Year at Home and Diary
"Chemotherapy ravaged the body and tainted the mind just as the cancer
against which its debilitating powers were supposedly aimed."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Year At Home And Diary
Due to my poor and unreliable health, I never re-entered junior high;
it would have been both risky and impractical. I would have forever
been involved with past homework because of frequent absenteeism, as
well as further depleting my energy level through normal, daily
activities. Individuals having good health were often taxed at the
day's end; I knew I could not have kept the steady pace that school
demanded of those desiring to succeed.
Standing 5 ft., 8 ins. I weighed, at times as little as 75 pounds. My
eating was sporadic; on certain days I wouldn't recall having eaten at
all. When I did eat, my nauseousness would span 20 minutes to several
hours. Sometimes my only relief would come after vomiting, although
that seemed a rather drastic and unpleasant measure, I found this
voluntary vomiting to be more agreeable than sitting motionless in a
chair for the entire evening to humor my stomach, when the eventual
result was to be the same anyway. I was soon quite practiced at
manipulating my stomach, as well as determining whether my nauseousness
would irreversibly result in oral elimination or if it would finally
subside without an event.
Ideally I was to eat several small meals throughout the passage of the
day; this would better allow my stomach to process food, as well as
give my body the sustaining energy it so desperately needed. I was not
overly thrilled at this proposition, as eating seemed only an open
invitation to sickness and discomfort. To facilitate my obedience to a
greater degree, my dad offered a monetary reward for drinking a quart
of milk each day. I accepted the offer, yet remained wary of food.
Although there was nothing which did not, at one time or another, turn
my stomach, I discovered that certain foods disagreed less than others.
One of the "sure things" was bread... the more refined, the better.
So called "health foods" were always a mistake, as were foods rich in
fat or sugar, such as salads tossed with mayonnaise or pies of any
concoction. Oddly enough, I seemed to be able to eat cake; I
determined that this was due to its bread-like consistency. Perhaps
other successes such as my aptitude for chocolate, were based more on
luck than digestibility, yet chocolate was eaten quite frequently
throughout the year in which chemotherapy treatments were administered.
My eating habits and general health depended on the schedule of
chemotherapy. Directly following my last treatment in the five day
series, I could eat voraciously, (or so I thought in comparison to my
usual appetite). Then, after three or four days, I would again return
to "normal," fostering nausea after each morsel of food. Needless to
say, my lust for food disintegrated upon the arrival of nausea and I
had to force myself to eat, which quickly became tiresome, for I
realized that only sheer luck would save me from sickness.
Furthermore, I actually became weary after a meal accompanied by
stomach complaints; my body, I rationalized, was trying to relax itself
to dispose of nausea, or the nausea caused such inner chaos that my
body wore itself out during the conflict.
Soon after the chemotherapy treatments had commenced, my sister offered
her assistance with the latest family concern and expressed interest in
monitoring my progress and general state of health. Through mutual
agreement, a plan materialized in which, on our way home from
Rochester, Mom and I should stop at Sharon's house after about five and
a half hours of driving, where I would then remain for three or four
days while my parents were at work. In this way, I was not alone when
I felt the weakest, and could easily obtain help if I needed it.
Saturday morning my parents would bring me home.
I enjoyed the post-treatment arrangement, for I had always liked
spending time with my sister and, at a distance of 80 miles, few were
the occasions in which this was possible, especially since she had two
young children and a home of her own to maintain. Although the
circumstances under which I stayed with her were not the most
appealing, we still found time to shop on good days or amuse each other
through the situations that life itself readily provided. Several most
unforgettable hours were spent laughing hysterically in front of the
bathroom mirror. Since I had lost my hair, Sharon sewed two bonnets
from scratch, cutting circles of material and fitting elastic within
the perimeter, to warm my head when I slept or simply did not care to
wear my wig. Having no pattern from which to judge an appropriate
size, however, the bonnet was large enough to conceal my entire head;
trying it on evoked immediate wails of laughter from us both. Of
course, I could not let the matter rest and continued with further
antics, shoving it over my ears and acting like an old woman who
couldn't hear for the voluminosity of the hat, and then pulling it over
my entire head with the elastic about my neck and pronouncing that I
was a lollipop. Amid our slap-happy howls (for the hour was late), her
husband must have wondered if we had lost our minds; moreover, we were
trying our best to stifle our laughter so as not to disturb her
sleeping boys, which, in such a hopeless situation, only served to
escalate the humor reflected in the mirror. I was able to eat
ravenously for three to four days following my treatment; this meant,
of course, that I ate well until I had to return home, by which time my
body had restored itself to a reasonable degree and no longer tolerated
food to the extent it had initially. Mom soon developed a complex
about her cooking, which persisted until summer when I went directly
home after receiving treatments, instead of sojourning at Sharon's, and
ate my Mom's culinary offering passionately.
Upon my return to Moline I had to appear at the hospital for weekly
blood tests to assure that my white count was not "low." If the test
results were unfavorable, however, I had to have daily blood tests
until my count was determined as normal again. A low white cell count
paralleled a higher susceptibility to germs, as the immune system did
not possess its usual fortitude; although, physically, I never felt any
different when I had a low white count, emotionally it paralleled a
fleeting cantankerousness on my part since I was not overly thrilled at
the prospect of enduring more needles. I was fortunate that I never
contracted any serious maladies; perhaps if I had been plagued by
viruses I would not have viewed the routine blood tests with such
disdainful inappreciation. As it was, my only health problem was
cancer; all or nothing must have been my system's motto.
One week before the next series of injections, I would begin to feel
better. My appetite improved despite the lingering after-affects, and
energy was on the rise. This period of time would have been thoroughly
enjoyed had it not been for the upcoming event, after which my
improvements would again run foul. The pretreatment week was also the
time at which I felt most able to venture out of the house, and would
accompany my aunt or my sister-in-law on small shopping sprees during
the day. I began to feel human and part of society, yet as I licked my
wounds, I could envision the battlements to which I would willingly
march to surrender my waxing health.
Despite frequent bouts of nausea and marked fatigue, the foremost
reason for my absence from school was my body's severely depleted
immune system. It was deemed more sensible to remain apart from the
various germs circulated by the students than to place myself in
possible jeopardy by direct contact. Should I have sustained a severe
infection, the results could have proven fatal. The chemotherapy
killed healthy cells as well as cancerous cells; it is a grave wonder
that one can withstand such violent treatment.
After several series of chemotherapy, I recalled my thought which
viewed cancer as the enemy against which many wars were waged, and
discovered that my analogy was not complete. Chemotherapy ravaged the
body and tainted the mind just as the cancer against which its
debilitating powers were supposedly aimed. I felt that the war did not
exist only between cancer and the body, for there was also a constant
struggle between the drugs and the body. As the body fought for life,
cancer fought for death.... of this, there was little doubt. Yet as
for the drugs, I became uncertain as to the side on which they actually
adhered, and the voice murmuring "It's for your own good" became an
indifferent noise at the base of my consciousness.
Although I was unable to return to Jr. High throughout 8th grade, I
soon acquired permission to study at home under the instruction of a
tutor, and in this way, maintained my level of educational curriculum
as well as my status as a "student." Receiving instruction on a
one-to-one basis was definitely one of the more favorable aspects of my
new life-style. I fully realized the impermanence of this enjoyment;
upon my recovery, I would once again be hurled amid the mob and
mainstream of society.
