Return to School
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Return To School
August 21, 1976... got sick. It was around 11:30 p.m. Dad got up and
helped me. I barfed and then my throat burned. I never had that
before. Dad held me awhile... He's the best dad in the world.
The end of the treatment did not mean that I would no longer become
sick or weak, and as I prepared myself to return to school, I knew it
would not, at first, be an easy adjustment. The calendar did not pause
for me to gain strength, however, and five days following my final
injection, I went to register for fall classes. The administrators
were quite understanding and tried their best to ease my nervousness,
making it clear that I should come to the nurse's office for a daily
afternoon snack and at any time I felt ill. I would be excused from
physical education classes through a note from my doctor, and spend
that hour in the library. I felt encouraged to know that I could
escape the horrors of P.E., especially since I had to wear a wig and my
energy level was quite below normal. Perhaps the reinitiation into
junior high would not measure up to my fears, I thought, and went home
relieved. Five days passed and the schools opened throughout the city.
August 30, 1976... Got up at 6:30 a.m. and got dressed. I ate some
Cream-of-Rice, but not much since this is the first day of school.
Left and picked up Kristi...I saw some of the kids I knew and some
didn't recognize me at first. Went to my homeroom and stayed there an
hour. We filled out our schedules and that's about it.
August 31, 1976... Couldn't eat breakfast very well. I was so
nervous... saw Kristi after Dad dropped me off and we talked awhile
before we had to go in the classes... Some kids said stuff about my
wig. A girl just stared at my head and a guy behind me suggested to
another kid to pull it off. He didn't, and thank God! I was pooped
when I got home. I was upset, too.
It was difficult to maintain my courage after hearing such threats, but
I knew that if I allowed myself to cower in fear before the aggressive
words, the likelihood of my avoiding further taunts would have been
reduced. That day, without saying a word, I turned a searing,
humorless gaze upon my potential attackers, whose faces were forever
branded in my memory. They never followed through with their
suggestion, but if they had, it is my belief that they would have
sustained more astonishment at my hairlessness than was their
intention; word of mouth transactions possess little accuracy, and some
individuals, perhaps, thought I wore a wig over my own hair for the fun
of it.
I had few problems surrounding the wig after the first weeks of school,
and the kids realized that I was not among the gregarious crowd, who
would adorn themselves for amusement and attention, but rather sported
the hairpiece through necessity. Although the "necessity" for my wig
remained vague for certain individuals, other people were blatant in
their curiosity; one such individual was the girl described as having
"stared at my head," who wasted little time before quizzing me whether
or not "that" was "a wig." I was almost relieved that she was bold
enough to ask, for I hoped that, once her inquiry had been satisfied,
she would cast her annoying gaze elsewhere. Masking any embarrassment
I might have felt, I looked at her directly and admitted that, yes,I
did wear a wig, and that I had to do so because I'd taken chemotherapy
treatments for cancerous tumors in my stomach; the treatment made me
lose my hair, but it would eventually return. Her gaze softened, and
after assuring herself once again that my hair would grow back, turned
around to face the front of the room. I heaved a sigh of relief and
applauded the usefulness of honesty.
As I reflected upon the various traumas associated with my lack of
hair, I was amazed at the power which people wield over the moods of
others whose lives are touched by their kind or abusive words or
actions. My cousin Gary, who lives next door, came over one morning
before I'd donned my wig, yet due to his natural and inoffensive
attitude toward my appearance, I remarked in my diary that "He saw me
while I didn't have my wig on, but it didn't bother me too much tho."
How different was his reaction than that of another relative who lives
across the country; this relative derived immense pleasure from
forcible, obnoxious treatment of children, over whom he reigned
absolute bodily control albeit their distaste for his repulsive
presence. I attracted his sadistic attention in his later visits since
I was the youngest of our family, and so it was that on one occasion he
grabbed me in an attempt to make me sit on his lap, and I, struggling
to free myself from his vise-like grip, found myself wrestled to the
floor, pinned beneath the stench of his armpits and unwholesome breath.
The more I writhed to flee from his ugly imprisonment, the more he
seemed to enjoy his power. I looked around at the group of family
members who encircled the living room, but no one found anything amiss
in his actions, perhaps considering the scene of no more consequence
than innocent horseplay. But I knew better; this was a man whose
fixation for children passed beyond benign teasing and friendly
adoration; something in his touch spoke of an urge to seize and
capture, to hurt and control... his touch was wrong.
I was able to feel that which the attending adults could not possibly
have seen, and every ounce of my strength resisted his force. Since it
was late in the evening, I wore pajamas and a bonnet, and I strained
desperately to assure that the latter remained atop my head; I could
not escape his paws, perhaps, but I had resolved that he should not see
my baldness, pulling the bonnet closer about my head when the chance
presented itself.
