Reflections
"I don't care for rainbow chasing. . . it's a long drive down the alley
of blind hope. I prefer not living in the shadows."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Reflections
AUGUST 25, 1983... I have decided to, once again, embark upon the habit
of keeping a diary. Just having finished reading the entries in my
previously written diaries, I rediscovered many memories and
consequently, remembered how important it can be to retain a shred of
ones self... no matter how brief... for the sake of future reference.
Words tend to bridge gaps of time, and help to bring to rest troubled
minds. I hope my words herein shall prove worthwhile. . . both to
myself, and to whosoever may one day be the keeper of these journals.
Today I began, also, to write the story of my life... in it I hope to
touch on experiences, trials, thoughts, both from past years and
present. I wrote three pages concerning my earliest years thus far.
Nearly three years have passed since I wrote that diary entry, and much
in my life has changed. Indeed, life is waning rapidly and there shall
be no clever cure or miracle. For this reason, I shall simply use
journal entries to describe my life in many instances; writing, in
itself taxes my stamina.
What became of my relationship with my former boy friend? Time changes
relationships as it does all things; so does circumstance. My
recurrence of cancer exhumed a need for closeness, and what should have
been better than dating to answer such a need? Because I knew I would
not establish a relationship given the constraints of my irreversible
disease, dating was not the threat it had been, and I was able to
maintain a relationship without becoming terrified of romance.
Romance would never be part of my life.
Sept. 8, 1983... I really had a hard night. I was in the john for 3
hrs. with the feeling my intestines were infested with worms. It is
almost worse than throwing up. By ll:00 I could finally go to bed.
Mom undid my covers for me. . . she's such a good mom.
Sept. 16, 1983... Dad got the reply letter about a new experimental
treatment for "Big C." It was on 20/20... they only give it to a
select group at Johns Hopkins in Maryland. It's funny. I'm scared to
get better. . . I might let everyone down if I'm not the superperson
(achiever). That's stupid... I could always take the civil service
exam to try to be a postman... I would've liked doing that...
Knowing I had a bit of a melancholic streak in my blood, Norm used to
wonder if I simply did not wish to live. "You take all of this so
well... I don't know if I could handle it like that." "You just live
with it," I told him. (I had often been depressed in high school and
at Sears). After having cancer for three years, I woke up one sunny
morning and glanced about the upstairs. "I don't want to die" crossed
my mind like a flashing neon sign. I was slightly stunned. Though I
was prepared for death, that in itself will not stifle one's zest for
life as long as there is something to live for... one day at a time.
Perhaps in my battle for a normal life, bereft of hair-raising
treatments, I had merely thought, "I don't want to live if I can't do
so with quality." Because life on any terms was not palatable did not
mean that I desired to die. Never before had I truly contemplated
that idea!
Sept 21, 1983... I talked with Alene (Greece patient). She is doing
well. Max is going back for more treatments. Jenny is taking chemo in
New York and Connie died. Mom and Dad didn't tell me. It doesn't make
me depressed... it is just the truth... death happens to people... even
patients of the revered Dr. Alivizatos. It didn't help me... my waist
measures 31 1/2.
Sept 25, 1983... I called Jon utilizing the teleconnect service and we
had a nice 1/2 hour conversation. He once again urged me to come out
before Christmas, saying he was unsure of his stay at his current apt.
and the rainy season begins in Nov.-March. I seem to grapple with the
idea of flying there; I somehow hate to retain a relationship which
seemingly has no future. I couldn't see myself living in Ca. with my
current situation. It's always been difficult for me to visit Jon
when I haven't seen him in awhile. Something always holds me back.
Sept 26, 1983... Dad called the Metabolic Treatment Cntr. in Chicago.
A foreign accented woman referred Dad to an affiliated cntr in Cicero,
II. From there he called the Cancer Society in Davenport only to be
referred to an 800 number in New York. He dialed this number
explaining the situation at Johns Hopkins. (They called Fri. A.M.
I have the wrong type of cancer for their treatment). The Metabolic
people are not doctors and their claims cannot be substantiated. She
combined Alivizatos in the same category. Mayo was right in their
answers. Chemo... a treatment... not a cure. Dad called the Clinic in
Cicero. They had moved! The main office didn't know that! What a
fake! They use a tape with a man's soothing voice to sell an empty
cure. A discussion broke out between the 3 of us at home. It endured
for the better part of 2 hours. What scared me was the fact that Norm
was pushing the chemo option. I guess my desire to live or to just
grasp each day isn't that desperate.