My tutor, Mrs. Kruse, was assigned to me for the entire year. Together
we covered the realms of English, math, social studies and science with
the help of a collection of text books which she obtained from my
"would-have-been-teachers." Several times each week she would stop to
teach and collect previous lessons. Since she was amiable, highly
intelligent and challenging in nature, I looked forward to her visits;
the time always passed quite rapidly. In addition to prescribed
lessons, Mrs. Kruse suggested reading material which she deemed of
interest to me, and as a highlight to one of the social studies
chapters, drove me to a local museum. The trip was a memorable
occasion, if simply due to the fact that I spent the majority of the
days alone and at home. She also demonstrated interest in my
extra-curricular activities as well as the regular academic subjects;
I would sometimes show her my various crafts and "works of art" with
which I involved myself to abort any loneliness or dejection I might
have otherwise encountered had I not kept occupied.
My projects included anything which was not overly monotonous, and time
thus spent would often encompass more than one casual employment to
assure that my interest would not shrivel up and die before an object's
completion. Occasionally one of the lovely ladies from church would
include me in crafts, and consequently, I turned out decoupaged eggs
and quilted pillows by the number. I attempted a painting of a rural
scene, and on other days I would draw, sew, or macrame; at times I
would pinpoint my interest in the creation of gifts and culinary
delights.
A prominent aid to my artistic whims came to me by way of my father's
love and craftsmanship; he spent hours of his spare time constructing a
shadow box for miniature arrangements. Through the same five days,
during which time Mom and I were in Rochester for my treatment, he also
repainted my bedroom. I was awestruck upon my return to think of his
feverish, love-wrought labors; through work he was able to ease his
internal suffering which accompanied my physical trials. If nothing
more, he was at least DOING SOMETHING, which seemed to allay one of his
foremost grievances toward my illness in a temporary fashion.
I felt relieved to stay at home that year; it would have been difficult
to feel comfortable when I was sporting a wig. At this age, so many
kids allow themselves to be governed by popular opinion, whether or not
that opinion has been justly founded. One may be treated kindly only
to be defaced later in private discussions. When fear based on one's
acceptability governs his actions, it is his convictions and conscience
that sustain punishment. While many students may have attempted to
understand the unpleasantness of my situation, others would have
taunted malicious threats or voiced insensitive remarks; physically I
was to weak to withstand such cruelty on a daily basis.
That which I most detested surrounding the aspect of baldness was the
wig itself, for although I was grateful for the mask it provided, I
abhorred its artificiality. Wearing a wig was unnatural, especially at
my age. People failed to recognize me. Moreover, it presented
inherent problems of its own. It would shift precariously in a stiff
wind, and a blustery day brought visions of it cartwheeling
tumbleweed-style, across a street. I began wearing headbands, though
definitely not in style, simply to assure that it remained atop my
head. Another dilemma was the well-meaning oldster who still enjoyed
pulling a child's locks; unaware and full of only good intentions, what
would he have thought if his teasing gesture unveiled the entirety of
my hairless skull? The wig, therefore, was mainly a social impairment,
for it was during group situations that I experienced the majority of
my embarrassment.
Aspects which aided social interaction were my attitude and a
light-hearted countenance. It is essentially one's appearance that
opens the door to conversation and eventual relationships; and despite
my different visage, I wished to remain approachable and self-secure
with my health problem. I tried to nurture realistic, yet humorous
outlooks toward problems, for a sickly person wearing a smile appears
more inviting to others than one who shrinks within his ailment while
displaying steadfast displeasure for his predicament upon his face. If
one is open and jokes about his health situation, he is also less apt
to evoke fear and hesitant inquiries from friends, and for that matter
mockery from the ignorant; it is no fun to insult an individual who
fully accepts himself and his problem, for there is no fuel to evince
an emotional fire.
I felt totally secure in my baldness only with my family and select
individuals who neither balked nor poked sadistic mirth at my loss.
The wig was worn on all social outings, of course, just as it was
generally donned at home as well. Certain days, however, I elected to
prance through the house without it; the wig was tiresome and hot, and
my head needed to escape its smothering imprisonment during the day in
addition to its nightly freedom. Happily, my parents did not seem to
mind the sight of my head, claiming it was "kind of cute"; a more
appropriate manner of expressing my parents' view of my loss of hair
was to say it was a necessary evil which had been part of the
"insurance plan," and therefore deemed as acceptable as it could have
been under the circumstances. I was initially amazed that they could
love a child having no hair, since appearances rated so incredibly high
on the scale of societal importance, and my best feature had been
obliterated. To think that people found me tolerable and remained a
loyal friend touched deeply upon my heart.
Thus at home baldness posed no problem for me, although I would
sometimes hold back tears when I discovered a long strand of hair woven
inside a sweater or glanced at an old photograph. The image of myself
reflected in the mirror contrasted dreadfully with the girl I viewed in
the picture albums to such an extent that physically I felt myself to
be an entirely different person. Unfortunately, I felt less of a
person when I compared my selves, past to present; I therefore tried to
limit these recollections by keeping occupied with crafts or other
mental detours from reality.
By January I was completely used to my way of life. There was comfort
to be had in monotony and sameness of routine, and while I would
sometimes feel alienated from society, my solitary existence provided
me with emotional security which would not have otherwise been possible.
Each day was very much like the next, and time melded the days together
into oblique obscurity. When I was not occupied with my lessons or
crafts I would sit, allow my mind to empty itself of all thought, and
then drift to other places, beyond my own stunted life, and there catch
a glimpse of reality as others saw it to be. Were it not for vivid
daydreams, my year of chemotherapy would have doubtlessly provoked more
duress, yet through fantasy, I was able to surpass my physical
limitations. Moreover, while public interaction would often degrade my
self-image, thought would instill confidence in my unseen strengths. I
found that the mind possessed more beauty than any bodily attribute, no
matter how brilliant the eye might perceive it to be.
If it were humanly possible to correct physical shortcomings, everyone
would mold his face and body into perfect specimens; disease could no
longer wreak havoc upon one's dimensions or features, and amputated
limbs would quickly be restored. This is not life, however. No one
chooses his personal characteristics or form any more than he chooses
to be born or die; over one's features and time-ridden transformations,
one exercises no choice.
Although I was a loner at heart, I became accustomed to feeling brief
surges of loneliness when I would peer from a window and observe the
activity that went on in normal lives. To be able to come and go,
unhindered by any physical dysfuntions, must have been pure joy... joy
which the vast majority of people took for granted. It was a shame
that they did not pause for an instant with their bustle of plans and
breathe in the fresh air of their greatest fortune, their health. To
think people actually worried about popularity, or buying a certain
brand of blue jeans, or getting their hair cut one half inch too short
began to seem utterly incredulous. Those who doted on trivials I could
seldom abide, but now I had to constrain fury; perhaps instead I should
have pitied those individuals who, in their selfishness, dwelled only
upon that which they lacked rather than their well-being. Though my
life at the time was far from ideal, I still felt myself to be quite
lucky; I had witnessed at Mayo Clinic various gruesome and startling
examples of disease... one woman's face was riddled with large, fleshy
bumps... another woman's unearthly jaundiced eyes clashed with her dark
complexion to bespeak trouble within... a pretty young woman with one
leg nimbly propelled herself into the elevator, smiling, conspicuously
contrasting with the throngs of people who walked about, eyes downcast
and dreary, searching for the location of their next test or
consultation. I felt a slight pang of embarrassment regarding my
appearance yet I was grateful to be spared the more obvious discomfort
which would have accompanied drastic, irreversible abnormalities; my
pain would end, and my hair would grow back.