It seemed that the struggle was without an end. Then he suddenly
plucked the shielding bonnet from my head. His action drained the
fighting spirit from my mind and replaced it with humiliation. I felt
as if my dignity had been raped, and sunk to the carpet in exhaustion.
A heavy silence draped the conversation in the room as all eyes focused
on the scene before them. My sister's eyes narrowed sympathetically,
and the light-heartedness drained from her voice as she uttered a long,
descending "Ohhhh!"... and fell silent. Considering the fun was over,
he released my captive arms, wearing a wide and sickening grin on his
face. I immediately rolled over without a word, ran from the room to
the basement, where I hid behind the sectional couch.
Clasping my bent knees in a tight hug, I cried silent tears of rage and
degradation, and stayed hunched in the corner for at least ten minutes.
I hoped wildly that he would not pursue me, and when I heard heavy
foot-falls on the upstairs landing, I held my breath. "Bye, Laurie."
His words assailed my ears like fingernails grating across a
chalkboard. I hated to reply, but feared that silence on my behalf
would stir a need in him to "seek and find," as if involved in some
childish game; I gathered my faculties together and forced a faint
"Bye" from my lips. I did not sound enthused, but it produced the
desired effect. The back door closed abruptly and silence followed.
As I adjusted to school, I became more outgoing, reacquainting myself
with former classmates and introducing myself to "new" students. A
teacher allowed me to join the year book committee, and I was selected
as one of three "Art Editors." School was actually beginning to be fun
for me, and my inhibitions were swallowed by enthusiasm. My wig,
though a constant awareness, was not a source of fear and nausea,
though an inconvenience, was something with which I had learned to live.
While I was not "popular" at school, I was accepted and had several
good friends; it was all that I had ever desired from social groups,
and was as comfortable as my self-consciousness allowed. Because I had
begun a new year, my parents compelled me to go to church and its
related functions as well. I hoped for the best, and for a brief time
I felt somewhat attuned to the group and attempted to involve myself in
conversation. As the year progressed, however, the tightly woven
friendships no longer peered outside of their circle, and I once again
felt shunned; there were several individuals who were always friendly
to everyone, yet without their support, my alienation from the group
seemed as concrete as the church's foundation.
Oct. 10, 1976... Church and Sunday School. Felt really out of things.
I almost cried.
Oct. 28, 1976... Share Group tonite. Only one person said hi to me
when I came in. Cried at home.
That which I found most distressing was the fact that I had to be among
people who did not care for my company and simultaneously engender
religious and meaningful growth through this association and
interaction. I was being asked to fulfill an impossible dream.
Religion was intended to be an uplifting experience; I felt only
emptiness. It would be a long and solitary road, perhaps, but
fulfillment would come. I would side-step the busy highway and seek my
peace alone.
The changes at home were now quite visible, for Dad had transformed
into an all-day phenomenon, righting wrongs, remodeling and
redecorating with such diligence that, to watch him, one might well
have thought his employment was for pay. Throughout the week, he
retrieved me from school, and often we would stop for a snack, browsing
in shops afterwards; I enjoyed these outings, especially after a
wearing day. Dad was now the one who received news while it was still
fresh, gaining first hand knowledge which often a child would neglect
to pass on a second time to a working father; with his retirement, it
was especially important that he did not feel cast out of the
mainstream.
Another visible change in the household was the reappearance of my
brother Todd, who, following the collapse of certain jobs and
aspirations in Chicago, decided to come home to more hospitable
surroundings and search for employment opportunities. Although his
eyes were blackened in the figurative sense, nothing slowed him down.
Each day his feet scoured the cement; no door was left unopened. If
there was a job to be had in the area, he would find it.
It did not take very long for Todd's search to reach an end, and he
gladly left the "street sweeping" to someone else. Working for an
elevator company, as it turned out, did not have its ups and down, and
my brother found himself adequately employed in a stable firm. I too
reaped the benefits of his new position when he took me to the
company's annual dinner. "You wouldn't believe the size of the roast
and potato!" I raved in my diary; I was duly impressed. Meanwhile...
Nov. 17, 1976... Norm and Tracy went on a vacation. They may be gone a
month. I guess they quit their jobs!
At the time, jobs were scarce, and most individuals were taking
precautions to assure that they held secure positions and did not
create any inconveniences within their company. The sudden flight on
Norm and Tracy's behalf was a surprise and concern to us, yet nothing
appeared to be wrong. "Maybe they are taking a honeymoon that is three
years overdue," I thought, and wiped the cobwebs of apprehension from
my mind; "It will sure seem strange without them on Thanksgiving,
though," I reflected drearily.
