Chemotherapy
"Uncertainty wielded mighty weapons and sharp words. What IF. . .was
too persuasive to warrant refusal."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chemotherapy
With the new day, I was more cautious in my choices of food. We
breakfasted, then lunched, milling about the city until it was time for
our afternoon consultation.
We were to meet with a Dr. E., an oncologist who specialized in cancer
treatment; the surgeons would also attend. Playing the usual waiting
game, we sat first in the lobby, and after our names were called, found
ourselves in a room similar to that in which the initial pre-operative
consultation had taken place. Neither Dad nor I knew what this meeting
would portend; yet I felt that, although my hospital stay had reached
its end, my wings were clipped, unfit for flight. There would be more
trials, and more obligations; uncertainty seemed to breed obligation,
for to it, I was unextricably bound.
Muffled steps were heard outside the door, and I had a slight sensation
of de ja vu. Then the door burst open, and a tall man entered, booming
a friendly "hello" to both of us. We all shook hands and seated
ourselves; soon afterward, the three surgeons, Drs. T. M. and W.,
entered as well as a young smiling doctor who was there simply to
observe. Dad rose again to greet the new comers. As the pleasantries
died away, the business of the meeting came to our attention.
Because my tumor had been cancerous, there was naturally the question
of whether surgery alone had been action enough to free the entire
cellular structure from my body. As far as the surgeons could
recognize, they had removed all cancerous cells, but since cells cannot
be seen by the naked eye, the doctor's supposition could possibly have
been incorrect; for this reason the meeting was called to determine the
next course of action. Since mine was a rather unusual case, they felt
at a complete loss as to the route which should be taken, and having
stated several options decided to privately confer the matter. The
doctors filed out of the room. Dad and I looked at one another. The
whole situation seemed ridiculous. The surgeons were "certain" yet the
state of my health was rendered "uncertain" by the presence of cancer.
One word, and yet it made such a difference; it was almost
mathematical; just as surely as positive and negative numbers,
multiplied, equalled a negative response, certainty coupled with
uncertainty yielded uncertainty. Moreover, I began to feel like a
subject, someone against whom plots were devised; there was to be no
specific method, no scientific plan in my treatment. . . and while I
reserved faith in the doctors, I knew that an end had been reached
wherein my self-confidence was worth just as much to my well-being, if
not more.
When the doctors returned, they confessed that, although a decision had
been determined, their means of arriving at said decision was quite
simplistic and utterly devoid of calculation. The decision was
literally pulled from a hat, producing a solution which read,
"Chemotherapy," and to which they would adhere unless our wishes were
opposed to it. At this point, the surgeons took their leave of us, and
I voiced my farewells; they disappeared into the hallway, and the door
slowly drifted back, to close silently and blot their retreating
footsteps. It seemed strange that I should never see these men again
when, for a month, they were daily visitors and trusted allies.
We were now alone with Dr. E. and the silent, smiling observer. Dr. E.
explained the situation which had formulated, defining chemotherapy as
a means by which cancer was cured, sweeping any and all lingering cells
from the body with a deadly blow. In my case, the treatment was viewed
simply as a protective measure, a guarantee, that all cancerous cells
were wiped out; given such a characteristic, especially when
considering my previously mentioned uncertainty, it was already obvious
to me that we would not refuse the proposal. As we sat motionless to
hear the rest of the definition, I became aware of the observing doctor
whose eyes were riveted to my face with an uncanny, relentless
fascination, while his lips remained curled in an unwavering smile; it
mattered little where I would place my eyes, his gaze feasted on my
features, ingesting hungrily every emotion my countenance displayed. I
listened half-heartedly to Dr. E.'s conversation; he explained that
treatments would be paid through the research funding since my cancer
was a rarity, and would therefore place my family under no financial
burden. It was nice that my experimental therapy would be no cancer on
my parent's bank account, I thought dimly; my concentration was
withering under the infernal scrutiny of the observer's beaming eyes
and steadfast smile, for there was no benevolence in that plaster-cast
smile, only a keen desire to devour one's expressions; and I knew that
he waited for a certain look, a show of anguish, an emotional outburst.
Dr. E. continued. He was explaining the ways in which chemotherapy
affected the patient. Something within me did not want to hear what
would happen, yet my mind took it in; I would feel sick, nauseous,
weak. I would be susceptible to infections and viruses... I would be
afflicted with occasional aching... I would lose my hair... I could
die. Tears, unbidden, welled up in my eyes so I tried furiously to
will them away; I did not want to cry in front of those lidless eyes.
It was rude, callous, to stare so unflinchingly as another's future was
verbalized and deftly illustrated by a doctor who knew all of the
hideous cruelties of which chemotherapy was capable.
Dr. E. passed a form to my father, instructing that both he and I read
carefully, and sign if we were in agreement to its statements; our
obligations, their obligations, etc., etc., etc. I was staring at my
knees, fighting tears desperately. My head was bowed low to escape the
face which would not leave my own, which granted no peace or
meditation. Dad balanced the paper on his knees and signed his name
with confident strokes; he passed it to me. "You can read it first,"
he said. My eyes were a haze which saw through the page. I did not
need to read it, for I knew what I had to do; knowing, however, made it
no easier.
I signed without thinking, without reading one word. The observer was
grinning widely now, a sadistic glimmer of pleasure seemed to sparkle
in his eyes; I did not have to look at him directly; his luminous frame
of mind pierced my unseeing stare. Tears shone on my face. I wondered
bitterly if my performance had satisfied him.
To conclude the business of the hour, a date was determined for my
return to the clinic; the commencement of treatment was two short weeks
from the present, and time would not slow its tempo for me. I would
have to enjoy those days while I was able. Dr. E. stood, signifying
that the meeting, and his time, had reached its duration; I bid him a
respectful good-bye and he ushered his abominable side-kick out of the
door. Dad and I gathered our belongings and departed in their wake,
walking toward the lobby. Climbing in the elevator, descending to our
floor, climbing out of the elevator, walking to the car... it all
seemed mechanical. While our bodies glided toward our car,
self-propelled, we decided to leave the town that afternoon. Somehow,
the future demanded that the need to go home be satisfied. We went.
