel quite sure they got it
all . . ."
"Quite sure. . ." my mind echoed. Somehow that did not seem proof
enough. Cancer. I had heard of it before, everyone had. It was a
word which bit the tongue like the crab for which it was named.
Cancer. It was not a word which rolled off the tongue, and once in the
air, it remained there, like the seeds of a ghastly plague which was
feared with revulsion. Cancer maimed. Cancer killed.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I drank in the magnitude of my
hospitalization and the many implications of having reared such a
growth in my stomach. Although my progress appeared good and the
doctors believed in their operative finesse with pride and confidence,
I could not embrace the idea of my health as a steadfast quality; I
possessed an elusive disquietude in the recesses of my mind which would
sound an alarm and shield my heart from the brutal disappointment of
having placed my dreams in an unattainable void. My voiceless
apprehension would create no problem, housed as it was, in the back of
my mind; remaining mute, except unto myself, it would hinder no one's
happiness should the doctor's certainty and everyone's hopes
materialize, least of all my own. A positive result contrary to one's
innermost beliefs is a most precious one, indeed.
The days passed within the exacting boundaries of the hospital routine.
Each morning I was weighed, given a shot in the thigh, and then held a
thermometer firmly between my lips while the nurse took my pulse and
blood pressure readings. The drain was checked and sometimes emptied,
as was the canister into which my stomach contents were suctioned.
Several hours later my parents would arrive after eating their
breakfast. We talked a little, and then Dad would stroll casually out
of the room while Mom helped me to bathe. One of the doctors made a
morning visit between 8:00 and 10:00; usually Dr. W. or M. were
assigned to the daily rounds, although Dr. T. did occasionally stop to
examine the scar and inquire about my general health. It mattered
little who stopped in; I liked them all for their various qualities.
Dr. T. was strong, yet compassionate; he understood and empathized with
the concerned patients and family members, utilizing tact and
well-chosen words throughout all conversation. He made the patient
feel comfortable, in good hands; if he did not feel for his patients,
he made a fine performance.
Dr. M. reminded me of one of my cousins, with dark hair and kind, dark
eyes which were a compliment to his character. Younger than Dr. T. ,
he was efficient but gentle in his work, and had an easy personality
which won my trust and admiration.
Dr. W. had a character quite separate from the other two, which
demanded time to appreciate. W. possessed an incredible air of
confidence almost akin to haughtiness, which made any failure a black
eye. There was an inexplicable humor to his manner, however, which
redeemed brusque behavior, for he was not too proud to, in some way,
admit defeat.
A few days after my transferral to the semi-private room, I decided
that it was time to remedy my poor vision and insert my contact lenses.
An occasional lens wearer himself, Dr. W. proclaimed that I would
never be able to wear them for the entire day after not having inserted
them for over a week's time. I shrugged, saying that I was still going
to try, as W. dismissed himself from the room. With an IV in one hand,
and my other free, I manipulated the bottles of solution and the
contacts until I succeeded in their insertion. Pleased that I had
accomplished the feat, one-handed, for all practical purposes, I sat
back in my bed and delighted in my ability to "see" once again. The
nurses' faces were recognizable at a distance, the TV shows gained the
added impact of facial expressions and the flower arrangements stood
against the wall with a new clarity. I could even peer from my window
and watch the pedestrians milling about in front of the hospital steps
and the fluid movement of the traffic through the streets.
At night, Dr. W. stopped again. "I'm wearing my contacts," I told him
with a smile. "You wore them all day?." he asked, rather awestruck.
"Yeh, I did!" He was speechless, shaking his head in disbelief as he
walked out of the door. When I was alone I marveled at the beauty of
the city lights, which had only yesterday seemed a hazy melding of
fluorescent tubing, stretching toward an unknown obscurity; the lights
became sharp points of white before my eyes, mingled now and again with
the red flash of a car's tail lights or the green glow of a traffic
signal. I stared out the window, picturing the night in my mind,
wishing I was bound northward in one of the streaming points of light.
As the traffic raced by, lost, finally in the darkness, I wondered if
they knew how lucky they were, OUT THERE; I really wondered if they
knew. . .
With my stomach on a slow route to recovery, I had not eaten for many
days, nor would I hope to eat for many more. The pancreas needed to
heal as well, and the doctors would not allow food to pass through my
lips until it had shown signs of improvement. I did not have a
breakfast tray to look forward to each morning, so after one of the
doctors stopped by, I would roll off the bed, and, escorted by my
parents, walk down the halls, leaning slightly from the tightness of
the incision and grasping the pole on which my IV hung suspended, still
dripping a tasteless breakfast into my vein. During these strolls, my
"nose hose" was detached from the suction mechanism and clipped to my
gown like a hideous corsage. At first I was embarrassed by the
decidedly gruesome appearance of the hose, filled as it was, with
mucous and blood, but eventually I grew accustomed to the people on the
floor and discovered, also, that others wore my unusual apparatus as
well. Perhaps misery does not love company as much as it loves
compassion and understanding. Thus I would skirt the corridors in both
directions, heading "right" toward the craft room, or "left" which lead
to the canteens. Usually taking a left turn out of my room, I would
amble down the hall to contemplate the vast selection of cold
sandwiches, snacks and candy which could be had simply through feeding
one's pocket change into the coin slots. I stood wistfully before the
machines, pointing out to my parents what I would choose when I could
eat food again.