The Dark Pool
I am
That stagnant pool
Of life
Around which
A vibrant world
Revolves.
I watch
As friends
Are initiated
Into the expanse
Of change
Termed reality.
I stay
Imprisoned by webs
That do not break
Shaded by leaves
That never fall.
I wait
Aware of the options;
To grasp madly
A tattered shred
Of existence,
Or preserve all dignity for
The final breath.
Lauren Isaacson
September of 1983
Sept 28, 1983... Made reservations to go and see Jon. . . rates are
unbeatable at $329 round-trip fare from Moline to Frisco...
regularly $600
Sept 29, 1983... Drove to Dubuque in my parent's Citation...got sick
after lunch at the Ryan House. . . nausea endured a better part of the
afternoon. Didn't go with Sharon and Galen to the church potluck.
...ate an English muffin and 2 eggs... nausea again...
normal around 9 P.M.
Oct. 2, 1983... Made waffles for Norm and me... did dishes... cancelled
KFC plans as the day became too warm for me. Jon called; I was bummed
out for some reason. I felt like crying. I was thinking about the
years (a couple years ago) and how one takes feeling good for granted.
Then when Jon called, I remembered how soon I would be going to Frisco.
I wasn't emotionally prepared to go so soon. I was flooded by
seemingly small fears, yet to me, the fears are so real they become
monsters. I was scared about sweating for 3 hrs. on the plane, having
to go to the bathroom, getting tired, sick, etc. I want to make my
trip as easy as possible, so I'm not taking a suitcase... just a couple
of flight bags. It bothers me that I'll be waiting a maximum of 7 hrs.
for Jon in the Frisco airport. I don't particularly relish that idea.
I'll probably be fine, however, I'm haunted by all of these fears
beforehand.
Oct. 4, 1983... I've been nervous for about 3 days now. I keep
thinking the plane's going to crash or something will happen so I'll
never be home again. I guess that says where I'm most comfortable.
Everything I eat sits in my stomach like so much lead.
I hemmed my black Lee jeans and my $15 Gitano jeans, packed one flight
bag with clothes and one more with my camera, magazine, book and such...
to take on board with me. Mom and Dad took me to Bishops for dinner...
a so-long affair... washed my hair. I wish I felt better about going.
Les sent me a card. I thought it was a so-long and have a good trip one,
but it was a regular card with $50. I was shocked! I called him and
thanked him. Well, it's goodnite for now. I hope my bad feelings are
unfounded! I don't exactly want to die in a plane crash. What a long
way down. (ugh)
Oct. 5, 1983... The day began for me at 4:45 A.M. I figured I'd allow
ample time for my face to emerge and get a quick bite to eat, but I
figured wrong. I departed in a flurry at 5:45 without having eaten.
Dad drove unusually slow, or so it seemed. We got to the airport with
sufficient time for me to go to the bathroom and then some. We weren't
rushed in the least. Les came too, but I was too nervous to really
talk and feel "civil."
On board at 6:30 I was seated by the window in an MVA plane. I spoke
with a man with a complete beard and moustache en route. He asked for my
phone number. I hesitatingly replied that I had no pen or paper but
that my parents were in the phone book. "I really hope he won't
call... what would I need with a date?!"
Panic stricken, once again, when I reached O'Hare, I rushed excitedly
to my next gate of departure, and there spent 45 minutes of
anticipation. After boarding, I endured 15 or more minutes of sheer
panic due to the stuffy atmosphere of the DC 8. After take-off it
cooled down quickly. . . I was quite relieved.
Breakfast proved to be good; I rested a bit. . . I was fortunately
situated on the window seat, the middle seat was empty and the aisle seat
occupied by a slightly corpulent and very silent businessman. (He, by
the way, finished his breakfast entirely.)
Upon landing I put both my bags in a locker... the wait proved to be 6
hours. Jon came. . . he looked "real good." It was a super and balmy
night. . . we walked to the Seasons restaurant. Jon treated.
Oct. 6, 1983... Things got pretty emotional for a while as we tried to
sum up the situation between us. Situations change and they will never
be the same again. I love Jon, but neither of us are ready for a
relationship. Marriage makes all things so dreadfully black and white.