The September sun crept low, tempting winter as it reclined toward the
western horizon. After we had left the city behind us, and found the
route which would lead its weary travelers home, Dad broke the silence
of our brooding minds. "Would you have been satisfied with just the
operation? Would that have been enough?" I shook my head slowly back
and forth, sitting quietly and gazing as the pavement was consumed by
the miles. "No..." I said, faintly echoing my mute reply. We drove
on, into the fading light. Uncertainty rode with us; it was the
impetus which quailed for insurance, taunting our future-bent minds
with doom and dread. Uncertainty wielded mighty weapons and sharp
words. "What if..." was too persuasive to warrant refusal.
We arrived in Moline long after sunset; it was a beautiful sight,
crossing the Mississippi, for the river reflected the street lights in
a profusion of multi-faceted bands which sparkled like a king's hoard
of precious jewels. It seemed a warm welcome, though few people were
stirring, and those that stirred knew us not. That we knew the land
was enough.
The streets on which we drove seemed like old friends, unchanged, and
somehow dearer to the heart after the extended absence; Fourth Avenue,
whose narrow confines should never have known four lanes of traffic;
53rd St., which boasted one of the few brick surfaces still in use;
and 7th Ave.... the corner mail box, the parallel rows of houses, and
finally, our gravel driveway.... home. As we neared the end of the
avenue, the headlights caught a curious banner of white which appeared
to stretch over the entire drive. We approached and stopped beneath a
sign which read, "Welcome Home Laurie," professionally lettered in blue
and red; it was the work of John Moore, Steve's father. Welcome
home?... indeed, yes!
The following days seemed a continual welcome; my aunt made some of my
favorite rice pudding, neighbors dropped in, friends visited... and to
my surprise I received more cards in the mail. I busied myself writing
numerous notes expressing my gratitude for all the demonstrations of
concern which I had received as well as a note of appreciation which
appeared in the church bulletin in reference to all the cards sent to
the hospital; it was a job I viewed seriously, because no one had been
obligated to do anything for me. Just as I was doused with affection,
I might have been completely ignored; thus, I believe it is of the
utmost importance to acknowledge another's selfless expenditures,
whether their value be measured in hours or coins. To turn one's back
upon the kindness and concern of others is a silent, but effective
voice which speaks of one's own innate selfishness and dearth of love,
for although giving should be a pleasure unto itself, it is a human
propensity to seek further pleasure from the fact of the recipient, and
if the latter remains expressionless and verbally dense, he denies the
giver of his utmost joy. Giving is more than simply the ability to
spend money; the ungracious and ill-mannered are often unaware, or
perhaps more accurately stated, heedless of this fact.
School was already in session when Dad and I returned home from
Rochester and although Mom and he went to work regularly, I refrained
from going to classes for several more days. I was still quite weak
from my operation and related weight loss, and my stamina and endurance
were a mockery to their former capabilities, but my underlying strength
helped me overcome all of the obstacles which I had hurdled, as it
would similarly allow me to master those which lay ahead. I was
strong; cancer was my solitary barrier to a clean slate of health.
Returning to school, which was always a nerve-wracking experience for
me, was further complicated that year by my late arrival; moreover, my
health dictated that I use the elevator instead of the stairs, an
instruction which I abhorred because I felt myself to be a spectacle.
Had my personality enjoyed ladles full of attention, my reaction would
have been that of pure delight, for in addition to utilizing the
elevator, I was allowed to select a friend to carry my books, and
together we would leave the classes early to avoid the jam of hallway
traffic. I was also instructed to come to the nurse's office to eat a
morning and afternoon snack, as well as to rest during the physical
education period. I characteristically despised being singled out from
the crowd in such a way that everyone's attention was momentarily
turned on myself. This time, however, it could not be avoided, and
with a plea for inner fortitude to my mind, I followed all of my
directions obediently. When I was able to forget my embarrassment, I
was quite grateful for the special treatment which I was given.
As it was, I attended school only three days, but in that time I
reacquainted myself with my schoolmates and was readily accepted in my
former circle of friends. I was unused to such attention which my late
arrival and circumstances seemed to evoke, yet it was pleasant, just
the same.
A memory which surfaces in connection with my few days of school was my
guarded reservations toward my appointed English teacher whose innate
haughtiness took on the unfriendly guise of derisive sarcasm when one
of the less fortunate students directed his attention. He enjoyed the
reprimand to an excess which was unprofessional and beyond reason, as
he would rend his subject before the other student's eyes to gain their
general humor, and camaraderie. I would sit quietly throughout the
class, listening carefully to the lesson lest through inattentiveness,
I be attacked by the ruthless teacher and then breathe a great sigh of
relief when the clock read five minutes before the bell.
Very few memories formed during the three days of school, indeed none
which dealt with curriculum or activities; those I described were
pinpoints of feeling, of emotion, rather than events that were special
unto themselves. Such, it seems, is the manner of my existence;
thoughts and feeling compose myself; events simply form the backdrop
against which, while it remains intact, memories are viewed.
It was a Friday evening when Mom, Dad and I set out to Rochester again.
Because Dad had already taken many days off work, he would only drive
up to the clinic with us and then catch a return flight into the Moline
airport on Sunday; the shop rules had been relaxed (when I had surgery)
for Dad's benefit, and as grim as the circumstances were, the boss
could not abide the thought of sending Dad forms to complete to satisfy
the company, especially considering his flawless work record.
Nevertheless, it had been over a month, and Dad could not expect to
take more days without giving a formal written explanation and
statement of intent as well; with Mom's vast accumulation of sick days,
there was no need for my father to remain during my treatments.
The hour of our arrival was quite late, but since we had two weeks to
plan the trip, we had the foresight to make reservations at a nicely
furnished motel rather than leaving our luck to chance. It was a
marvelous improvement from the motel of our initial excursion, having
individual bathrooms (instead of one down the hall) and kitchen
facilities which we would use later.
We indulged in sightseeing and shopping throughout the weekend until
Dad's departure, lending to our time the best possible sense of
normalcy by pursuing the activities which I found most enjoyable. It
was impossible to forget the promise of Monday's treatment, however,
and it seemed to me that I was followed by a haunting shadow of unrest,
while before me, ticking loudly, was ever the face of a clock. Too
soon Sunday came and Mom and I watched as Dad's plane taxied down the
runway, turned and scorched a misty path into the blue sky. We drove
back to the city, stopping to buy groceries to outfit our kitchenette,
and then arranging them in the cabinets of our temporary home before
seeking a restaurant for the evening meal.