Although the stomach suction prevented me from feeling hunger pangs, it
was the taste of food that I so horribly missed. Moreover, mealtime
broke the monotony of a bland routine; it was something pleasant to do,
exercising the mouth. It disturbed me to see someone jawing his food
disinterestedly or poking at a meal which, in his opinion, lacked
aesthetic appeal. Meal trays would often be returned sporting a
delectable piece of dessert or fruit; I would peer at the specimens,
sighing that I could not save the morsel from the trash heap.
Food became my favorite mind-game as my stomach gradually healed. We
pursued the canteen route quite frequently throughout the day, and each
time I would gaze at the treats, yearning for a taste of something. . .
anything. . .besides the mint of my toothpaste.
I was not allowed to swallow food or liquid of any kind; even water was
forbidden. My throat became dry, despite its occasional rinsing, and
the tube which ran from my nose to my stomach only hindered the
situation. I decided to test my luck and ask for ice, reasoning that
the excessive coldness might aid my throat to a degree, even though I
could not actually swallow any of it. Since my saliva would become
frigid through the presence of the ice, perhaps the throat would
benefit from the slight trickling of cold moisture. To my amazement,
they agreed to give me a glass of ice chips at various intervals
through the day providing I would only chew the ice, and then spit it
into a metal bowl for that specific purpose; I shook my head "yes" in
vigorous excitement at the proposal. In time, I was even allowed to
swallow one or two teaspoonsful of ice each time. It was a small, but
significant favor, for which I was exceedingly grateful.
As I improved, I sought other forms of entertainment aside from
watching television, which included the use of my hands. In my
opinion, the hospital craft room was an ingenious installment. I had
always loved art, and in that room, one could purchase various kits
which were self-contained, having all the necessary tools and
materials, for a minimal price. It took no time at all before I had
selected two kits, and dispatched myself to my room to begin the
projects. I also enjoyed drawing, and having remembered my sketch book
from home, I made several drawings from the items in my room and the
objects I saw in magazines. When I was not involved with drawing,
however, I lusted at the food photographs and greedily read each
mouth-watering recipe. It must have seemed a curious endeavor, for my
parents would watch me in good-natured humor as I sat enthralled, a
mere twig propped between numerous pillows, lingering over pictures as
if I was haunted by food's memory.
Mom and Dad would eat lunch outside of the hospital, and often walked
about afterward to exercise their stiff limbs. Neither of them were
idle folk, and the long, exhaustive hours spent with me were difficult
for that reason, as well as many, more obvious ones. It was fortunate
that I happened to be hospitalized during August, for the weather was
fine and conducive to jaunts through a park or the city streets. A
shopping mall was located in the area, and they would often stop there
to buy a small gift, which they would present to me upon their return.
As the weeks progressed I had collected a menagerie of small clay
animals which I displayed on a nearby nightstand; it was affection made
visible. When my parents were gone, the treasures were a reminder of
their love throughout the night; staring vacantly out the window, I
knew that despite the impersonal glare of the city lights below, two of
the people out there cared for me.
Mail delivery was an exalted highlight of the day, arriving sometime
after the lunch hour. I had always loved mail, yet this lavish
assortment of cards and letters was a recipe for happiness, and helped
to alleviate the disappointment of not having received a lunch tray.
The opening of mail was a tremendous pastime, bringing rhyme and
laughter to the afternoon. After reading the cards, I would reread
them, picturing the individual or family who took the time to send the
cards. The familiar names written at the bottom of a card or note
conjured images of home... and of friends, which instilled my parent's
day with warmth, even as it had enlightened my own.
Two weeks had passed since Dr. A. had started my IV in the ICU when it
began to infiltrate. Hating to remove it, the nurses would fiddle with
the needle's position, pushing or pulling, and try to ignore the fact
that it, like all good things, must come to an end. I tried to bear
up to its failure, but also hoped wildly that the IV would function for
one. . .more. . .day. The trials I had endured before Dr. A.'s success
were still fresh in my memory.
Despite repeated attempts to save my two week old ally, its rapid
failure demanded attention as my hand swelled like a balloon and the
vein in which the needle resided stung intensely; it could no longer
remain unnoticed in my distorted hand. The needle was pulled, and the
nurses went in search of a willing person to "install" another.
As a replacement for my duo-purpose IV, which dripped nourishment as
well as an anti-infection drug into my system, I somehow found myself
with an IV in both arms, one for each purpose, leaving my hands
virtually immobile and completely useless for any sort of craft that I
might have desired to undertake. This certainly was a lousy state of
affairs, I thought, contemplating the television rather sullenly amid
my twisted array of tubes. Dr. W. entered the room holding his
clipboard and beheld the new entanglement which extended into both
arms. "Well, looks like you won't be putting in your contacts
tomorrow." I thought I detected a note of triumphant glee in his
voice. "I don't know. . ." I answered, my voice trailing off into
nothingness; the new day would reveal what I could and could not do.
With the dawn I found that many things were considerably more difficult
to accomplish. After bathing, with Mom's assistance, I succeeded in
the insertion of my contacts, however, even though the process required
more time and effort than it had previously. Shortly thereafter Dr. W.
pranced into the room. "Hi!" I said cheerfully, eyeing him with
obvious mirth and unaccountably good spirits. He looked at me from
behind his clipboard. "I put 'em in!" He gazed at me with dumbfounded
astonishment and self-consciously adjusted his glasses. "I didn't think
you could possibly do it with IV's in both arms. . ." he said, his voice
shedding its tone of superiority and knowledge.
I grinned at him widely from my bed.
The following day, Dr. W. wore his contacts.