My health is the foremost difficulty, as well as the miles that
separate us. I sometimes don't feel capable of being a good wife, nor
do I feel that I'd be able to live so far away from my family... I need
the support. I felt better, nevertheless, after our discussion....
at another time I had written down my thoughts concerning our
relationship. (Just as one's mind cannot long remain inactive,
so also will our love (for each other) change as the years progress
toward eternity. If love indeed be true, change can only enhance its
fullness, and this need never be feared, and must never be ignored.)
This kind of love, for us, could never be.
Oct. 8, 1983... A hazy day. . . headed for Yosemite. . . had enjoyed
Saratoga and a drive into the mountains the night before. . . had dinner
at a place with a Scottish atmosphere. After taking pictures, hazy or
no, we started back. . . bought 2 pumpkins. . . during the week days I
spent my time reading... Jon did home work in the evenings... we had
dinner "in," at Wendy's, at a Chinese restaurant, at Marie Calendars...
I showed him how to hem his trousers. . . we carved our pumpkins. . .
mine looked like Foo Man Choo. . . his looked like a mask. . . they are
both neat. I took pictures of them. . .
Oct. 12, 1983... Today's the day to go home... Jon came for me at
noon... we ate at McDonald's. I read a bit of this diary to him en
route to the airport. As usual, it was difficult to say goodbye. I
have a 2 hour wait before boarding my plane... Dad picked me up and we
had a late snack at Perkin's. . . when Norm came home from his
night-shift we talked til 2:00 A.M.
Oct. 22, 1983... Was amazed to realize that some of my friends feel I'm
a prisoner in my own home! It is definitely not the case...
Oct. 31, 1983... Happy Halloween! After chores I went for a walk in
the woods with my camera equipment. . . wish I didn't get so out of
puff when I climb hills or just walk... took a nap... this is the 3rd
pumpkin I've carved this year!
Nov. 2, 1983... Got ready to go to the library But No!... my bowels did
not cooperate. Norm has the laughable habit of setting the gummy caps
of toothpaste tubes on the sink, thereby leaving a characteristic green
ring. After several days, the green rings gradually but steadily
accumulate and I break down and rinse away their interesting circular
design. One day, while preparing to brush my teeth, I called Norm in
to observe my progressive "cap off, squeeze on brush, cap on" movement,
which allowed me to replace the cap without marring the sink top.
I laughed, he smiled, and the day passed with no further green rings
appearing upon the sink. The following day I found 3 rings, made
doubtlessly, in quick succession and accompanied by a note saying,
"Old habits are difficult to overcome." I thought that was great!
Nov. 4, 1983... Upsetting is the relationship between Jon and me, for I
know it will go nowhere. I feel more at ease here where I know I'll be
listened to and understood. I feel as if the better part of myself
simply blows past Jon in my attempt to speak or read my thoughts. He
misses my meaning completely. I couldn't take living in an atmosphere
where talking proved only to be a one-way message, never to be received
and merely bouncing off the walls until it eventually buried itself in
its own silence.
I found a postcard that read. . . "If you love something... set it
free. If it comes back... it is yours. If it doesn't... it never
was." I never sent the card.
Nov. 7, 1983... I had an odd sensation while drying the supper dishes.
Perhaps "disturbing" would better describe my fleeting emotion, for I
experienced a strongly chaotic urge to impale myself with a steak knife
while drying it. The feeling was so brief, yet so very intense, that I
almost wonder why reflex action alone did not carry through with the
brain's message. Self-preservation reigns first and foremost, perhaps,
even within the most morbid thoughts.
Nov. 9, 1983... The folks went to bed half-cocked at me this evening.
Mom started up the endless preaching on the irrevocable horrors of
alcohol and drugs, leaving one to stand alone in a flurry of statistics
and evil stories. This led to the adolescent eccentricities and peer
pressure and curfew and all the topics on which they hold themselves as
authorities. "I never had to break away when I was a kid. . .never."