The so-called "last supper," my last meals taken before all eating had
to cease to comply with the demands of the morning blood test, were
traditionally grand affairs. I ate whatever struck my taste bud's
fancy, which in my case, was always a chicken dinner. I doted on fried
chicken to such an extent, ordering it on every occasion in which we
ate dinner at a restaurant, that Dad eventually blamed "chicken" as the
culprit behind my development of cancer. Although the doctors assured
him that my love affair with fried chicken had played no part in
germinating my disease, he still "hated the stuff"; as with all
unreasonable, unexplainable, occurrences the desire to find a reason is
a fiery quest, which unfortunately is not extinguished by merely
pointing one's finger of blame on a subject. Only acceptance can wash
away the flames born of despair.
The morning was fine, with the exception of the knots in my stomach.
We drove to the clinic buildings, finally parking in the Damon car
ramp. From the garage, it was easy to get to the various buildings, as
an elevator ran directly into the subway system of the clinic. When
the doors of the elevator parted we no longer needed to pause to read
the informative signs posted on the facing subway wall; we were
acquainted with the network of intersecting lines and headed right,
through glass doors and followed the aging, dimly lit corridor until, a
block or so down, we met with the fastidious decor of the Mayo
building. Still we maintained our course, past a fleet of elevators
and its waiting patrons, a pharmacy and bookstore, and a corridor which
sloped slightly upward leading to the Plummer Building; we covered more
ground skirting a hallway which allowed a brief glimpse of sunshine
through vertical windows in the wall, and plants began to appear,
growing fiercely toward the light. They were scattered in artistically
positioned containers, guarding the final corridor which led to the
Hilton Building in a stately, yet beautifully satisfying manner. The
Hilton Building itself had even more plants in the waiting room of Desk
C; indeed some of which were better described as trees, noting the
vigor with which they seemed to soar skyward. If only I had such luck
with plants, I thought, seating myself on a fiery orange chair.
Blood tests weren't so bad, unless my vein didn't want to cooperate, in
which case, they fell into my "tolerable" category; although I seldom
uttered a word, pain did not thrill me and I suspected that, underneath
the person labeled "a brave little girl" was a very yellow human being.
I knew it would not alter a thing if I professed to being
"lemon-yellow"; life coexisted with pain, and if you felt pain, well,
that was life... but if you didn't, chances were, you were dead.
Everything had its alternative, and considering the uncertainty riding
piggyback on my shoulders, I felt that I had only one route to pursue,
even if it included pain. I didn't consciously think about my future,
despite the promise of a cure after the siege, it seemed more
appropriate to dream and take each blow of reality as it was dealt,
without thinking at all.
The blood test accomplished, we left the brightly painted, plant
infested waiting room and retraced our steps to the Mayo building, at
which point we milled about the elevators until finding one which was
not already protesting its capacity. It was a busy place.
When we reached our floor, excusing ourselves around those who had
packed themselves tightly in the elevator rather than opting for
another "flight," we found an excess of space in the form of an immense
waiting room. It had the snob appeal of a library; no one spoke, and
few looked up from their magazines except when the nurse would stand by
the front desk to read her list of names, after which, a slight
transformation of the waiting room would take place as the selected
patients strode up to her. Within seconds, the room again reflected
studious tranquility and heads sank below the horizon of newspapers or
books. In certain situations humans were so predictable. Here they
were so reserved, so introverted, so unapproachable that smiles were
left untaken simply because they were not seen; if one existed in such
a location, he would believe that cordiality was dead, severed from the
world. I looked around and wondered whether anyone would change his
disinterested stare if a loud sneeze issued forth. I doubted it.
And with that, my name was called.
Forming a troupe of several people the nurse escorted us to individual
dressing compartments and we were issued hospital gowns. I had been
instructed to undress to the waist only, since my test was a chest
X-ray, and then wait in the claustrophobic booth until further notice.
I finally unlatched the door and sat in the corner seat of the booth
with the door agape, however, disliking my inability to see the nurse
should she have happened by my door; I did not wish to be forgotten in
the maze of hallways and felt more secure with a view. I had to know
"what was going on"; blindness would be paranoia in its highest form
for me.
Finally my name was called and I popped my head inquiringly out of the
door, hoping that I could attach a face to the voice I'd heard. A
technician in a blue jumpsuit was waiting in the intersecting hallway,
and I followed him to a bench where I sat until they were ready to take
my X-ray. It seemed such a dismal place; there were so many doors, and
so few lights.
A door whipped open. "Lauren Isaacson?" I stood up and filed after
the woman who led me into a dreary room that somehow reminded me of a
bomb shelter. "Put your chin against the bar, here, shoulders forward,
and take a deep breath." at which point she ran behind a heavy wall and
peered out at me, continuing, "hold it now... hold it" Click! Rumble!
"Keep holding..." The machine silenced, rendering its five
photographs of my lung onto the X-ray plate. "Breathe...." The woman
was so businesslike; I wondered how often she repeated those words...
I wondered if she said them in her sleep.
"You can go get dressed, but don't leave the dressing room." "Okay," I
answered. I stepped reluctantly from the armored room, unsure which
direction the room was, and throwing caution to the wind ambled to the
left, and then to the right, and amazingly, I found my room. What if
the door won't unlock? I thought, appraising the space beneath the
door and floor; I did not have the best luck with locks, and remembered
many a time when, on a vacation, I could not succeed in entering the
motel room after scouting for a can of pop. Mom or Dad would always
let me in from their side of the door, while I was still fumbling with
the key. The door opened easily and I signed with relief; from the
inside I latched the door, still wary of the lock and key, and
proceeded to dress. Several minutes passed, then a click from the loud
speaker broke the silence. "Lauren Isaacson... you are free to go."
In other words, it was breakfast time and I galloped from my booth like
a horse from the starting gate of a race.
Hungry though I was, when I seriously began to attack my plate,
nervousness uttered a complaint which I was eventually obliged to
acknowledge; it was just as well; my stomach was not adjusting to the
idea that it had to get back to work, and strongly repulsed a large
meal. Even my small breakfast conjured rebellion and I sat on the edge
of my chair, sweating and quite nauseated, while Mom finished her plate
of food. I tried not to watch her eat; the sight of food, the smell of
food... it was everywhere when I felt sick. Leaving the restaurant I
found the fresh air to be a measurable improvement; at last, when my
nausea subsided, the visions of food danced from my mind and haunted me
no more.