After Dr. W. had departed, blinking with stolid determination due to
his brave and noble undertaking, Dr. T. paid me a visit. Asking about
my condition, I could not refrain from lamenting my lack of mobility;
I no longer was able to draw or take up a craft, among other
difficulties. He easily perceived my frustration and proclaimed,
"Well then, this won't do!" and made plans for an alternate solution;
I beamed with joy to think that I would be able to resume my former
activities.
That afternoon, I was greeted by Dr. M. who had received instructions
to replace one of my IV's to a vein located slightly below my neck,
which would be a more permanent, as well as a more comfortable
position. He asked my parents to leave the room; I began to panic! If
the insertion of the IV was going to create a lot of pain, I wanted no
part of it. I was suddenly stricken with fear, as if all of the events
of the past weeks were thrust upon me at once. I could bear no more,
and tears welled up in my eyes in apprehension for the relatively
simple procedure; I had already withstood much worse, yet my emotional
limit had been reached.
I sat, set-eyed, while Dr. M. set to work. Trying to anticipate a stab
of pain, I watched him nervously as the minutes sailed by. "There," he
said, leaning away from me. "You're not done, are you?" I asked, quite
certain that the worst was yet to come, for I had felt no urge
whatsoever to flinch or grit my teeth; I had felt no sensation at all.
"I'm all finished," he said with a smile. "But it didn't hurt at all!"
I said incredulously, nearly wanting to hug him. "Like," I said,
"sometimes people feel pain, and other times they don't." I looked at
him in admiration.
After the episode with the IV, Dr. M. won my undiluted and devoted
trust; he was the doctor who actually performed the bulk of the work
load in my case, and as the weeks passed, I knew it was he who I would
miss, more than anyone, when I had shed my hospital gown for street
attire. Whereas Dr. T. seemed rather like a paternal figure, and Dr.
W. a sibling rival, I came to look upon Dr. M. as a friend. It was a
shame, I thought, that some patients never regard their doctor as a
human being, seeing only the suit or white jacket and ignoring the
features beyond.
As the days wore on, feeling myself to have become a permanent fixture,
I developed a friendly relationship with one of my numerous roommates.
She was slightly older than myself, fifteen perhaps, and had come to
the clinic from a southern state. As we rattled on, I found myself
unintentionally mimicking her accent, as I often would do when engaged
in conversation with one boasting a heavy accent. I always tried to
control my propensity, and succeeded when speaking to someone else, yet
to her I would inevitably twang the words off my tongue with a hint of
a southern drawl; she did not appear to notice, however, and I am sure
that if she had she would not have been insulted.
Julie resided across the room for more days than anyone else, for her
condition quite perplexed the physicians. She, as well as her entire
family, suffered from acute fatigue; throughout the better portion of
the day she felt sleepy, and could nap at any time the order was given.
Eventually they released her from the hospital's care, unable to
pinpoint the problem after countless tests, both mental and physical.
Julie accompanied me on my trips through the halls, and grew accustomed
to standing beside me as I stared dreamily at the canteens. Her
companionship helped to stave off monotony as the month of August
limped along. Even after she was dismissed, Julie still came to visit,
as she was staying in the city while tests on other family members were
run.
Perhaps there were those who were lonely in the hospital, yet I seldom
felt so myself. Having my parents throughout the majority of the day,
augmented by patients that one would inevitably begin to recognize and
the friendly staff of doctors and nurses, I lacked no conversation.
The hospital was quite populous. At night though, when the bustle of
the day had diminished and the corridors fell silent except for the
rumbling of an occasional cart, and the muffled steps of the nurses
performing their nightly rituals or answering a patient's light, I
would often lay awake and think of my home far away or watch the people
hurrying along the sidewalk below my window, disappearing into a car or
stepping from beneath a street lamp into a pool of darkness. How I
longed to be out there. . . to feel the breeze, cool on my face, and
hear the faint scraping of my footsteps resounding on the cement
sidewalk. . . All other desires were overshadowed by the wish to be
free, to live as one was intended to live, unhampered by tubes and
needles; once I was released I wanted never to return. Evening was
often characterized by a slight melancholy, a stab of homesickness,
perhaps; yet I knew that mourning for that which one does not have was
a pointless, self-destructive endeavor, and I would focus my eyes on
the present, resolutely determined to face each challenge as
courageously as I possibly could.
I welcomed each new dawn, thinking it to be the start of one less day
in the hospital. I was used to the routine now, every aspect a natural
part of this temporary form of reality. One day, for amusement, I
decided to count the pinprick holes on my thigh, which attested to
their receiving a ritualistic shot both morning and night; I came up
with a total of 32 in one leg alone, equalling 16 days. It was no
great wonder that my muscles were rather stiff and inflexible for this
was quite separate from acupuncture, especially on the few occasions
when the needle was a trifle dull.
Every day one of the doctors would call on me, asking how I felt.
"Fine" was always my automatic response; but for the tube in my nose
and no breakfast tray to look forward to, I had no complaints. My
incision was healing quite well, and with the new IV, I was relatively
capable of anything, within reason, of course. I was becoming
stronger, and oddly enough, gaining weight. This latter fact seemed to
please the doctors and they would smile, saying my IV solution was like
eating a steak dinner each evening. "No offense" . . . I said,
"but I'd rather enjoy the traditional kind!"
All of a sudden, amid their daily pre-rehearsed set of questions, I was
asked whether I experienced any gas. "A little," I said amusedly.