Well, he (Dad) was given slack and choices and he chose abstinence and
church. OK. So What? But he still can't, nor can she... understand
the grip they held, and always will hold; that "I told you so" dangling
over your head when the party didn't live up to your expectations. . .
the solid 12:00 curfew, at which time the pumpkin would explode if one
wasn't home, let alone the knowledge that you weren't doing anything
BAD anyway, nor would you if you stayed out 'til 4:00 A.M. Lack of
trust or what? The inability to make one's own decisions can be a
painful blow to one who knows he's capable of making competent
decisions. A little less questioning, a little more room to breathe,
that's all. Perhaps I became so tense tonight because I sometimes feel
the walls closing in on me now... the way it had during those painful
times in high school. I feel no longer I'm in control... I've somehow
relapsed into mommy's and daddy's little Laurie Annie. Sometimes I need
backing... when I freak out or feel sick... but I'm supposed to be a
woman. I can vote. I can drink in my own state. Very Big Deal. And
a lot of good it does me now. Rationalization: Good thing I had the
ability to have fun with and around liquor before the bomb broke. It
was fun, but I liked life fine without it, too. It's no integral part
of existence, but it has it's place. I only wish they would understand
that. At least I can write without being reproached. When this is
read, I won't be around to counter attack.
Nov. 16, 1983... A guy called asking about Greece. His sister has
cancer. . . much of her face was removed, as well as other lymph nodes
near the neck; also one breast was removed. She "eats" through a tube
in her nose. Boy, have I ever got it good. I'd kill myself before
resorting to that sort of butchery. I told the guy straight truths as
I knew them; I didn't feel the treatment worked for me, but others
would bet money it helped them. I advised to really consider before
going, as it was a difficult trip for even those of hearty stock.
Nov 17, 1983... I ate breakfast and shoved off around 8:30 for Dubuque.
It was a beautiful drive due to the mist-shrouded lowlands and the frost
which lay over all things, both alive and inanimate. I saw a
particularly picturesque scene, complete with grazing horses amongst
the white grass, so I determined to pull off the highway and retrace the
road to the best point. I had snapped two photos when a highway patrol
pulled over across the road from me. I felt certain that I would defy
my potty-training for a moment. "Is that your red car parked up
there?" to which I answered "Yes" and a hasty, "Is it OK to be here?"
He had thought perhaps I had engine trouble and he was going to help.
I thanked him and he replied that I could take as many pictures as I
wanted. I have a deep fear of cops which has no real basis, especially
of late; I don't break the law by speeding. Rest-at Sharon's. . .
attended a weaving open-house.
Nov. 18, 1983... Sharon and I drove to Mt. Horeb after breakfasting at
"Spikas." Again there was heavy fog and Sharon pulled on the headlights;
I made a mental note of her action to avoid leaving the lights on for
the length of our spree. Unfortunately, I misplaced the mental note,
and the lights were grinning at us upon our return an hour or so later.
The engine was "deader" than a frozen road apple; luckily we'd parked
along side of a gas station and the attendant promptly "jumped" us (or
rather, the engine). It cost 2 bucks. Big deal. Sharon drove back
after our rather short spree... I'd hastily gotten sick after drinking
some tea. I left for home around 3:00. . . experienced fair amount of
diarrhea once home... oh well ... we ate at Bishops for supper... it's
Friday, after all.
Dec. 21, 1983... I talked with Mom for a good amount of time. . . I
asked if she believed that I wished cancer on myself. . . I was past
my depression when I once again found out the bad news; moreover,
my depression subsided after some changes were made in my life. . .
quitting Sears and dropping a class I didn't like...
anorexic tendencies had dwindled as I made those changes.
Then I asked if she believed that one could cure ones self through the
desire to beat the disease. Question 1: Why would a person who didn't
want a disease, contract one? Question 2: Why wouldn't it work for
every one? Or would one have to believe. . ."know." . . .that he would
be cured if he simply believed in such a thing? It helps to talk of
such issues, for at times I do become confused. I feel instead that I
have resigned myself to my problem realistically... I don't care for
rainbow chasing. . . it's a long drive down the alley of blind hope.
I prefer not living in the shadows.
Dec. 26, 1983... Although it was not easy to attain, I remember feeling
once that I had my life by the reins. I could do anything, because I
felt I had control of myself. If I failed at one thing, no matter. . .
I could do something else and succeed. Now I feel trampled beneath that
stallion of life whose reins I so confidently held; I have no control.