It was beautiful outside; autumn was reaching its peak of glory in
Rochester and Mom and I poked about the streets, waiting for our early
afternoon appointment at the Curie Pavilion. There was a slight chill
in the air, despite the ample sunshine and our light coats provided the
warmth we needed as we kicked through the leaves. It was always cooler
than in Moline, it seemed; fall had not quite arrived at home. I was
glad; I didn't want to miss the color of the oaks, the acorns and the
busy squirrels around our woods either; I wanted to take it in, to wrap
its vision in my memory so that it could never be erased... autumn at
home... would have to wait another five days.
Mom watched me with feigned happiness; she looked at my hair, a
flowing, healthy mass of gold which cascaded about my shoulders, and
felt sickened that it would soon be replaced by a wig. She knew that
my hair was my foremost joy in the spectrum of physical traits and
would be a difficult loss. Hair is vanity, to be sure, yet that
observation counts little to the individual who must bear his bald
reality with courage. Appearance does not make the person, but to say
that it does not matter is a falsity.
I had remembered to take my camera, a small instamatic, which was an
early summer purchase and my latest, greatest hobby. At various
intervals Mom would snatch it from my hand and position me in front of
a glorious tree or upon a rock, capturing the moment with a click and a
smile. Later we would look at the photos and the smiles, yet remember
the trauma of our thoughts; the deceptive faces in the photos did not
fool our eyes, though they painted appeal in the visual world. The
hair, the glow, the newly gained energy... all would be changed by the
time the pictures were developed; we would be seeing the past and, I
felt, by that time, the past would prove a better reality than the
present.
It was time to go back to the clinic. Curie Pavilion, a cylindrical
building from the perspective of an outsider, was located near the
Damon parking ramp, and across the street from the Mayo building.
Actually, from the street view, Curie was only a glassed in elevator.
We entered the curious building and pushed the elevator button; we had
no choice of destinations; the only way to go was "down." Once below
ground, we emerged from the elevator and plunged through a set of heavy
glass doors into a waiting room. A bust of Madame Curie was observing
her flock of patients from one side of the room. We strode up to the
desk, relinquished our appointment card and took a seat. The people
were quiet and grim; it was sometimes difficult to discern the patient
from the relative in the unhappy place; worry pervaded the atmosphere.
I wondered what sort of fate I had accepted for myself; I wondered what
joy could possibly exist for these people, what hardships they had
endured, what expectations they possessed.
"Lauren Isaacson?..." We approached the desk; I smiled to break the
tension, to soften the blow. We followed the nurse into a room and
were told that the doctor would be around shortly. Everything was
white or polished chrome. Sterile. Antiseptic. Professional.
I was seated on the examining table, swinging my legs, when Dr. E.
strolled in the room. "Hello, Lorn" he drawled, "Mrs. Isaacson..."
nodding to my mom. He spoke with us for a brief period, asking about
my health and referring to his clipboard of papers to tell of my "good"
blood test results. Everything seemed to be in order. "Well... we'll
get a nurse in here to get your IV started, and then I'll see you again
tomorrow morning." "All right," I said.
As he had promised, a nurse came in, shutting the door behind her, and
produced a syringe. "This is a shot to help keep your nausea down a
bit," she said, motioning for me to unclasp my pants and bend over.
What a mosquito bite, I thought, pulling up my pants.
Shortly afterward another nurse appeared bearing IV solution, tubes,
syringes, needles... the works. I laid down as she strapped a
tourniquet around my arm and began her search for a vein. It was a
slow, meticulous search, which necessitated a smaller needle; she knew
she would never probe the large one into any of my poor, tiny veins.
The nurse opened a drawer, producing a needle which had plastic tabs on
either side of it; "This is called a butterfly needle," she told me.
"Butterfly..." I echoed, peering gratefully at the tiny needle with
plastic wings. She drew the tourniquet tightly about my arm once
again, this time hastily securing a usable vein and taping the needle
in place; wasting no time, the IV bag of solution was hung from a pole
above my head, into which a syringe was emptied and consequently
diluted. Immediately I began to taste the liquid running through my
vein, but I subdued my discontent, hoping that the sensation would
disappear; it did not, however, until the drug had filtered into my
system completely. As the bag of solution gradually coursed through my
veins, slowly, due to the small size of the needle, the nurse
re-entered the room to watch its progress. When it had emptied, she
raised the bag from its pole, removed the tube connected to the needle
in my arm and opened two syringes; hooking them, one at a time, into
the butterfly unit, she squeezed the drugs from their containers. My
vein which accepted the drugs felt icy, as if a frigid breeze had been
directed on my hand from an internal source; an involuntary shudder
passed through my body.
"Okay... you're all finished," the nurse said, smiling widely. She
pulled the needle swiftly from my hand, pressing a square of alcohol
saturated gauze to the arm, then wrapping more gauze tightly around the
needle "wound" to prevent further bleeding. I found that pressure
applied to the area helped immeasurably to ward off bruises and I would
therefore often hold my hand or arm in a vice-like grip for several
minutes after a needle had been removed, thereby lessening the chances
of a gruesome bruise and its accompanying discomfort. Thus, I held my
hand tightly with the other and slid off the table as my Mom stood to
leave. "What are those?" I asked the nurse, pointing to two white
canisters made of cardboard. "Those are in case you get sick... do you
want to take one with you?" "No... I feel okay so far. I'll see you
tomorrow," I replied, happy that one injection was over, yet realizing
the fight had just begun for me.
Cancer invited numerous battlegrounds and INCALCULABLE wars.
Researchers were plagued by their hope to unmask the potion which would
be the cure, the precious liquid or pill which would purge cancer from
our bodies and crush its memory forever. Doctors invested time and
energy to diagnose the most beneficial methods of treatment,
prescribing the horrifying potent drugs to their patients while
promising better days to come. And the nurses were great. Many of
them were quite young, beautiful girls. They didn't seem to mind their
daily business of poking and jabbing, despite the occasional "wailers"
which could be heard, protesting the needle prick or the mere thought
of it, from somewhere down the hall. They walked about, wearing
pleasant, genuine smiles, as if their appointment in life was a joyful
one; dealing out poison with a steady hand, trusting unquestionably its
supposed ulterior motive of killing cancer cells and saving lives.