"What about a bowel movement?" Somewhat aghast I looked at them and
replied that I had not; "Why?" I asked, quite perplexed. "Well, you
see, we don't want to start feeding you until we know the system is
functioning properly." I raised my eyebrows and wondered where in the
world they thought a bowel movement would come from; admittedly, I
devoured the thought of food daily, but that would produce nothing of
interest to them. "How am I supposed to go if you don't feed me
first?" I asked. "Other people move regularly who are on IV's," they
said. I knew I had a problem on my hands. If other people generally
"went" it meant that I probably would not; in a world of rules, I was
often the exception. There was no rhyme or reason to my physiology.
What was "was" . . . for example, I always sneezed in threes. It was a
simple fact. "I have to go before I get to eat... oh great!" . . .
I may never eat again, I thought dejectedly.
For the next few days the doctors would ask if I'd had a bowel
movement. "Nope." "Any gas?" "A little." I tried to surmise how
long this would have to continue, and began to use the little
persuasive ability which I possessed. "How about feeding me
something... you'll get what you're after!" Well, they didn't know.
As the days progressed, fruitless in respect to their tall order, they
began to soften. "Any B M yet?" "Nope!" "Gas?" "A little. . .
how about some food?" "Well, everything seems to be healing well . . .
we'll see. . ." I sat back in bed, thinking that maybe I would eat
again after all.
With the new school year close at hand, Mom began to think about her
kindergarten: her room at school was disheveled and barren; still
wearing its stark summer time guise. She would have to restore order
to the chaotic array of boxes and create an atmosphere of warmth and
welcome for the children who would soon fill the room with energetic
enthusiasm; Mom needed to return to Moline. A plane reservation was
booked, and Dad drove her to the airport with the understanding that
she would fly back to Rochester on the coming weekend. It was
different with Mom gone, more quiet, understandably, yet the difference
extended beyond all those of the physical nature. Perhaps there is an
instinctual essence within us, as humans, which desire maternal
companionship in times of emotional turbulence or physical weakness.
It is unfair to fathers who love, and are loved deeply in return, but
the mother, the protectress and shrine of life, shall always be the
sustaining end of the cord which had bound her child to existence.
Dad, also, experienced a void in his day with Mom at home. Mom seemed
to have a calming effect upon him, and coupled with her innate
optimism, her presence buffered his reactive temperament. I worried
about Dad; Mom seemed always to have something to divert her attention,
he had only the daily newspaper, occasional stints in front of the
television, and his frequent strolls through the hospital corridors.
Apart from the routine of his job, and the countless repairs of a home
and car, and now stripped of his wife and companion as well, I could
easily understand his restlessness.
With the noon hour, Dad would take his leave of me, and lunch in a
nearby cafe. He soon found a favorite restaurant, which served freshly
baked pies daily; this treat was better eaten at noon, for
procrastination resulted in thorough disappointment. . . often all the
pie would be gone by the time the thought of supper struck a pleasing
note in one's stomach.
When he had finished lunch, his next priority was a walk, which grew
quite lengthy on certain days; this was an indulgence which I never
thought to impede or discourage, for he needed a reprieve from anxiety
much more than I. It was always a great exasperation to me when I
would see a patient, whether he was a child or an adult, deny his
family members of their need for space and a sense of normalcy. Simply
because a patient feels caged by his hospitalization is no reason to
expect a constant bedside companion, thereby imprisoning his loved one
with a greater sentence than that on which he himself felt imposed; the
patient is better able to withstand the hours of boredom, for he is
ill, but the relative, having his usual amount of energy cannot bear
the strain of worry coupled with a patient's demand for vigilance.
Occasional loneliness is far easier to overcome than emotional fatigue.
I entertained myself when Dad was on his walk; it was easy to do.
Often I daydreamed in the midst of a television program, or stared at
the pages of a magazine, never having read them at all. I rarely read
magazines, although I enjoyed them heartily; most of their appeal
derived from the photos, imprinting them in my mind and drawing hours
of fantasy from the images alone.
After the passage of two hours or more, Dad would return, faithfully
maintaining his daily surprise. The gift would be placed among my
other treasures to be enjoyed and to become part of the memory which
was already forming in my brain. The mail had arrived, and he would
look through the cards, reading slowly the message or poem, then
flipping to the front of the card once again. "That's nice," he
would say, and pick up another to read. Dear 'ol Dad, I loved him so.
I wondered why it seemed more difficult to let him know; I had no need
to fear him, his brusque overtones were not always the fruit of anger
as much as despair. I knew that when I hugged him, his heart nearly
burst, his was no cold, indifferent demeanor. . . Dad's heart possessed
the hardness of an eggshell.
The remainder of the day would pass according to routine. We took
walks through the halls, longer now that I was gaining endurance, and
began to trod on unfamiliar ground, past dimly illuminated passages and
ancient, rather ominous corridors which had never worn a bright splash
of paint. It was depressing and almost scary in these foreboding
extremities of the hospital, and I was glad for Dad's company. On one
particularly memorable excursion we had reached the end of the lengthy,
darkened corridor and stumbled upon a window, situated next to the
elevator, which faced the pediatrics ward from whence we had come. As
we were surveying the scene, the elevator door opened, and a woman
appeared, clad in a hospital gown, whose visage shocked my young eyes;
her eyes bore the sign of a failing anatomy, jaundiced to such a degree
that they seemed to have the uncanny glow of a neon sign. She carried
on her face an indisposition to speak; I turned away, but not with
obvious haste, trying to feign a degree of casual preoccupation toward
the window as she moved into the hallway. The whites of her eyes,
yellow as buttercups, were entrenched into my memory, haunting me
after she disappeared around the corner. Such sights were not alien to
the hospital or clinic buildings yet they could not pass one's notice
without delivering a jolt of awareness, of pity for the individual
whose grasp on mortality was waning beneath humanity's unsettled gaze.