For the time I had only to live with and learn from my physical
restraints; fostering jealousy or bitterness punishes oneself and
further mars one's countenance. When I found myself beneath the gaze
of one seeing merely my features, I cringed, but then recalled who I
truly was... and who no mask could dominate.
During January of 1976 I also began my first successful attempt at
maintaining a diary. I wrote faithfully, daily inscribing the events
of my life upon the pages of the small book which, by the years end,
was battered and torn with handling, for it went on every clinic
excursion or other journey which separated me from my home. In it I
described the aspects which flavored my day; what I ate, interesting
mail, homework, my crafts, and my general health.
Though I did not meticulously describe my emotions, I can recall the
feelings which surrounded various entries, whether they were of
selfishness, anger, fear, or otherwise. Perhaps I was initially scared
to vent my frustrations lest my book be read by searching eyes; written
word is no longer secret, and I trusted my memory far better than my
hope of privacy, and therefore rarely indulged in expressing
confidences unless they were of the positive sort or so justifiable
that their truth, though poignant, could not have been denied even by
the subject.
Jan. 4, 1976... I got my make-up on...went to church,then to a
restaurant. It's a real pretty day outside and the sun is shining
through my windows. I just love my room. Today I'm going to work on
my corduroy purse some more. I don't like any boys and I'm glad of
that. I'm probably weird not wanting a boy to "go with" but I'm not
ready yet. After all, I'm just 14 yrs. old. (2 relatives) came over
and had supper. I came into my room because I felt sick. Finished my
purse...I feel better now. That's good!
Throughout the diary, it became obvious that an internal struggle was
present which haunted me at the time and annoys me at the present;
nevertheless, it existed, as perhaps it does within all youth. That to
which I allude is the battle between independence and dependence, the
conflict waged by one mind against two wills; that of the adult and the
child.
One of the most prevalent emotions I fostered throughout 8th grade was
insecurity. It was a by-product of sickness and frequent aloneness.
Desiring to live unnoticed, I began to feel guilty about the kindnesses
I received. I wondered whether I deserved such special treatment; when
I voiced my feelings to my parents, they quickly pointed out that
people wanted to do things for me since my life was tainted by an
illness. "You don't have your health, and that's the greatest wealth
on earth." I nodded at their statement, yet something still seemed
amiss; I finally discovered that my guilt was fueled by jealous
acquaintances that rather begrudged my attentions.
Jan. 6, 1976... I'm trying to "use up" my cologne and perfume so
everybody won't keep saying "how much I have." Another acquaintance
would continually quiz me, wondering where I got the money to buy
things as she glanced around my bedroom. My allowance was healthy, to
be certain, especially if I drank my quota of milk each day; however,
the earnings I acquired were determined by my parents, not me, and I
was expected to use the money wisely. I often deposited portions in
the bank, saving diligently for a nice purchase. Otherwise, my funds
were transformed into stamps for letters, gifts, appointments for my
room, or movie tickets. I didn't feel frivolous; whereas I was given
an allowance, my friends had to twist their parents arms for their
desires. It didn't appear to me that they were deprived.
Jan. 30, 1976... Sharon, Brad and I are going to the florists in a bit.
Gosh just 'cause I talk about things that would be neat to have, and I
know I would not really want all of it, Sharon says "Boy, you really
have a lot more things than I ever had and you know you have to pay me
back for these things. You have more than I do considering inflation."
Well, I had known I was 'gonna pay her back even if she wanted to give
them to me as gifts. Sometimes I wish I was starving and poor and
everything!
Coming from my sister the statement was quite a shock, evoking
self-pitying sentiments from me in my last sentences, which now strike
me as a literary pout of pure distress. I had always considered Sharon
as a statuesque epitome of goodness, incapable of resentment of any
kind; after the initial surprise had worn off, I was glad to know she
was human, for maintaining such sanctity 24 hours each day was
impossible.
I learned during the year that people felt obligated to be nice to me
(and, indeed, they wanted to be nice) because of the trials which I
endured. Since they were human, however, their jealousies and stored
grievances would sometimes appear in a choice moment wherein their
self-control was at a low ebb. I believe that everyone, including
those having well-aligned values, possess a foremost problem which,
despite even the greatest amenities of good health and even a loving
home, can exist within the minds of the most fortunate individuals;
indeed, some people are ashamed of their "problems" since they appear
so insignificant when compared to those in other lives. Nevertheless,
the problem lives within them and causes real emotional duress.
Returning to my observation, I realized that people who, within
themselves, felt that my problems were essentially greater than theirs,
still needed to air those complaints. Feeling hindered by me, to a
certain extent, their frustrations would sometimes be directed at me
while their true source of anger remained unspoken. Such was the case
with my sister. Following the small episode, I was less enthusiastic
about revealing my catalog reveries, yet I recovered fully, losing a
goodly spirit and gaining a fine sister.
It seems everyone likes to receive mail, especially when the mail
carrier leaves a bundle composed of more interesting things than just
bills. My love for mail grew into an obsession while I stayed home,
and many days found me impatiently glued to the window, glaring up the
avenue when a substitute carrier delayed the hour of delivery. Worse,
however, than waiting for the mail carrier was when the mail arrived
having nothing addressed, or of interest, to me; I was not picky... I
welcomed even "junk mail"!
Jan. 31, 1976... I woke up again, which is a miracle in itself
(followed by a dissertation explaining my plans for the day).
I was aware of the implications behind my sickness, yet I do not recall
having believed that I would die; my pain was of the temporary kind, I
thought, and having confidence in my elders and those of the medical
profession, felt certain that my life was not threatened. Death itself
was obscurity, and only took on the characteristics of ultimate slumber
and freedom from pain; this image brought no fear and occurred mainly
in times of physical discomfort. I wished neither to delude myself
about my condition nor dwell upon its negative features; my statement
from the diary illustrates that attitude quite well, for, although the
sentence was written in light-hearted jest, its dry humor depended, as
do all jokes, on either an element of truth, an attempt to mask
seriousness, or sheer incredibility. As the latter was not a factor,
my expression was a truthful and simultaneous outburst, defining my
life in a concise and unobtrusive manner; I was not depressed that day,
but rather, honest in a wry sort of way.
Humor is an asset when one is faced with serious problems, for laughter
unleashes tension, like crying, which otherwise can become
self-destructive. Laughter and tears are closely related, as is
evident in cases of hysteria or other mental disorders wherein the mind
no longer effectively controls one's emotions in the manner which
society deems proper for a particular occasion. Mom once related an
incident concerning Lynn, who from birth, was severely cerebral
palsied; strapped in her high chair, she watched Mom cry over
distressing news and in response, began to laugh, bespeaking her
inability to react by shedding tears, as would a normal child.
Generally, sadness evokes sadness.
There are times, however, when grim situations accompanied by humor
should not be looked upon as a "sick" reaction. I truly believe that
one can find humor in most occurrences, even some of the brutal
realities of life and death. Ideally one should find the utmost humor
within his own life... he need not search elsewhere; to laugh at one's
own problems divides their weight significantly, so that it is
unnecessary to scoff at another's ill fortune and place humorless
weight upon his ample burden.