And yet, battered lives were everywhere, scaling all age groups, races
and religions, for cancer knew no barrier and bore no prejudice; cancer
took the weak the strong, the indifferent, the proud, the cheerful, the
embittered... it took all, greedily, in an unquenchable hunger. Some
it took slowly, savoring each minute, while others it consumed rapidly,
stealing life with a voracious appetite; still others, a paltry few,
were ignored and allowed to linger awhile on earth, facing the question
of death while embracing the essence of life, until another hand
embalmed their existence.
Cancer searched for one's true friends; it could bolster some
relationships and destroy or alienate others, for the word was as
malignant as the disease and struck fear in the stoutest minds and the
truest hearts. Its scars were inflicted on the patient, his relatives,
his friends... and its wounds were deep, blackened by the apprehension
of death; a will to survive could challenge the meek while the ultimate
humility scoffed at another's pride until it bent into humble
disquietude. Inner wars evoked change; in this area cancer posed great
opportunities, for it was the pirate of both time and the quality of
life, and if one neglected to acknowledge these as life's greatest
assets, he was living valueless and blind; money, power, prestige...
vanity... were rendered obsolete worries or gained a new perspective
for those who saw the need to change and courageously sought that end,
whether through insight or the forced enlightenment of unavoidable
death.
Secure in my values, cancer itself could not crush or debilitate my
inner self; it clarified myself, bringing forth both fortitude and
frailty, defining my character; I was who I always had been,
emotionally enlarged and with a keener sense of awareness. The
physical battle with cancer is enough without also having to struggle
to regain or develop one's values and relationships; I was fortunate,
indeed, to be packing the right ammunition to the front line of battle.
We dismissed Curie and the subway, ascending to our car's level in the
parking ramp. The sun shone brightly through the ramp's open
construction of cement and steel. I squinted instinctively and turned
my head away.
Once in our kitchenette, I turned on the T.V. and stretched out on the
couch. The drapes were drawn shut and I preferred them to remain so;
natural light never seemed to enhance the appearance of a motel room
and lent the furniture and other appointments a rather brash, gaudy
flavor. Light brought forth defects with indisputable accuracy; as the
drugs flowed through my body, I knew that the awaited irregularities of
treatment would soon parade victorious and unabashed about the
domicile, and out of sheer discord, I too, would shun the sun's
scathing glance. My only wish was to blend into the shadows and lie
completely unobserved.
The TV was, at once, a blaring disturbance and a welcome distraction.
It helped pass the time, but also reminded me of the slow rate at which
time was drifting away. Between soap operas and game shows,
advertisements about detergent that actually conditioned one's hands,
and gasoline; "Ping, ping, ping, Leonard..." filled the afternoon.
Suddenly I realized that my first post-treatment symptom was beginning
its onslaught. Nausea woke my deadened senses and I sat up, nervously
alert, trying to decide whether I should make my painful exodus to the
bathroom or stay seated on the sofa a brief while longer; sometimes the
mere sight of a gaping toilet bowl was enough to prompt my nausea to
overflow, and picturing the sight in my mind, I decided to put off the
inevitable until I was certain I could wait no more.
As it happened, within minutes I could wait no more and ran headlong
for the bathroom, emptying what little remained in my stomach from
breakfast into the toilet's wide jowls; it was a small offering, yet
peering at it wrenched my stomach's deepest confines and I vomited
again and again, flushing the awful stuff from view.
Relaxing as best I could, I exhaled and sunk back on my haunches, then
slowly shifted until my legs were crossed. Resting one elbow on my
knee, I cupped my hand under my chin and listed to the right. Mom
stood outside the bathroom door, worried and helpless. "Can I help
you?" she asked cautiously. "No" I said into the palm of my hand, not
wanting to move, knowing the surges within had just begun. She brought
me a glass half-filled with 7-Up, which I accepted gratefully. The
putrid taste in my mouth was masked after bathing it in soda, yet my
stomach did not allow it to be digested, and I quickly relinquished my
meager sampling to the stool. Water affected my stomach in the same
way; nothing was accepted.
Soon I was retching violently and my stomach, long since devoid of all
possible contents, began hurling its digestive acids up my throat,
followed by bile, bitter and green, which burned like fire. It seemed
to me that I would turn my stomach inside-out or vomit my intestines if
the battle did not end. I felt poisoned, as if every living cell was
fighting to live and dispose of the vicious drugs which were entrapped
in my veins.
Until 9:00 p.m. my stomach raged, while I bleated and hacked loudly,
uncontrollably, wracked by the seething nausea of my body's turbid
rebellion. Then as if the effects of the drugs had ceased warring
against me, I was able to safely withdraw from the bathroom and fall
into the enveloping softness of the couch. I felt exhausted, and
extremely wretched and demeaned; such futility, such utter
vulnerability, I had never before experienced. To think that this
abuse was welcomed seemed an incredible madness, especially with the
voice echoing, "It's for your own good!" in the back of my mind.
I was able to eat a hard-boiled egg before going to bed, which Mom
gladly prepared. Her face was drawn into symmetrical lines of pure
sympathy which she could not conceal, and was distraught because of her
inability to alleviate my misery; although she could not share the
physical burden with me, I felt that she bore emotional pain beyond
that which I took upon my brow. She wanted always to do "more," yet
her presence alone was, for me, more than enough.
The following morning I ate no breakfast, considering it would be an
imminent folly so soon before my treatment was administered. Instead I
got dressed and flipped on the set to stare at it blankly while Mom
crunched delicately through her bowl of corn flakes. The toaster
coughed up a piece of toast. She rose to fetch it from the machine,
buttering it as the scent assailed my nostrils. "I wish you could eat
something, honey," Mom said, reluctantly biting into the buttered
slice. "Yeh..." I dreamed idly for a second, then replied, "I better
not though." I didn't want to make a public spectacle of myself should
the anti-nausea shot not take effect.