Somewhat disturbed after encountering the unusual pair of eyes, I was
content to return to the comparative gaiety of the children's ward.
Giving up the desolate sea of green wherefrom we had emerged, we were
received by a conglomeration of lights which imparted to us an aura of
welcome and flooded the ward with a sense of security.
Dad remained with me until his supper hour, at which time he would
again be transported into the functioning world, where normalcy, rather
than malaise, reigned complete. Following supper, he again returned to
the hospital; our evening was generally spent in front of the
television, taking in what entertainment it had to offer, and then
between the hours of 8:00 and 9:00 o'clock he kissed me good-night, and
walked to his motel, located in the immediate proximity of the hospital.
On the eve of Labor Day weekend, Mom flew back to Rochester, and Dad
left for the airport soon after eating his last meal of the day. He
was always punctual, preferring to wait several hours at his
destination rather than lounge about at the home base until the last
minute lest one of a hundred mishaps occurred. Such was the scenario
depicting that evening, and I felt I could look forward to a night
bordering on the exact characteristics of the one before, distinguished
only by the fact that my father was absent.
I had observed a fair amount of television when the nurse entered to
read my vital statistics and administer the nightly shot to my thigh.
Feeling also that I needed to utilize the facilities, she escorted me
to the door of the bathroom, pushing the IV pole beside me. Suddenly
the IV tube swung out before me, dangling crazily like a wind-blown
vine; it had become detached from the "socket" which protruded from my
skin. I saw no cause for alarm, yet the nurse wheeled and darted up
the hall, leaving the muffled remnants of an explanatory reason for her
flight, to the effect, "I'm going for a syringe. . ." I hadn't seen
the tube touch the floor, although contamination was the cause of the
nurse's anxiety; I decided to stand at the bathroom door and await her
return.
No sooner had a minute passed when my body took on a strange weakness.
My head felt heavy and my eyes were oddly rebelling toward my desire to
focus clearly; I knew if I did not sit down, I would fall presently, so
I leaned against the wall and slid slowly to the floor. I had gained a
sitting position, yet, that too, was being drawn from my capabilities;
a determined force beckoned me toward the floor and I sunk resignedly
down, unafraid and rather indifferent, as a ship, torn and buffeted,
would relinquish herself to the fathoms of a gaping sea. As my body
was ushered to the tile, I glanced helplessly out into the hallway and
caught the eye of a doctor, unknown to me, who was walking briskly past
through the untouched silence of the ward. He stopped abruptly, eyeing
me with marked curiosity and asked "Do you need some help?" "Uh, yeh"
I said, thinking I could, indeed, use some assistance. It struck
me as incredibly humorous, even though I was not fully able to exercise
or convey the entirety of my comic faculty at the time. He asked what
had happened and why the nurse had left me; I told him, for my
mentality, though buffered, was intact. He wanted to know if the IV had
touched the ground. As I did not believe that it had, he gave it a
swift, cursory inspection and plugged it back into the socket. By then
the nurse had returned and was instructed to round up several others;
they had to carry me back to bed, as my legs were rubberized and
altogether useless. I felt as if I had entertained a drunken stupor
within the passage of minutes, and without having passed a glass to my
lips.
The episode must have resulted from the rapid denial of the solution to
my system; since the IV dripped steadily into my veins, my body reacted
to the change as it would any shock. Moreover, the fact that the IV
was so near to my heart, and the realization that I was standing when
the incident occurred, both render the semi-faint more understandable.
At any rate, the doctor and several nurses flitted about me until they
felt quite satisfied that the better part of my siege had ended; I
immediately reflected how fortunate it was that the stated occurrence
happened during the absence of my father. "Well," I thought lazily,
"miracles do happen; or, at least, my luck isn't all bad!" Dad, I
knew, would not have reacted with the lack of agitation that I had
portrayed toward my rendezvous with the hospital floor, and I was
extremely grateful that he did not have to witness the affair. While I
was musing upon the above thoughts, the telephone's harsh ring clamored
to be received. I laid in bed, still awash in a sea of partial
coherence, allowing the nurse to answer the call. It was my oldest
brother, Todd; somewhat dazed, I grasped the phone and attempted to
carry on an intelligent conversation, explaining that which had
transpired directly preceding his call. Once I replaced the receiver,
I collapsed again into the bed's rigidity, perceiving that my former
energy, absorbed into another sphere of existence, had not been
repleted. My strength was of no consequence however; it had grown
late, the plane's arrival was delayed, and nothing was required of me
except to wait for the appearance of my parents; waiting was something
to which I was now accustomed.
It was good to see Mom again; Dad drove her to the hospital albeit the
fact that visiting hours had long since elapsed; in the pediatrics
ward, such rules were often relaxed or ignored for the benefit of the
family, and it was not an uncommon sight to observe a parent slumped in
a corner chair, stealing what replenishment the cramped, make shift bed
would afford. My parents did not tarry in my room that night, as the
minutes marched heedlessly onward and the night aged before us. I
reviewed for them the main excitement of the evening, briefly filling
their inquiries and in return receiving a small dose of chit-chat for
my own reflectance. As they bid me goodnight, I knew that tomorrow
would be merrier for everyone; the main family unit had been reunited.