Laughter was not only for myself, however, for I had to maintain a
degree of humor regarding both my appearance and my general situation,
spanning isolation to body dysfunctions, to retain my normalcy in the
eyes of those around me. Laughter makes an unpleasant event more
acceptable despite its inherent distastefulness; even my wig afforded
certain individuals with unbridled laughter when I would put it on
backwards and, playing a mock guitar, pretend to be a member of a rock
band. Had my reaction to adversity brought a shadow of gloom over my
face and personality the suffering endured by my family and friends
would have been greatly multiplied; as a result, my isolation would
have grown. Depression is as catching as humor, yet unlike humor, it
is not sought and possesses no magnetism of itself.
Feb. 1, 1976... I got sick in the night last night. I was real cold,
then really super hot. I started to make little whines, hoping Mom or
Dad would hear me. Finally, Mom heard me and Dad came to see what was
the matter. He helped me get situated on the sofa. I slept all the
rest of the (next) day. I can't remember if I even ate today at all.
All I know is that I'm having super weird dreams all of the day.
When my mom began to teach, I remember my jealousy toward the faceless
names which daily she brought home. Conversation I did not mind, yet
her employment involved much more than that. She sometimes came home
quite late, and even after working over-time at school she managed to
tote further work to our house. If she asked for help, I would do so
begrudgingly, knowing that the time she saved by my assistance would
only spawn other ideas from her conscientiousness. When I no longer
wanted a stuffed animal or toy, she quickly rushed it to school; this
was a true blow, for the kindergarteners were not only benefiting from
her time at school and at home, but were now receiving my old and
once-beloved belongings! My displeasure voiced itself in a
cantankerous fashion as I stewed my over-all annoyance for small
children's propensities (irrationality, brazen and loud mouths, uncouth
mannerisms, and their tendency toward the profuse utilization of tears)
under her nose.
I finally discovered that, no matter how truthful my statements had
been, she found a way to ricochet them back to my behavior as a child.
Dad was sympathetic, for he knew that Mom's attempts to parallel one's
behavior to that which one found disfavorable in others was one of her
habits. I asked him whether I was like "this" or like "that,"
illustrating for him the exact scenario which I had placed before Mom,
and often he would say, "No, you didn't do that... or at least not that
bad." I only complained about those things which I felt I had not
done, for I could not condemn a road that I had once walked as if my
feet had never carried its dust. Finally, in exasperation, I decided
my war against the kindergarten children should no longer be verbalized.
Feb. 4, 1976... I still have the runs, but the tutor came anyway. I
didn't have to go while she was here anyway! I'm glad she came though,
because it helps pass the day a little better. I stopped drinking the
lemonade as it seems to "go right through" me. It made my diarrhea all
foamy and icky. (Not to mention that the runs aren't icky and gross
and all of that anyway!)
Feb. 9, 1976... I'm sure glad I don't have the runs anymore. Tutor came
today. After she left I wrote 2 poems, although I still have to do
some changing and correcting. One is about food, and the other is
about the bed pans.
My idea of comic appeal found its way into the creative outlet of
poetry. I figured that everyone could relate to the nastiness of
having to use a bed pan even if they never had the misfortune to
encounter one; after all, going to the bathroom was funny, if for no
other reason than the fact that it brought humanity down to the
elemental functions of the smallest insect. No one was above it.
"Diarrhea keeps the world running," and as long as I was able to keep
laughing it didn't seem so bad. I showed two nonsense poems I had
written to my tutor; she rewarded me with a smile. Neither of us
mentioned submitting them for the yearly Junior High poetry collection,
however. After she departed, I turned toward my lessons.
Homework. I held the word in my mind and reflected on my life. The
word was befitting of my study habits; all my work was homework this
year.
When You're In The Hospital
I say this from experience
For I know it's not much fun,
When you just gotta use the facilities...
But you can't get up to run!
There's a button that you push for a nurse,
Located somewhere near your bed,
Just hope she gets there in a hurry,
Or you've really something to dread.
She'll pull out something resembling
A well bent silver can...
Now you're the center of attention
Seated on that cold bed-pan!
Different Foods For Different Likes
It's a funny thing
When you think about foods,
Some people eat different things
To suit their changing moods.
Kids usually eat
Just the things they've always liked,
While certain teens prefer
Only foods that have been spiked.
Chinese sit on the floor
Eating egg rolls and cooked rice;
But to the Spanish in their wide-brimmed hats,
Enchiladas are quite nice,
There's the cook in fancy restaurants
Making fine recipes for "Turtle Stew "
And then there's my Mom at home,
Concocting some famous "Leftover Brew."
There's that fat guy going to Bishops,
To get Ambrosia Pie just for fun,
And the other guy going to McDonalds for his
Twoallbeefpattiesspecialsaucelettuse cheesepicklesonion
Onasesameseedbun!
Now there was Euell Gibbons in the forest,
Eating his "wild hickory nuts,"
But I heard he had an ulcer,
And should have stuck with Pizza Huts!
I could go on and on
About foods, drinks, sweets and such,
But I think I'd better quit now,
While I still have the "rhyming touch"!
Lauren Isaacson
8th Grade
February of 1976
Feb. 10, 1976... I made my class a great big valentine out of poster
board. It's an owl... Whoo's wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day? Me
Youthful love is, indeed, quite intense. I bestowed my familial love
upon my sister-in-law, Norm's wife, who also became the companion that
my mind so desperately demanded. In her I found a depth of friendship
which had always eluded me; perhaps I needed to grow to understand what
I sought. Those aspects which captured my affection were mutuality,
understanding and compatibility which required no stimulus to evoke,
but evolved through one's inherent, natural character as demonstrated
to the other. Conversation traversed the boundaries of the menial and
insignificant, while activities were relished simply because of my
fondness for her and, of course, my brother.
In addition to the above characteristics, Tracy and I shared common
interests in sewing, drawing, and outdoor activities; we were also both
thin-limbed, and although she had gained weight by the time I knew her,
she remained thin. I appreciated having a person to whom I could
unabashedly express my indifference toward food; even before my
operation I viewed mealtime as a hassle and a must for survival; to
this she could sympathize knowingly. Tracy could also relate to my
lack of womanly fat deposits which naturally accompanied a thin
stature, and we swapped horror stories and lamentations about the
tactless and mentally (dispatched) people we had encountered who
enjoyed taunting at that which our figures still lacked. We generally
wrapped up such conversations by admitting that thinness was an
advantage. We were not hampered in any way by excess baggage; nothing
flogged violently if we ran, nor did anything cascade over the sides of
a chair as we sat. We could easily see our feet, and were confident
that old age would find few sagging extremities. Such were our
consolations.
I relished the time I spent in Tracy's company; she helped me through
the year of chemotherapy by planning activities each week for us to
pursue such as running errands and shopping. I most enjoyed the
invitations to stay over night at Norm and Tracy's house, for the best
entertainment was conversation. I loved the casual atmosphere that
permeated their house, for it seemed to whisper "the simple pleasures
are the best." They lived quietly, in a modest house, feeding their
equally modest income into house payments, grocery bills and gasoline
for their $400 Belvedere. It was a life which yielded the serenity
begotten of honesty and hard work; no phantoms of debt wailed in the
late hours of the day, and sleep came easily. Goals were sighted, then
realized, slowly, one by one; they spent no money that was not yet
their own, but nothing appeared to be wanting in their lives. I
admired their way of life and wanted to one day establish a home based
on such simplicity and love.