Our motel had a courtesy car service which we decided to use; by
notifying the main desk in advance, the service was almost always
available when we needed it, free of charge. The motel had both a car
and a van, although generally the van toted us to the clinic and back
again; thus, hastening to the lobby, we caught the van as other
passengers hoisted themselves into their seats. The van droned into
motion, taking us past residential streets and avenues until the clinic
buildings grew above the trees with an air of infinite superiority.
Pulling in front of the Mayo building, the driver coasted slowly
forward, awaiting the closest parking place, and finally plunged toward
the curb as a taxi drove away; then, braking quickly, he opened his
door the moment the van stopped and dashed to unclasp the sliding door.
We stood, each clumsily jumping to the curb as the driver supportingly
grasped our arm. The door rolled shut with a bang. "See you later,"
the driver remarked as he swung himself into his seat. We entered the
gray marble building and wove our way through the mass of people to the
elevators. After watching and waiting several minutes, we finally
found an elevator which could be persuaded to take us down to the
subway level; in a building with nearly 20 floors, most people, it
seemed, desired to travel up from the main lobby.
The traffic dwindled as we approached Curie. A long subway tunnel
connected it to the mainstream of clinic activity, yet Curie itself was
singularly remote from all else, as if, being the nucleus of cancer
treatment and related disorders, it was purposely kept at a safe
distance. Following the dim corridor to its end we met with a set of
glass doors and admitted ourselves into the waiting room. I sat down,
drained of energy; the room had not changed, yet I had. I no longer
wore the smile of agitated insecurity and ignorance of the previous
day. My smiles were only for people whose eyes met my own in a chance
union. While Madame Curie looked over her patients, the receiving body
of radiation or chemotherapy, she seemed to me a menace of happiness
though carved of stone, for upon her death, she bequeathed no true
wealth... her offering bore a great price for its recipients. Indeed,
some "beneficiaries" paid with their lives upon receipt of Curie's
great gift. "But it's for your own good," the voice echoed, pushing
madness aside. If I did not believe the voice, I heeded it; perhaps it
formed my sole resolve to continue, and to endure.
Once inside a private room, my anti-nausea shot was administered,
followed by the injection of therapeutic drugs. Dr. E. appeared only
momentarily, yet Mom followed him out of the room to question him
beyond earshot. I later learned that, tormented of heart, Mom had
asked the oncologist if he thought she should quit her job to stay home
and care for me. "By no means!" he answered directly. "Quitting your
job of teaching might make Lauren think that you have given up hope.
You must continue your lives as normally as possible." She nodded with
renewed understanding and re-entered my room. The IV had nearly run
its course, and the nurse stood by, ready to remove the needle as soon
as the solution had emptied into my veins.
"Is it okay if I take one of those?" I asked, pointing to the white
canisters aligned neatly on top of the counter. "Sure," the nurse
replied, handing one to my Mom. My stomach was already plotting its
rebellion, and I wanted some security should an impulse overthrow my
will before we returned to our motel. As long as I did not involve
myself in conversation, and inhaled only short breaths of air, perhaps
my qualms would subside. "There... all done," the nurse proclaimed,
wrapping my hand in gauze. "Bye," I said grabbing the bandaged hand
tightly; "See you tomorrow."
Mom and I traced our earlier footsteps back to the Mayo building and
there phoned the motel. Several minutes passed, then the courtesy van
rolled up to the front doors. A doorman issued us out of the building
with a friendly, "Have a nice day, now." That man was the epitome of
flamboyance; he struck everyone as a neighbor rather than a stranger.
He must have loved people, for people were the essential ingredient in
his position at the clinic. A genuine smile, a fresh hello; he too,
doled out medicine, and maybe helped to ease a few aching hearts.
I was grateful to be able to collapse upon the couch and watch the T.V.
from my prone position; I took no interest in books or crafts, for they
seemed too taxing and exhaustive in my condition. Rest was my comfort
between nausea and weakness; I welcomed nothing more than I welcomed
the thought of quiet repose.
As I laid on the couch, the afternoon peeled away, passing much as
Monday had done. It suddenly occurred to me that I felt tense,
especially in my jaw, and curious, sat up to work my mouth. I was not
nervous, nor had I need to be, yet the jaw clamped tighter still. I
placed my hand on either side of my face to gently knead the apparently
cramped muscles. "This is crazy," I thought. "A Charlie horse in my
face!" I rose from the sofa, searching my mind for a reasonable
solution to this dilemma. "I'll brush my teeth..." I flew into the
bathroom, squeezing paste on my brush, and began to scrub viciously.
Nothing improved. I looked at myself in the mirror just as a
transformation took place. Having no control over my jaw, the bottom
row of teeth pulled to the left, straining against its natural
alignment and audibly cracking as it contorted my entire face. "Mom...
I think I've got a problem." She came and looked at me, her eyes
widening at the spectacle before her. "I can't control my jaw"; the
obvious statement I blurted out of the side of my mouth made us
envision the only possible cause we could ascertain; LOCKJAW.
Mom dialed the motel's front desk, stating firmly that her little girl
had to be driven to Emergency right away, then grabbing her purse, her
only essential, pushed me out of the door. We ran to the lobby where a
driver was ready and waiting. "How embarrassing," I thought, looking
down to shield my face from view. "A pimple on your face is nothing!"
Scrambling into the car, our transit was soon in progress. Meanwhile,
my jaw had taken on a personality of its own. As it had formerly
brought my bottom teeth to the left, it now forced its way to the
right. Not content, it again pushed to the left. This continued all
the way en route to the hospital, while I was wondering if I had come
in contact with a contaminated needle and Mom calculated how soon I
would die!
Once at the Emergency unit, Mom tried to give the doctors and nurses a
coherent explanation of my situation as we saw it happen, as well as to
alert them to my enlistment in the chemotherapy program, while they
stared at me with disbelief. They nodded in response to the
information, then allowed us to sit in a room by ourselves. A nurse
came to the door, briefly surveying the scene, and wordlessly departed.
I looked questioningly at my mom who shrugged her shoulders; "Maybe
she had the wrong room..."
The time crept by while my mouth humored itself with further
acrobatics. Bored with the lurch-to-the-right, lurch-to-the-left
routine, it opened wide, beyond my greatest expectations, and remained
thus for several minutes. I was lucky that there were no flies buzzing
about; I could not have impeded their entry except with a rapid flick
of the hand. A nurse looked in, then darted away.