My consultations at Mayo Clinic were scheduled every three months for
the first year following chemotherapy, with the first check-up falling
one week before Thanksgiving. The blood tests and X-ray were the only
tests I was given, which did not seem at all rigorous to me. Although
blood was increasingly more difficult to extract due to the scar-tissue
present in my veins from the many needles they had endured, the blood
tests were not a threat to my well-being; X-rays also, were painless.
In the afternoon we met with Dr. E. for the consultation and found that
my health was perfectly sound. The only concern was for my lungs,
which housed a small "spot" of unknown character; this would be
monitored through X-rays the doctor explained, and should cause no
worry. All signs were favorable; the lungs would be watched as a
precaution, since those having recurrences of my type of cancer were
affected in the lungs.
I was pleased with the outcome of my tests, but did not allow myself to
overflow with enthusiasm. "Everything's O.K.," I wrote in my diary,
followed by a happy face; beyond that, I preferred not to think about
health, for exuberance seemed premature and inappropriate.
Norm and Tracy returned in time for Thanksgiving which delighted me no
end. They had been absent less than a week, yet I spent little time
pondering over their formerly stated intention of taking a month's
vacation; practicality was probably the reason for their hasty
reappearance, since smiles were in ample supply. Tracy even called to
ask what to bring for the dinner, and on the day of the feast,
presented a loaf of homemade pumpkin bread to my mom.
Everything seemed terrific and consequently, depression on Thanksgiving
Day made no sense.
Nov. 25, 1976... Thanksgiving. I really didn't eat too much, I
couldn't. I didn't feel too great. I was really depressed. Went
outside to shoot some arrows. Tracy came out and we had a big talk
about things...
I was becoming more susceptible to mood fluctuation as the year wore
away, and knew that my depression was part of reaching adulthood.
Every textbook revolving around the subject of health made such
statements, underlining the fact that one's teenage years were often
the most difficult to bear. Instability appeared to be the rule rather
than the exception as my body and mind secured various realms of
adulthood yet failed to grasp the elusive wholeness of maturity.
Moments of bliss could be attacked by the shadow of torment and
indecision. I wished to be the self-sufficient master of my life, yet
I first needed to define my beliefs and pinpoint my destination. I
wanted to make headway, to abandon the circular path of dependence and
strike my own course through shaded lairs of uncertainty.
One area in which I had little uncertainty about my inevitable goal was
the desire for my own home. Whenever I visited the homes of my sister
or brother, I could seldom resist a long draught of intoxicating
enthusiasm from the stream of ideas rampaging wildly through my head.
When I was back in my room again, I surveyed the purchases which I had
made through the years and happily applauded my preference for mature
objects (aside from the stuffed animals) and considered myself to be
well on my way toward furnishing a place of my own. Cogwheels carrying
new and magnificent ideas continually worked within my consciousness
and refused to slow their relentless pace. When my zest was aired to
my parents, their reactions sometimes grated with the ceaseless
amblings of my dreams. Trying to illustrate the fine proportions of an
idea to them was like attempting to open a rusty lock; I would
surrender in frustration and prepare an alternative route.
Dec. 27, 1976... Went to (the mall ) with Mom. Looked at china. Saw
one (pattern) I liked and wanted to start a hope chest. Told Dad and
of course he didn't approve. By the time I am allowed to get a set,
that design will be obsolete.
At fifteen, my likes and dislikes were well established, and I did not
fear that I would one day regret the rustic pattern which caught my
eye. Never before had I seen china dishes that meshed with my idea of
perfection, and I revolted internally when my proposition was dashed.
My dad stood firm, however, saying that it was pointless to store
dishes, especially at my age; and he added, that I may change my mind
about the pattern and what a shame that would be after investing in an
entire set of china. I knew the situation was hopeless.
I had been through a great deal of pain and discomfort during my year
of chemotherapy, and quietly resolved that I would never be subjected
to such treatment again; now, in the transformation to adulthood, I
felt pain and discomfort of a different incomparable variety, yet its
pangs were just as valid as those which were purely physical in nature.
While "growing pains" were literally a headache, I came to believe
that the term more readily applied to emotional stress and frustration;
growing up certainly did not boast a red carpet welcome.
Dec. 31, 1976... New Year's Eve. I spent most of it having a migraine
headache, sweating and throwing up. FUN!..The Isaacsons and Nelsons
were here. I guess everyone had a pretty good time. I sure didn't.
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