Parents are the foot-holds and building blocks that sustain the growing
youth; while other individuals may very well flavor the insights and
spice the outlooks of a maturing mind, the parents yet possess the
solid, nurturing ingredient... stability... to which he can, and will,
turn in trying hours. I knew that I would forever be my parents'
little girl; it was of no consequence that I would age into adulthood;
I would always be a fruit of their existence, and while we all had
possession of our senses and general mentality, I would, as would all
of my siblings, return to their sheltering arms in fear, in pain, and
in turmoil. Such was the nature of the bond of father and mother to
their children, creating a debt which can seldom be repaid. I hoped
that, in my small way, I could give them strength and answer their
needs, and prove to be an enrichment to their lives.
The weekend passed rapidly, but it was appreciated by everyone. Mom,
it was clear, had to return to her children; though they were, as yet,
names without faces, her obligations as a kindergarten teacher existed
with more prominence than my health situation; I was out of danger, and
my recovery was ripening gradually; soon I would be released from the
hospital and live once more.
Three weeks had elapsed, and still I had tasted no food, nor had I
swallowed a mouthful of water. My yearning for the sensory delight of
harboring various flavors and textures in the mouth and intermingling
them with cool draughts of liquid refreshment had not abated; indeed,
if the truth must reveal itself, I exalted the characteristics of mere
sustenance to magnanimous proportions, certain that I would heartily
enjoy food of the most modest preparation; dishes which had formerly
sobered my features and impaired my appetite I fancied inviting and
delicious.
My exuberant preoccupation with food was alien to no one. I would sit
in bed, cutting recipes and their corresponding pictures from women's
magazines then, in turn, would glue them to recipe cards, as the
tasteless weeks began and ended. One might have thought that food
would have been a vexation to my mind, yet dreams never inflicted pain
upon my heart, and because they were figments of imagination, mere
mental sketches, their failure in existence caused no dilemma; only,
perhaps, mild disappointment.
The daily visits by the doctors seemed to meld together, echoing the
remarks and questions of the previous day. "Any bowel movement yet?"
"No." "Gas?" "A little." The questions had taken on the pure
monotony of a scratched record which played the identical phrase over
and over, into oblivion. How many days, I wondered, would my ears
endure the repetition before the doctors were assured of the normalcy
of my stomach and pancreas? I tried to close my mind to distressing
thoughts; I knew nothing of my physical condition and through the
doctor's restrictions, I would return to health; I had far too much
confidence and hope to fly to the arms of despair, for in despair one
finds no warmth or comfort.
Having passed my third week in the confines of the hospital, the
doctors finally concluded that the signs were such that they could risk
the removal of the nose tube and allow me to slowly test my stomach's
endurance and tolerance of a liquid diet. The prospect elated me, and
I promised to abide by their cautious instructions.
Removing the tube which issued from my stomach through my nose was no
major operation; before I had enough time to be scared, the tube was
out and my nose, clear. Dr. M. said that the tube would have to be
analyzed for bacteria in the laboratory and, at the sight of the grisly
thing, I immediately pitied the individual who would be assigned to the
horrid occupation. Turning my thoughts inward, I found that, other
than a soreness of the throat, I had no complaints to offer; to be free
of the tube improved my appearance and heralded the commencement of
food into my daily routine.
The first sampling of liquid sustenance proved to be a shadow of my
expectations. I was served bouillon broth and green tea, both of which
hardly satisfied my stomach's desire; the broth was intolerably salty
to my unused tastebuds and the tea unfamiliar. Nevertheless, I
consumed a fair amount of each simply as a reminder that I was licensed
to function as any other human, eating and drinking as a matter of
course.
Within 24 hours after my first ingestion of liquid food, I proclaimed
that I felt an urge to go to the bathroom. The nurse excitedly told me
not to flush the bowel movement until she had inspected the stool; it
was to be a clearly monumental event! After having proudly enacted the
endeavor of which the absence had, for weeks, instilled nervous qualms
into the doctors' thoughts, I emerged from the bathroom; the nurse
quickly surveyed the matter, simultaneously taking notes. It was as if
I was a hen who had laid a golden egg, except for the humbling fact
that my offering was soon flushed from view.
I greeted the doctor that day with an unusually wide smile, knowing
that when he asked his well-rehearsed question, I would be able to
answer in the affirmative; however, he had already received the news by
way of the nurse's chart, and beamed with apparent happiness. "You had
us worried for awhile there," he said. "Well," I countered, "I told
you that you would get what you wanted if you fed me." I sat upright
in bed, grinning tight-lipped and amused by the sheer commonality of
the entire situation; only in a hospital would one find so many
individuals whose good tidings could be realized through such unlikely
aspects of life. Actually, it was rather refreshing; if the bulk of
society could gather contentment from such normal functions, such
simple pleasures, what an unassuming, peaceful world it would be.
With the advent of my ability to utilize my stomach, came other
surprises which were beneficial to my happiness, if not also my thighs;
instead of morning and evening shots, I could now receive medication
orally, thus sparing my legs further abuse. Dr. W. was assigned to
prescribe the medication replacing the shots; when I told him that I
was unable to take pills, he studied me from behind his clipboard, and
a wry smile spread slowly across his lips. "You can't swallow pills?"
he asked. "No." was my firm reply. My dad, who had been observing the
entire scene unfold, queried, "Laurie, after all you've been through,
that would be easy!" It was of no consequence to me how "easy"
swallowing a pill seemed to them. . . it was unnatural. I had no
intention of trying, especially after all I had been through.