I sat beside Mom, my mouth poised in the shape of a horrendous yawn and
began to see the humor in my predicament. Open mouthed, it was
impossible to smile, but my eyes began to glisten and I let go of a
gutteral "haw...haw...haw." I must look like "Surprise," impersonated,
I thought, my amusement gaining momentum.
Another nurse stuck her head inside the room. Mom glanced at her and
she too, sped away. Mom grew angry; no one helped, they just came to
see the spectacle. I was a side-show and could almost hear them
talking excitedly among themselves... "Boy, that hit and run was sure
gruesome, wasn't it?" "Yeh, but did you get a load of that kid in 2C?"
"Ha Ha Ha Ha." So far most of the "peepers" only saw my profile.
"Hey, Mom," I said, throwing the words carefully, "The next time
someone comes to the door to look, how'bout if I give 'em a full
frontal view?" She turned to look at me as my yawn slowly relaxed to
facilitate yet another position.
This time my mouth puckered to form a tight "O." I looked at Mom whose
worry was finally overruled by humor, and she burst out laughing. "I'm
sorry," she said, "but you look so funny..." I didn't mind, for I was
laughing heartily now, issuing strange "hoo hoo hoos" into the room
through my tunneled lips. "Here we are," I thought, "laughing like
lunatics, when I might have Lockjaw!" The doctors, however, didn't
appear to be concerned, for there was still no word or antidote, and an
hour or more had elapsed. All I desired was an ounce of relief; my jaw
was incredibly sore from the forced contractions, and a pain pill would
have brought immense satisfaction, yet I could merely wait, and try to
relax.
Finally after countless repetitions of rights, lefts, ooohs and ahhhs,
a doctor strolled in the room with a red liquid. I had, by then, given
up my idea that I had contracted lockjaw and looked hopefully toward
the man as he approached. The contractions had slowed in frequency as
the hours passed, yet my mind still begged for relief.
"Well, we finally figured out that your muscle spasms were the result
of the anti-nausea drug that had been administered to you; drink this
and I'm sure you will not have any more problems... just don't let
them give you any more of those shots!"
I took the red liquid and drank it down; it burned like fire. I
thought of my stomach, hoping that my draught would not infuriate it to
the point of plotting a revolt; I had been lucky through the afternoon,
having experienced no symptoms of nausea during the facial contortions.
Reflecting upon this favorable aspect, I realized the hours could have
proven much worse, and was relieved that I had ignored my stomach's
plea for breakfast.
The following morning I departed for Curie with an aching jaw; it was
minutely reminiscent of the feeling I would acquire after chewing a
large wad of bubble gum.
Once at Curie we promptly notified the nurses and Dr. E. of my unusual
episode of the previous afternoon. Dr. E. nodded his head slowly, his
mouth working nervously. "That drug will sometimes have that effect on
patients, but it happens so seldom, I didn't want to mention it to
you." "Gee, thanks," I mused, silently. Personally, I would have
liked to know all the facts. "Oh, well," I thought, "maybe it was no
big deal, but to us it was worth a good scare and a couple of laughs."
A nurse came in and shut the door, instructing me to drop my pants.
"But I'm not supposed to have shots any more," I protested. "This
isn't a shot," she said. "It's a suppository...for nausea," she added.
"Oh!" I swallowed my distaste for the idea, dropped my pants, bent
over and took my medicine.
By the end of the week we were fairly used to the routine. We
discovered that the driver of the courtesy car would let us out and
pick us up in front of Curie, which saved my energy. For security, I
learned to carry my white cardboard "barf bucket" to and from Curie.
Unless I was lucky, I would throw up all afternoon and into the
evening; we therefore devised a way to make the bathroom comfortable by
spreading a towel on the floor and placing a pillow nearby on which I
could lay between seiges. Near 8:00 p.m. I could usually eat an
egg,toast or a potato. Mom helped me clean up and dress for bed, then
I would attempt to sleep until I had to wake and repeat the process.
After the fifth treatment, Dr. E. came into the room to set up my next
date for receiving chemotherapy. My particular schedule was to appear
approximately every six weeks for five days of treatment; each patient
had his own ritual in which the drugs and their dosage, as well as the
duration they were received, were as uniquely determined as his type of
cancer and its extent. Chemotherapy incurred numerous variables, and
the reaction depended on the drugs administered and the condition of
the patient. I was amazed to discover that some recipients did not
lose their hair or become nauseous in the least. Some even gained
weight and carried on relatively normal lives, working and attending
social functions, and basically thrilled they were alive; they
complained only of their excessive rendezvous with needles. Although
my effects were far from ideal, I was relieved that I was able to
receive my treatments at Curie as an out-patient; free from the
hospital. One's morale is better maintained, even if the breeze is
felt upon one's face only to and from the clinic.
Dr. E. and my Mom conferred over a calendar, finally agreeing upon a
date lying within the six week bounds. We would receive a packet
containing specific appointment times in the mail shortly before our
next visit. The doctor returned to my room as the nurse was wrapping
my hand. After exchanging a few pleasantries of conversation, he
sobered and said, "You'll have to buy a wig as soon as you can once you
are home..." Hair loss would not be a gradual affair after having
such a drug and his warning was not intended to be brushed off; I
nodded that I would comply. "I'll see you in six weeks then," he
drawled, and allowed us to depart from the room at our leisure. I took
another white canister from the counter top and we stepped from the
cubicle.
Mom had already stowed our bags in the car for our departure, so upon
our return to the motel, we merely inspected the room once more for
articles we might have overlooked and then made our way to the car for
our homeward journey. I was seated beside Mom, outfitted with two
white canisters, while she packed a sack of apples as an energy booster
through the seven hour drive. Knowing that we would soon be wrapped in
our own blankets improved my spirits to a great degree, despite
haphazard retching sprees and pervasive weakness.
Toward evening my nausea subsided. We pulled into a rest stop and Mom
stretched her legs. The sun hung low in the sky, undecided as to its
course, casting shadows from the nearby benches and trees. I watched
my mom as she walked about, surveying the fields under the suspended
ball of fire, and then strolled back to the car. She suddenly seized
upon an idea and opened the trunk, removing my camera from one of the
bags. "I want to take a picture of you... your hair's so shiny." She
positioned me on a rock and captured on film a being ready to
metamorphacize; the changes had already begun internally, for bereft
of energy, no smile escaped my ashen eyes or crossed my weary face.