When I stayed over night, the living room couch was my bed. It faced
the kitchen and in the morning, I could survey the pre-dawn preparation
of breakfast. If it was a week day, Norm would appreciatively stuff
three or four blueberry muffins down his throat and, grabbing his lunch
bucket, stride out the door to his motorcycle. Weekends provided a
more leisurely breakfast schedule, and everyone rose at generally the
same time. Often Tracy fried pancakes as the plates were laid upon the
table and the powdered milk, butter, and a bottle of imitation maple
syrup were extracted from the refrigerator. Norm and Tracy bought the
least expensive items at the grocery store, which included the
substitute for milk and a cheap brand of syrup. These two aspects of
the simple life were the only ones which I did not find appealing, and
vowed I would always buy fresh milk and decent syrup even though my
canned fruit would bear a bargain label. I guessed every way of life
had its flaws.
Feb. 13, 1976... It's Friday the 13th... watch yourself today... Don't
walk under a ladder; if you see a black cat, walk the other way! Only
kidding! I'm over at Norm's right now. I had 1 egg and 3 bran muffins
(pig). Tracy gave me 4 spoons (wooden) for my hope chest, that Norm
made at (work)... I feel real good this morning. Maybe I'll take a
walk! Maybe I'll even take my camera and take some pictures.
Staying at Norm and Tracy's house always put me in a good mood, for I
was with my favorite companions and most important, I was understood.
I felt so at ease in their company that, amid life's pain and
uncertainty, living was still worthwhile. Living, in fact, was really
great sometimes.
Feb. 14, 1976... M. and J. came over today and gave me some valentines
from the class. Then we talked awhile. We went to see (a) movie...
It was real funny...
Feb. 17, 1976... Today is Dad's birthday. I made a card out of
flannel, but I didn't like it, so I threw it away. Mom dug it out when
she came home (sad face). I made another card out of a box. You'd
follow the arrows to each side of the box and each side had a different
saying on it. I also made him some Rice Krispie Treats... never again!
He liked 'em tho'... Boy, they were like bricks!
Feb. 19, 1976... I made a jumper in 5 hours today. It's brown
corduroy, bib overall style and below the knees. The suspenders don't
have clasps, but I have snaps instead. I made it for the dance Friday.
I would have liked to make a hat to go with it, but didn't have enough
material. I surprised Mom and Dad a lot by it. See, they both had
gone to meetings, so I was home by myself from 7:30 to 9:00 p.m.
Feb. 20 1976... Today is the dance! I'm nervous! 11:56 p.m.--I'm home
from the dance now. I got home around 10:45 or so. It was real fun.
I danced with 9 boys; one boy I danced with twice. One time, it was 5
(songs) straight! Boy, my legs and feet ache. After, we went to
Shakey's Pizza Parlor. I had a lettuce salad for 60 cents (one boy)
asked about 5 kids for a dime and when they asked what it was for, he
said, "It's going for a good cause." You know what? He gave it to me!
I told 'em to take it back, but they wouldn't, and (a girl) said she'd
be mad at me if I didn't. So, I'm 50 cents richer, I think the reason
that I danced so much is because I've been gone.
It was obvious to me that some of the attention I had received was due
to my illness, for my appearance had suffered since 7th grade and
popularity had never been a concern of mine. Nevertheless, I was
pleased to have been accepted by those with whom I had always
maintained friendly terms. It was common knowledge that I wore a wig;
I was glad that no one stared or gawked at me with unnatural interest;
some even said that my short hair looked nice, to which I would reply
with a word of appreciation, knowing that I could never believe the
statements, despite the good intention behind them. I had explained
the entire episode to M. and J. when they visited me on Valentine's
Day, telling them that I wished my plight to be honestly related to
those of my acquaintance, for carrying such a secret would have been
like transporting a dandelion seed head on a windy day. Seeds of both
truth and controversy would have flown everywhere, and deception on my
behalf would only have served to germinate further curiosity.
The interaction at the dance demonstrated that I had not been
completely forgotten in my absence, although it also served to amplify
the unusual nature of my current way of life in my own eyes. I lived
each day as it presented itself, not dwelling on dejection, pain, or my
severance from the rest of the world. When I dreamed, I did not dream
of the past, and was therefore a trifle shocked at the difference of my
days to those of other youth. Through the months, abnormalcy became
"normal" for me; and perhaps it was beneficial that I could think along
those lines, for I was able to adapt to my situation without undue
frustration. It is difficult to live "with" something if it is the
source of continual mental torment. Aloneness did not parallel
loneliness; many times I was very happy that my health allowed me to
avoid social involvements, despite the fact that, after too much
solitude, interaction with others became increasingly difficult.
People were very good to me during my year of chemotherapy, and I
received attention which I would not have enjoyed had it not been for
my health problem. As I mentioned previously, women from church would
stop by to visit, occasionally bearing a plate of cookies or other food
which I found appealing, or spend their time with me making crafts. My
aunt who lived next door, also dropped by, or took me on small outings,
as did my sister-in-law, Tracy.
March 15, 1976... I didn't get any mail today. When that happens, it
almost ruins my whole day. I'm supposed to get (a long listing of
expected mail)... I hope I get something tomorrow... I love getting
mail... especially packages.
March 16, 1976... My back really hurts today, kinda all around the
middle. No mail came today at all. RATS! Some days I just feel like
sitting down and bawling when I don't get any packages or letter or
anything.
My day hit a rock-bottom low when no mail arrived, but two days in a
row was nearly insufferable. I wrote to relatives, two pen pals, and a
girl I had met in Rochester, Mn; it seemed incredible that no one would
have written and no catalog or advertisement buffered the disappointing
sight of the empty mailbox. This was depression in the life of a
home-bound 14 year old.
Several months later I decided to remedy the depressing situation by
sending my name and photo to a publication produced by an insurance
company which we received regularly. Having myself written to two
girls who had appeared in the magazine, I figured I should try to put
an end to my disgusting predicament since they had reported receiving
as many as 20-3O letters. I described myself, my hobbies and,
including a 7th grade photograph, quickly mailed the envelope.
March 19, 1976... I wanted to go to Col. with K. in the summer and told
dad. He said I'd not be able to. I never get to go anywhere with her.
He told me we wouldn't go to Col. this summer if I didn't care to go
with them! But I do! Man! I'm depressed! I'm going to bed without
telling anyone!
Without a question of doubt, my intended action described in the final
sentence had no profound effect on my parents, and if anyone lost sleep
over the incident, it was me. Frustration marred my rationality and
allowed the childish presence to dominate my thoughts and actions.
Whereas the above incident hurt only myself, since I enjoyed bedtime
hugs anger could also be directed out from myself. One is born with a
certain degree of destructiveness, for until a parent guides a child
toward the compassionate mode of thought which society demands, and the
child is mature enough to follow that direction, he often exerts
damaging blows on inanimate objects for no reason and similarly
provokes live creatures over which he wields superiority of size and
strength. In grade school I would capture daddy-long-legs and proceed
to amputate all of their legs until the body was but a helpless dot on
the sidewalk surrounded by eight spasmodically pulsating legs. My
behavior was quite unnecessary, and I finally was able to see the
brutality of my deadly surgery and allowed the bugs to pass unhindered.
Similarly, my brothers used to follow ants with a magnifying glass,
directing the reflective rays on their small bodies until they began to
smoke, whereupon the ant would collapse in a miniscule puff of fire.
Many households with dogs and cats bear the brunt of the human
inhabitants' emotions. Mistreatment is not uncommon regarding pets,
and ranges from overt bodily punishment to the supposedly innocent
teasing and frightening of animals.