Thinking an injection of fundamental guilt or embarrassment would make
more pliable my stiff-willed stance, Dr. W. raised his eyebrows and
said mockingly, "My three year old can swallow pills." Surely such an
assertion by a proud father of his youngster's amazing feat would be a
sufficient reason to shame me into taking my medicine. I looked at him
undaunted and unimpressed. "I can't swallow pills." Perhaps
remembering my success at wearing contacts all day, despite his
positivity that I could never insert the lenses, let alone wear them
for the period of more than several hours, he nodded and selected an
alternative to pills. The art of negative and positive persuasion had
little effect on me if I had full reign over my senses. Eyeing each
other like rivals, we broke into good-humored smiles as he turned to
leave.
Sometimes one's dreams and aspirations bring more pleasure than their
fulfillment in reality. Many, I am sure, have waited in gleeful
anticipation for a certain event to take place, only to feel acute
disappointment when its enactment failed to bring forth one's expectant
jubilation; such was the case with the ambrosiac manifestations which
I had bestowed upon food, and the effect which said food wrought upon
my stomach. To explain further, eating brought about nauseousness;
this surprise substantially daunted my adoration for food, and putting
away my recipes, turned my attentions to other, less torturous joys of
life. Eating was eyed with sharp suspicion; I was told that, since
three quarters of my stomach was gone, I could expect nausea following
meals and, because of the small capacity, should feed myself often. As
a result, I would eat a small amount, become nauseous, recover, only to
discover that another tray of food was being placed in front of me. I
had to force myself to eat; it was a chore to maintain my existence,
not a delight, as I had earlier supposed.
Another curiosity which stemmed from eating was noticed after the
initial bite of jello; oddly, jello seemed to "stick" at the point of
entry to the stomach, then, eventually, pass down into the stomach
itself. Never having experienced this sensation before my operation, I
mentioned it to the doctors. They were unconcerned, and felt that any
difficulty would soon repair itself. I nodded, wondering if it would,
indeed, recover on its own. I remembered the tender lump which my head
had somehow sustained during my lapse of unconsciousness in the
operating room. Five days later, approximately all of the hair in the
scalp which grew within the sore region fell out, leaving a temporary
oval bald spot on the back of my head. When asked about this curiosity
the doctors were mute. Perhaps it was the result of an operating room
panic; I could understand their silence amid such societal leaches as
lawyers and "lawsuit" seekers. The lump would be a mystery.
Because the doctors offered no clues as to the cause of the "sticking"
I managed to concoct several of my own; one possibility was that the
valve between the esophagus and stomach, known as the cardiac
sphincter, sustained damage in the operation or through the long-term
presence of the stomach to nose tube; or, I thought, the muscles within
the esophagus, which push food toward the stomach in swallowing, were
not functioning properly. The actual reason was never drawn from my
inquiries, and to the present, the sensation creates some difficulty;
yet it, like the other questions, shall always remain a mystery.
With each day I was given more freedoms; the IV was removed, and the
cumbersome pole escorted to the supply room; walks increased in number
and duration as they were now unhampered by either tube or pole. My
diet improved rapidly, from liquids to strained liquids, to soft foods,
and finally to a regular diet, and albeit the fact that food was no
longer a blissful thought, the small and frequent meals were a source
of entertainment and added sparkle to my day.
Despite gastro-intestinal difficulties, I endured the final days in the
hospital with a new strength; because I was eating and sustaining
nourishment through my natural means, I knew the heavy burden of a long
recovery was loosing itself from my shoulders; I had nearly reached the
summit of self-restoration after physical toil and mental strain.
My personality was refreshed by the small delights which seemed to grow
unchecked in my miniature world; I loved to sit outside on the roof-top
"patio" of the hospital and feel the warm sun and summer breeze touch
my face, while at night the distant lights of Rochester glittered and
shed their baleful remorse before my eyes; they were tempting jewels no
more, but sweet reminders that at the week's end, I could stand beneath
their steady glow. I no longer felt imprisoned, an outsider to the
stream of life. I was a part of humanity, an element of nature, a
working vessel of creation. I was not constrained. If I so desired, I
could dress in my civilian clothes and disappear through the yawning
doors of the elevator, to be lost in a sea of unknown personalities,
and unfamiliar faces. The idea of freedom was a comfort to my last
days of hospital existence, for it was attainable; I had but to discard
my gown, don my clothes, and flee. . . and it would be mine. True
bondage, I found, existed only in the mind and the way in which one
perceived his world; for whether restricted under lock and key or lack
of health, the mind is still capable of limitless meanderings if one
but remains open to himself and is aware of his dreams.
On the day of my departure, Dr. T. dropped in to remove my stitches.
Perhaps because he was the primary surgeon, this finalization was
reserved for himself as the ultimate service and last detail of the
operation. I watched while he snipped the threads, and tugged them
from their month-long residency, some willing to give up their hold,
others wrestling rebelliously with my skin. Here and there, pinprick
points of blood surfaced along the scar, active protests of dislodged
threads, which shined conspicuously beside the ruddy incision. Though
alarming in its appearance, the skin would one day recover from its
trauma and time would fade the scar; already it showed signs of rapid
healing, itching uncontrollably, as with a vengeance; the soreness
diminished, and I could stand upright with little pain or stiffness.
Dr. T. always appeared to share in one's concerns as well as one's
joys; it was evident that my departure and good progress pleased him.
Other than a slight loss of weight after returning to food, which was
to be expected, given the side effect of nausea, I demonstrated every
sign which indicated a splendid recovery was well underway.