Soon my hair, shining in the sun's slanted rays, would be gone,too.
Lives change not only by days, but by minutes as well. I slid off the
rock and we climbed into our car once again; by late evening the
streets of Moline were beneath us. It was good to be home.
Apart from the presence of drugs, I was able to eat tremendously for
the first few days. The grayness in my complexion was fanned into a
spark, and the return of my smile (which seemed to parallel my
homecoming) added a small glow to my features.
My stomach muscles, which had for five days, been exceedingly
over-worked, gave up their tenderness, and the needle marks
disappeared. For two and a half days life leaned toward normalcy.
It seemed a ridiculous idea to purchase a wig; as yet, my hair
appeared fully intact.
The weather had been magnificent upon my return, with autumn's splendor
at its peak. The skies were flawlessly blue, the deep sapphire blue of
mountain lakes, and the oak trees sent down their wealth of acorns,
grown ripe in the heat of long sunny days. The leaves were yellow,
golden and red... the harvest was being gathered from the fields, and
gourds were pulled from the vines. I rested in a lawn chair on the
carpet of grass, while the northern breezes cooled the sun's touch on
my face and wafted through my hair. I ran my fingers through its
length; feeling the resistance of a snarl, I applied more pressure. It
loosened and I glanced at my hand with the dull realization that I was
losing my hair. Inter-woven between my fingers were countless strands
of golden brown. I opened my palm to the breeze and let the winds
scatter them on the ground. I gathered my hair together, draping it
over one shoulder, and inadvertently harvested another golden handful.
"It's happening," I thought. Rising from my chair I slowly climbed up
three cement steps and entered through the front door, then threaded my
way to the bathroom. My hair was detaching itself from my scalp as if
embarking on a massive exodus to some other destination. I opened the
medicine cabinet and extracted a comb, thinking that I would remove the
loose shafts of hair to avoid snags and major entanglement.
I combed, peering into the glass before me and looked on helplessly as
my scalp began to take shape between the strands of hair, and a
circular bald spot formed on my crown. Setting the comb on the sink's
porcelain edge, I turned from myself to find my parents, who were busy
outside. They felt sickened at the horrifyingly malevolent blow which
the drugs had bestowed on me, but there was little to be said, and
nothing to be done. It was no surprise, yet the reality shocked the
eyes and afflicted the heart with pity.
Feeling emotionally removed from the situation, I decided to save their
eyes further anguish and re-entered the house, taking a seat in the
kitchen. I was not particularly sad, nor was I angry or embittered;
instead I was entranced, and oddly fascinated by the sudden change in
my appearance. Reminded of a certain tree which, in autumn, boasts its
splendor for many days and then suddenly abandons each of its leaves
almost simultaneously, creating a barren mass of timber in one day; I
felt certain that all of my hair would fall out by evening; I had never
dreamed such a transformation could occur. It was happening so fast.
Mom came into the kitchen and studied me with shadowed eyes. Within
two hours, the shine of my hair had been replaced by a deadness, a gray
lifelessness, which prevailed over both the detached and sagging
strands of hair as well as the healthier group whose roots as yet
remained firmly implanted in their polluted ground. The invisible
reaper moved stealthily through its crop, mowing random stalks with a
keen-edged blade and littering the malignant, gray harvest aimlessly
and chaotically above their once-healthy roots.
The sheared strands slid down my head, and converged into a heavily
inter-woven mass of hair at the nape of my neck. It was matted and
thatched, the dead clogged with the dead and dying. It was impossible
to restore order with a comb; the only hope rested in the jaws of a
pair of scissors. Mom took the clotted mass in her hands and clipped
the length to my shoulders, discarding the ashen-gold into the waste
basket. "Hair couldn't be dead," I thought,"but I have just witnessed
it die." Why else would hair suddenly lose its shine and lapse into a
gray-sheened, death-like shadow? Cut hair reflected life; my hair had
been poisoned, robbed of its shine. It was different than the curl
pressed between the pages of my childhood memories; no book wanted
these lifeless strands, nor would any memory desire to recall them.
After supper Mom and I dashed to the shopping center to look for an
appropriate wig. I wore a handkerchief about my head in an attempt to
conceal my rapidly balding scalp, for baldness was not as easily
accepted in a girl as in a boy; some men shaved their heads at the
onslaught of summer heat; while others did likewise for sports.
When we arrived at the wig department, it was obvious that we had
waited too long. I selected several styles that appealed to me, and
removed my scarf, to sit self-consciously before the mirror as the
customers filed past. Some glanced curiously at me, wondering about my
noticeable sparsity of hair; I now had sympathetically few hairs left,
and my part revealed an inch-wide swath of white skin. Donning a wig,
I studied myself with amusement. The wig had so much hair. I never
had that much hair. I lifted it off, replacing it quickly with another
and adjusting the new one back and forth. I wanted something which was
as modest and natural as possible. Why did they all have so much hair?
This one stood two inches off my head; it felt like a hat. I tried
another. Not bad. How about a blond one? Well, it was worth a
chuckle or two.
I finally decided on a shoulder length wig which sported bangs and a
slight curl. It was promptly boxed while I replaced my handkerchief
around my head. I wasn't bald... yet. I'd have plenty of time to wear
the wig. It was a relief to escape the peopled store. The wig would
prove to be my ally and my foe in the months ahead, being both a
concealment of the truth and an object of mockery and bewilderment.
The next morning I woke to find hair on my pillow, and rising to look
at myself in the mirror, saw plainly that I could consider myself bald.
No hair remained except for a few stubborn wisps which clung fiercely
to my scalp like December leaves that refuse to fall even after
winter's icy blasts. My lashes, brows... everything... had been
depopulated. The mirror seemed to reflect incredible youth and
fragility. Painfully thin and hairless, I resembled the gaunt and
disciplined Buddhist student. Withdrawing from the mirror, I went in
search of a pair of scissors to bob my wisps to a more reasonable
length of one inch, then took my wig from its styrofoam head and placed
it on my own. I peered at myself with disgust; "It couldn't be much
worse," I thought, and headed toward the kitchen for breakfast.
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