March 23 1976... Gerb bit me yesterday for no reason at all, so today I
got even. I filled the tub with three inches of water and put him on
the edge of the tub. He fell in all by himself. He swam a little. I
left him in there a half hour... He looked funny... real skinny ...it
really scared him! I'll never do it again though.
How well I remember my reasoning and behavior on that day. My gerbil
would never have known why I was treating him in such a mean fashion;
gerbils are naturally active, and not desiring to be held, it bit my
finger in agitation. Realizing this, yet still frustrated, I decided
to put some water in the tub, measuring three inches at the deepest
slant, and put my gerbil on the tub's edge, knowing full well that the
chance of his sliding into the slippery interior was almost certain;
thus, I could take advantage of a sadistic need without actually
pushing him in the tub or hurting him. As I watched his progress to
assure that he was in no danger, it was apparent that he disliked his
situation entirely, for he found the highest spot immediately and
remained there, propped on his hind legs, craning his head for a way up
to more hospitable surroundings. After the time had elapsed, I lowered
my hand into the tub and he gratefully climbed into it; I then raised
him up and gently dried him on a towel. I knew that I liked the
feeling I encountered as my pet jumped into my cupped hands... he
sought my hands, and my offering of care, whereas the previous day,
he repelled my affections. It was the childish need to possess
something's love; if I made certain that the quality of his atmosphere
was poor, he would seek out my rescuing presence.
No matter how insignificant my action might seem in comparison to the
cruel attacks waged upon some pets, I feel ashamed that I ever needed
to boost my security through such unfavorable means. Any mistreatment
is unfortunate, but perhaps it is most unfortunate for that which it
reveals about the human who lacks the ability to resist it.
Because I spent so much time alone, I was highly aware of my opposing
desires, and the fact that I was ill augmented each in its own way.
During nausea I wanted no one to flutter nearby; vomiting was a
degrading sort of function for which I needed no help (as it was
essentially involuntary) and desired no spectators. At times I would
not throw up until I was certain that everyone was beyond earshot.
However, in the aftermath of a vicious siege or a miserable day, I
welcomed parental affection, and on occasion, sought their nurturing
touch. This latter trait proved to myself that I was not yet as
self-sufficient as I would have liked to be; I needed mom and dad for
more than food and lodging purposes, for part of me was still very much
a little child and that fact would not disappear through false
rationalization on my behalf. Although the child that I saw within
myself I sometimes despised, having at least fostered selfish ideas if
I had not also allowed myself to act upon the childish whims, I was
glad to be able to revert to that being in times of physical weakness;
perhaps, however, one never outgrows the need for a reassuring hug, and
gentle words.
Most of my visitors were adults. This suited me just fine, however,
for I felt more at ease with people who were older than myself. With a
few exceptions, I generally found myself inhibited around youth, for
acceptability was judged within narrow and often unreasonable bounds
with which I did not care to grapple. Moreover, because I did not have
a particular crowd with whom I closely associated, preferring to roam
with one individual at a time, group situations flooded me with
apprehension. One such group was church school. Although I truly
enjoyed the adults who attended the services each Sunday, my March 21
entry reads: "I didn't want to go to church" (I really never like to).
It was the heart-felt sentiments of a rebellious youth, perhaps, who
did not wish to sit through an hour-long service, yet my foremost
objection surrounded the obligatory church school and Sunday evening
MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship; I rarely attended the MYF meetings
during the administration of chemotherapy, although my parents had me
begin again after the treatments had ceased). I attempted to make
conversation or listen to those speaking nearby, yet could never
include myself to an even modest degree. As I approached a circular
gathering of kids, the circle would never break or widen to allow me
to "join in." For awhile I stood behind the circle of heads, smiling
stupidly at their jokes and listening to the flood of chatter
surrounding people I'd never known, until the bell announced it was
time to file to the classroom. Eventually, I tired of the hopeless
battle and spoke with my parents' friends or else made an early debut
in the empty church classroom and waited for the clock to herald the
beginning of the hour in a less humiliating fashion.
That I did not share common friends with the church youth was
complicated further by the fact that my "shyness" grew when ignored.
When I found myself in an awkward situation, I lost my ability to speak
quite as effectively as if my voice box had been stolen. Thus, if I
spoke a word or two and was left unanswered, verbalization became
increasingly more difficult until I could not speak if I wanted to do
so. I recall an outing (or retreat) on which Mom insisted I go,
wherein, during a meeting to plan activities, my suggestion to go on a
bike excursion was virtually eye-balled off the list as if it was an
incredibly ridiculous thing to have mentioned. I swallowed hard, and
wished I could melt into the wood of my bench. Later in the meeting
other questions were tossed about and, having considered a likely
answer to one, I opened my mouth, fully intending to speak, but nothing
would pass through my lips. I shut my mouth again, rather shocked, yet
happy that no one had seen my strange gesture.
Sunday school was not as bad as MYF, because of the teacher's presence
and the short length of class. I felt sorry for the teachers, poor
volunteers who offered their services each Sunday morning, only to
receive inattentive abuse. I often wished that the minister would have
cancelled church school for junior and senior high, and instead allowed
them to talk the hour away, since that is what happened anyway. When
an attempt at discipline was made to silence the noise, the discussion
planned by the teacher would all but collapse and students, or at
least, many of them, would sit despondently in their seats, with
plaster-cast pouts on their faces, and refuse to answer questions
unless directly asked. Then the answer was generally a curt, "I don't
know" followed by steamy silence. I wished that I had the clout and
the following to right these proceedings, yet a plea on my behalf would
have been unheard or ignored; unless my barrier would permit me to
enter into the instructor's discussion and help in that meager way, I
could do nothing to reinforce the teacher's strength except, through
silence, keep the bedlam at its current level. Our church, I found,
shared its problem with other denominations.
March 24, 1976... wrote another poem about spring... really nice out
today!
I remember the day and was inspired to write about that which I saw
around me. I carried a note pad and pen to the wood pile behind my
house, and taking a seat, allowed my pen to drift along with my mood.
As the sun pelted its warm rays on my back, the world seemed so
beautiful and my heart so full of the world, that I had to capture the
feeling forever. I possessed no poet's eloquence at age 14, though I
did seek to express honesty and beauty in the written word; I wished
that everyone could see and feel the life which permeated every puff
of breeze through the tight-budded trees.
I felt rather guilty that I fostered such ill fervor toward going to
church and, as a gesture of good will, sent a copy of my poem to the
minister. Perhaps I wished to ease my own mind against the suspicion
that I was on a collision course with atheism; for although I did not
feel like a heathen, I was terribly aware of a rift between my ideas
and those preached in church; some of the statements actually filled me
with wrath; I searched my mind for the cause of my annoying fury and,
years later, I was finally able to define my religious belief and be at
peace with myself.
To return to my story, I mailed my poem and settled back to pursue the
daily routine. One and a half weeks passed, finding me at church and
longing for an alternative. It seemed miraculous, for my wish came
true.
Apr. 4, 1976... I didn't go to church because I got hungry, so I went
with Les and Mrs. K. to the Modernistic Restaurant. I had 2 1/2 pieces
of French toast, 1 sausage, hot tea. I wish I'd gone to church tho'
'cause Rev. Jones read my poem "Spring"! A lady told Mom that I should
try to publish it! Seven others commented on it! WOW!