Later in the morning, Dr. M. arrived to remove the drain in my side.
The procedure was little more than a strange tugging and the length of
flexible rubber was discarded. A stitch was also removed, and the
business was finished with the placement of a gauze patch.
I was quite satisfied and ready to leave. The doctors I would see the
following day at the consultation in the Mayo building, but to the
nurses, I gave a word of farewell. In my own way, I would miss them,
for I had grown to know their various personalities; but though I was
grateful for their services, I would not pine my station in the
pediatrics ward. . . even the stale, smoky scent of a motel room was a
better place to spend the night. Gathering my belongings, I began the
walk to the elevator with my father, beaming happily at my long-awaited
descent into the real world. "Come back and see us!" shouted the
nurses. I smiled. "Okay!" I said mechanically; although I was not
intentionally insincere, I knew that I would never return. Once I
quitted an institution or a segment on life's chain of events, I never
retraced my steps. I looked not so much to the future as to the
present, and in the present, I wished to live.
As I stepped into the morning sun, I tried to inhale the freshness,
gaze upon the beauty and listen to the sounds; life swelled about me,
too immense to take in at one moment. My spirits were frothing with
excitement at each successive stride along the pavement as we paced
toward our motel; it was a Big Day.
I rested briefly in the motel room and then we decided to drive around
Rochester so I could see for myself some of the places Dad had visited
on his afternoon strolls. Many of the streets were lovely, bordered
with trees which grew from scrupulously trimmed lawns. The houses
behind the green lawns and sculptured shrubs loomed with magnificence
and grandeur; some displayed vast entry-ways while others boasted fine
masonry and stonework. I had little doubt but that these were the
homes of surgeons, businessmen and prominent city personnel. The
outward appearance of the homes showed nothing but orderliness and
tranquility, yet for all of the pervasive greenery, the scene lacked a
sense of life; no one peered through the windows, no boy clad in
cut-off jeans mowed the grass, no children played on the
clean-swept-steps, nothing moved but the trees in the wind. I
reflected on the sight dismally. Perhaps it was considered improper to
be "seen" outdoors; I lamented the plight of some people, for whom
natural beauty seemed not a thing to be enjoyed, but merely a device by
which one's wealth could be measured, something tangible, something
which could be had. I had once heard that through riches one might be
free; yet that which I saw in these streets was bondage of the most
pitiable sort, for it was entirely self-imposed. Restrictions and
social codes made by and for the elite were gladly followed, and those
who bent under their weight, stooped willingly. Conformity can
eventually overshadow the individual, rendering his former joys
meaningless, if he desires to exist amid prefabricated expectations as
determined by status rather than true values. Such are the hazards of
social living; personally, however, I would rather sit on my front
steps and wave at passersby.
Then I remembered; it was noon, a September weekday. . . the children
were in school, the parents at work, and youngsters were most likely
receiving their lunch. It was I who was an alien spectacle, not the
streets through which we were driving; had it not been for my
hospitalization, I, too, would have been seated amongst a classroom of
students, and Dad at work. Again I mused over the beautiful sights.
Maybe I had simply come at the wrong time; every street can seem
deserted. I hoped that these lawns were loved as I loved my own.
We roved about the city, finally stopping at an outdoor mall which
extended far beyond my ability to traverse. Dad and I entered only
several shops which contained the novelty items that had served as my
daily surprises while residing in the hospital. I tired easily,
however, so we found our way to the motel once more.
The lodging was plain, but serviceable and clean. My bed was
commodious, compared to that which I had occupied for the past month;
it boasted a built-in massage mechanism, which I tried immediately, and
later regarded as a waste of both time and money. It was amusing,
however, shaking vigorously, for about three minutes, like a belly of a
rotund man engaged in hearty laughter. As I unloosed the bedspread
from its clutch around the pillows, I noticed that the pillows rustled
when touched; inspecting them further, I discovered they were encased
protectively in plastic. My eyebrows arched quizzically at the sight,
yet I said nothing; there must be a reason why the management was
disposed to do this, but it mattered little to me at the moment. I
wished to rest, and until it was time for supper, discarded all
conscious thought and drifted into a peaceful repose.
In keeping with my redesigned stomach, I ate a small meal at supper
time. Before setting back to the motel for the evening, though, I
decided that it might be fun to sample one of the famous pies that my
dad had been enjoying throughout the month, so we turned into the cafe,
and luckily, spied several pieces that still lurked in the pie cabinet.
A slice of apple pie caught my fancy, and Dad selected another. He
had not bent the truth; the pie was delicious, and I unhesitatingly
devoured the entire piece.
Once returned to our motel, I began to note the uneasy qualms of an
upset stomach gradually gaining momentum. I decided to lay down,
incubating the nauseousness until it had transformed into an
unquenchable, relentless monster.
Before I was able to run, or even think to run, the beast gave a mighty
heave and unloosed its hold on the contents of my stomach. Apple pie.
The reason was now quite evident for the necessity of the plastic
pillow covers. Apple pie in reverse was a sight most gruesome. I
looked once more at my pillow, a wrong move, and bolted for the toilet
as the beast ventilated its frustrations a second time by bellowing
vehemently into the porcelain bowl.
I don't blame my stomach for its mammoth revolt; it had not needed to
function at all for well over three weeks, and then, after a mere five
days of work, it received an entire slice of rich apple pie. Not
pleased, it decided to send it back. Thus my Big Day ended on a rather
sour note; but perhaps sweetness, tempered, forms the groundwork of
memories far stronger than those composed solely of sugar and honey.
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