Ironic, life. Besides the honor of having my poem read in church, it
was published in the weekly church bulletin since a number of
individuals had asked for a copy of it; in the following weeks I was
sent two thank you notes in the mail for sharing my writing with the
church. It felt good to know that my efforts were appreciated; more
importantly, it prompted people to take a second look at nature's
splendor.
Spring
It's the beginning of Spring,
And God's in the air,
Not just in my woods,
But everywhere.
I can feel him like the breeze
As it blows on me,
And so can the robin, the eagle, the bee.
And as the sun's rays
Beat down on the earth
The world suddenly awakes
And is filled with new birth.
Under the leaves so dead and brown,
Sprouts a Spring Beauty, and life is found.
Spring is life...
Of this I've no doubt,
I feel I'm alive, and I want to shout!
Lauren Isaacson
8th Grade
I used to sit on my front steps and watch the storms approach. The sky
would turn gray, then dark, inky blue as thunderheads bearing rain
scouted a path above the tall oaks surrounding our house. Lightning
seared the murky, restless skies as I peered into the dark abyss above
me, and when the storm drew hauntingly near, I would relinquish my seat
for one inside the house.
My love of storms was not blind love; I respected the power of nature
and maintained my distance, continuing my vigilance protected by four
walls. I once witnessed the mauling destruction of a seemingly healthy
oak as the wind cracked its trunk at 20 feet above the ground and sent
its entire upper portion sprawling to the woodland floor. I gawked in
astonishment and breathed a sigh of relief that the tree had not fallen
in the direction of my aunt's home. Wide-eyed, I realized that my
hands were shaking; I left the doorway and took a seat in the living
room.
A Storm In The Offing
Storm clouds are coming,
The wind is in wrath;
Soon raindrops will penetrate
Everything in their path.
The sun is still shining,
The birds, still in chorus...
But this will not last,
For a storm is before us.
The wind is now lashing
The trees without care,
And their sap is now flowing
With each breath of air.
The sun's face is veiled
With a blanket of gray;
The heavens break open,
And rain fills the day.
Lauren Isaacson
8th Grade
Apr. 7, 1976... I kinda' got sick after I ate the cream of rice so I
just read more of my Science. Then G.E. came over and we did crafts. I
made a wishing well with clothespin halves glued on to a Gerber food
jar. It's neat. She even brought an African violet from Mrs. O. I
also made Easter egg decorations from real blown out eggs covered with
napkins. At 2:00 Tracy and her sister picked me up. We went to (the
mall) for a beauty show... wasn't much fun... didn't even get made
up!... I got to sign up for free samples though. I'll get some!
I had few actual contacts with my classmates of 7th grade, for I shared
little in common with their faster-paced lifestyles and the saying,
"out of sight, out of mind" carried a thick slice of truthfulness. To
pass the time I often wrote nonsensical poems. The old west was the
brunt of one of my endeavors...
Revenge Doesn't Alus Pay!
(AS told by an old Mountain Man)
This is the story 'bout a woman named Sue;
Her man wuz kilt by Injuns... her fam-Iy, too!
Now Sue bore a grudge worse than most could tell,
She'd get revenge on them redskins if she had ta go
through hell !
'Ol Sue used a lang-gwadge that stung just like a bee,
And she could draw a pistol faster'n you could knock
your knee!
One day while she wuz lookin' fer somethin' good ta eat,
She spied a group of footprints, made by moccasined feet!
Sue tracked 'em 'til she found 'em near the river bank,
And roped the neck of one, then gave it a yank.
The minute that the others heard the terble cry,
They gathered up their weapons and saw her by and by.
Well Sue was pretty crafty, but not as much as they,
For soon she turned and fled... her being the prey.
In an instant they were on her... that poor, devilish Sue,
She did not win the battle, for she herself was slew!
This is the way Sue ended, it may seem sort of cold,
But she still lives in stories that many folks have told.
Lauren Isaacson
8th Grade
Apr. 30, 1976... Dr. Murrell's office called and said I had to get
another blood test because my white cells are down. I've gotta' have
one Sat., too. For awhile I was saying some unwriteable things.
I was so upset.
I could never quite understand why they wanted to take more blood when
my count was down. To me, that made little sense; I would have thought
I should keep all of the blood cells I could.
I saw enough of hospitals to please a hypochondriac; further contact,
after leaving Rochester, seemed beyond reason. I wanted only to be
left alone; sometimes life seemed so unfair. I was quite familiar with
needles by April, after having received countless jabs and nearly as my
bruises without complaint, yet orders for additional blood tests
effectively hindered my level of tolerance. Telling myself that,
"blood test were no big deal after all I'd been through," would
sometimes suffice to relieve my gripping tension; other instances, I
could say, "By now you should be used to them," and then go merrily on
my way. There were other days when no rationalization would console me.
May 4, 1976... Looked through my catalogs and dreamed...
I loved to dream over catalogs and fill out order blanks, as it took my
mind from nausea and helped pass the time. Often, I would actually
fill out an order blank yet never send it; catalogs were far more
entertaining than magazines, for they were composed almost solely of
pictures.
I was amazed that I should be the subject of jealous resentment; while
I was home vomiting, or sitting hairless in front of the TV, they could
run about, full of energy, eat a double-scoop ice cream cone without
heaving the rest of the night away, and let their hair dry in front of
the TV. I was not resentful of their life; why would they resent "how
much I had"? I continued to send for things, loving to receive mail.
Clippings and advertisements for free samples were hoarded and quickly
posted. I sent my name to a beauty club, thinking that the make-up
would be of benefit to my sallow complexion and also something to which
I could look forward each month; to my dismay, I received a letter
rejecting my application and refunding my money, with an explanation
that I was too young to belong. My mom promptly returned the check,
accompanied by a letter explaining why I wished to belong to the club.
I hoped they would understand, yet their response was beyond my
greatest expectations, for they made me a V.I.P. member wherein I would
receive all cosmetics free of charge. I was ecstatic that I was
allowed to join; their additional favor was a true gift indeed, and I
quickly mailed a letter of gratitude for their uncommon generosity.
Aside from my family, I told no one of my monthly benefactor, for I
feared the partially concealed jealousy which I had already seen too
often. I disliked having to be secretive, yet my paranoia ran deep and
I did not wish to stir further coals of bitterness within others.
May 6, 1976... I wish the magazine would come soon! I hope to get tons
of pen pals.
By the middle of June letters began to arrive from all parts of the
country. I was ecstatic, and diligently wrote correspondence in
return. After a passage of a month or more, the letters from new pen
pals dwindled in number, and I was able to establish firm postal
relationships with many individuals. In all, I had received over 50
letters; and to my agitation, one phone call from a nitwit who claimed
that he wanted to be a "phone pal." (NO thanks). Although I responded
to all letters except one, which was from a guy desiring a full-length
photo of me in a bathing suit or shorts, some never wrote again or so
infrequently that I was uncertain who actually lost interest first.
However, these partings did not bother me since I still wrote regularly
to over 20 people and that number alone kept me running to the post
office for stamps and buying paper on a grand scale.
The business of writing letters became an outlet for creativity and
self-expression which, at that point in my life, I needed very much.
While one's circle of friends changed with one's interests and
values, pen pals were sufficiently detached from the prejudices of the
immediate atmosphere and therefore became friends at a safe distance to
whom feelings could be written without the usual fear of
confidentiality. Actually there were only two or three pen pals with
whom I shared any depth, for many desired only to speak about their
boyfriends and favorite things to eat, and refused to rise above the
superficial acquaintance afforded by one page letters and a 15 cent
stamp. Expectations and needs varied with these individuals, just as
they did within local relationships. Some needed only a correspondent
and others, a confidant; the duration of mutual interaction via post
depended on the compatibility of these aspects.
I wrote "Definitions" on May 10, 1976; it captured a bit more
introspection than some of my writing.
Definitions
Dreams are like the eagle
When it is in flight,
Plummeting down a mountainside
Or soaring out of sight.
Success is like the sky
When clouds roll away
And beckon to the sun
To brighten up your day.
Failure is a shooting star
Which hurls itself around
And makes a crater in your heart,
Crushing spirits to the ground.
Birth is like a flower
As its' leaves unfurl,
Rendering its' love for God
To city, country, world.
Death is like an endless night
To those who don't believe,
Cloaking them in darkness,
The old to the naive.
Lauren Isaacson
9th Grade
1976
May 16, 1976... I went to church with K... just Sunday School, tho'...
Man, I thought our class didn't pay to much attention and those guys
threw stuff, wrecked Bibles and everything. K. dropped me home around
noon. I was real depressed for some unknown reason.
Thus, Sunday School was a scene I loved to avoid, even in other
churches. I felt incredibly guilty that I did not have the fortitude
or spirit to deride the callousness enacted by some of the kids; since
I was already miles from their friendship, I should not have worried,
yet I wished to draw no attention to myself, especially that of the
negative sort in their eyes. My internal suffering would then have
been much worse; I opted for alienation over derision. My idea of a
"religious lift" was a sojourn of solitude among the woodlands.
For my mom and dad, though, my sickness created tension in itself. Its
presence, and the nausea, hairlessness, and so forth that reminded them
of its presence dined voraciously on their happiness. During the day
they both immersed their energies into their jobs; exertion was only a
temporary relief, however, and years later I learned that my mom had
sometimes let out an involuntary sob after the dismissal of the
kindergarteners when her thoughts encompassed my loss of hair. I
rarely saw their anguish, for it seemed that they concealed it very
well. Occasionally, when it ran over, I did not know how to react;
their pain caused pain for me.
May 22, 1976... Didn't do much today. I dusted and then cleaned my
room (and) listened to records. (I was sorta depressed and I guess I
made Mom depressed too, because I asked if it was OK to use the record
player and she said "sure, that's what it's for. I always told Norm
that but he'd never use it. I guess I just raised the whole bunch of
you kids wrong." And then she started to cry).
"No, Mom," I thought, standing silently in the doorway. Depression
weighed heavily on one's self-confidence. Luckily such feelings within
Mom were transitory and soon replaced by her characteristically
positive attitude; aside from her good nature she did not have time to
be depressed, for she rarely had time to sit. Maybe it was just as
well, since there was hardly a shortage of worries. The time and
energy she could expend in worry was more productively spent mixing and
baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies (and it certainly left a
better taste in one's mouth).
Generally my visits to the clinic were clearly punctuated within my
diary; in effect, five pages were barren of script except for a quickly
scribbled sad face, each accompanied by a concise four letter word,
"BLAH." The text would resume on the day following my last treatment.
Toward the end of May we drove up to Mayo Clinic for my third to last
series of treatments.
May 26,1976... Woke up (DAAAA!) had X-ray and blood test. They took so
much blood that I got sick to my stomach and dizzy. When I got to the
"finger prick place," I was sobbing and crouching over, so they took me
in a room to lay down. I cried in my little room they put me in for
awhile. Then I was all right... They pricked me in that same room!
Service!
I remember that day very well. It seemed that I did not feel quite
right as I walked toward the waiting room for the blood test that
morning, and once I was forced to talk, I realized how displaced my
senses were, for I could not even answer their routine inquiries of
cordiality.
"Take a seat, please; make a fist." The nurse tied a rubber strap
tightly about my arm and began to search for a vein.
"Where are you from?" she asked.
"Lauren Isaac..." I stopped abruptly, looking up at her as
embarrassment painted my face a brilliant hue of red.
Thinking she'll try another question, perhaps an easier one, she asked,
"What's your name, huh?" To which I replied, "Moline, Illinois." My
head began to spin in confusion and I wondered if I was going mad.
"I'm sorry... I don't know what's wrong with me today..." I said, my
voice trailing off as the dizziness intensified. Nothing of this sort
had ever happened to me. I was extremely relieved to exit the vicinity
of the blood test, for I despised losing control of myself in front of
others. Feeling like an idiotic fool, I wondered if the nurses thought
I was new to the procedure, or scared, or squeamish...
The remaining portion of the day went smoothly after eating breakfast.
Mom and I went shopping after taking Dad to the airport. I got a new
wig, a brush, and wig shampoo.
A new wig. It took some persuading on the part of my mom, but I
finally agreed to try on some new hairpieces. My wig was beginning to
show signs of wear after constant daily use and, admittedly, it was
looking rather tacky. Despite these facts I was reluctant to go
through the nerve-wracking process again, especially since I was now
completely hairless and found the idea of publicly displaying that
trait in a department store utterly repulsive. We browsed through the
maze of styrofoam heads and many-hued tresses until a sales lady
approached us. I studied the floor intently while my mom explained
the color and styles I wished to try. Immediately the lady produced
several boxes housing clumps of curled hair which resembled dead
animals, and motioned to the mirror. "Uh..." I stammered, trying to
muster up my courage. "Could...I...try them on in a dressing room
or... something? I take chemotherapy and I... don't have any hair..."
The woman hardly flinched. "Sure, go right over to woman's apparel..."
What a relief! Behind the curtained partition I shed my relic and,
standing before the mirror, tried one wig after the other. "I swear,
nobody has this much hair!" I exclaimed, frustrated. "Think of the
milk you'd have to drink to grow hair like this!"
I selected a wig which closely matched my old one in its younger days
and vowed I would somehow smash it down to the proportion of real hair.
Would you like to wear it?" Mom asked, referring to the new clump of
hair slumped inanimately over the edge of the box. "No way," I
plastered my tried and true wig on my head and it unhesitatingly fell
into place, conforming to my head like an old felt hat.
The following afternoon my treatments began. However, we received a
pleasant surprise by learning that we could transport the last two days
worth of drugs home with us and allow the hospital to administer them
to me. Thus, after the third treatment, we were given the expensive
vials of yellow, clear and ruby red liquid, along with instructions for
the doctor, and placed the potent ammunition in a cooler.
May 29, 1976... Took Chemotherapy and headed for home. Got home around
3:00 or 4:00 p.m. (TWO relatives) were already here. (one) gave me a
book on beauty... maybe she's trying to tell me something! HA! HA!
May 30, 1976... Had chemotherapy at home. It took a long time to get
all of the things situated. It was injected, I threw up, etc., and
then we went home.
May 31, 1976... Had Chemo. It took an awful long time today. Home.
Watched T.V.
Chemotherapy, administered at home in Moline was an improvement which
boosted my morale. For the first time my diary entries did not consist
merely of sad faces and hurriedly scrawled "BLAH'S." I didn't feel
"good," but I seemed to feel "better." I could breathe fresh air
instead of the motel's stale stagnancy of bygone cigarette ashes. I
could even throw up in my own toilet. Home treatment was indeed a
delight.
June 2, 1976... I got sick tonite. I guess it's just the chemotherapy
doing its duty! I made myself barf at 10:00 p.m. I should have barfed
sooner.
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