Even my emotions, which before I prided myself in keeping so carefully
concealed, crash from my grip. Jon, too, is no longer in my grasp. He
has grown more confident and self-assured, and I like what I see... but
I feel as if he's no longer in my league... as if I'm trying to love a
diamond when I know full well that I can afford only glass. It's never
easy to lose status. I've lost so much that only a miracle of nature
could allow me to recover my low self-worth. Jon deserves so much,
and he has "the right stuff."
I feel so much better seeing him at home. I look as good as I can hope
to look because I am able to get the rest I need. I felt like a shadow
of myself in San Jose. . . a wound-up toy that kept walking even after
the tension wore down.
Dec. 29, 1983... It's funny... Jon and I shared so much, yet somehow,
nothing ever came of it. Perhaps the sorrow I feel is partially due to
the knowledge that nothing can possibly come of it given the current
situations. It's difficult to let go of the only lengthy and worthwhile
relationship I've ever had, knowing full well that it's the last. I
will never be in the situation to date... it's an added tension that I
probably do not need, nor would I have the opportunity to experience.
It would be like buying bald tires for your new car... I'm "spent."
I feel that all I can do is to enjoy the time I can spend with Jon
taking one day at a time in the same way I live each day as it presents
itself. I can expect nothing, for to do so only makes shattered
expectations all the more trying.
Jan. 4, 1984... It's rather entertaining business, this autobiography;
it's fun to be able to sit back and remember the ways in which you saw
the world as a child. Truthfully, my mind still thinks the way it did
then. I've merely learned more, gained objectivity... but I'm
essentially the same. Perhaps one changes more than he thinks,
however, it could be that, so gradual is the widening of that
perception, one is not really aware of the changes amassed in his
brain. Nevertheless, I'm enjoying my writing, trying to include all
material which is of marked consequence.
Jan. 5, 1984... Today was rather a wasted day in that I was unable to
venture downtown due to the frequently repeated trips to the bathroom.
However, I did listen to the subliminal tape which Norm gave me for
Xmas. It is composed of seashore sounds and is relaxing. My tape is
entitled "Phsyconeuroimmunology...Beneficial Influence of the Mind on
Health," which was described as being helpful with regard to the immune
system. Maybe it'll get rid of my "Big C"! That's a long shot but one
can't just roll up the carpets and close shop. At any rate, it's cheaper
than Greece and couldn't hurt. I'll just have to be wary of any
cravings... if I suddenly get the indispensable urge to drink only
coke, perhaps the input is an advertisement Ha!
I can never quite go along with the idea that one gives oneself
diseases. At 13, I didn't know what cancer was, death via a serious
illness was the farthest thing from my mind, much less my desire. I
believe the reason I can... at times... accept my plight now is that
1. I've had it before.
2. I never really quite accepted the diagnosis that I was "cured."
3. I've been sick to my stomach for years following my first
operation. . . I was never leading a "normal" life.
4. I've always felt "doomed" to a degree.
5. I've tried chemo and it didn't work; since I hold American doctors
in high esteem, I am not as readily accepting of other country's
"cures," especially if there are no facts to back up their claims.
6. I cannot live from one "cure" hope to the next. Disappointments
become unbearable if that is all one ever encounters.
I can't believe that I would want what I have, given all of the
suffering that I've endured. Sometimes I wish it could all end, either
by my recovery or my death. Living half-way becomes difficult when
one's prospects are bleak. If only I could be healthy... feel
healthy... the things I'd want to do!!!
Jan. 12, 1984... I stopped at "Rags to Riches" and inquired whether they
bought clothes which were second-hand, since it was a second-hand
clothing shop. (So intelligent a question, no?!) She informed me they
work on consignment. I have 16 prs. of pants that I intend to bring
in. It is rather difficult to let go of those pants. I guess
somewhere in my head, I hoped that I'd be cured and be able to fit them
again. But the chances of that are slim. My body doesn't seem to be
able to "get on" the road to recovery. I'd be exceptionally healthy if
I wasn't such a physical wreck.
Jan. 15, 1984... I made breakfast for Norm and me... then we went to Wild
Cat Den... we took a good hike back into the park... it was snowy so
wore Mom's high boots. I really did well, I thought; I felt good.
Going up the steep grades presented a bit of a problem, but otherwise
it went better than I had thought. (Maybe the tape's working.)
My slides are good! For my first attempt at still-life, I'd say I
really did well.
Jan. 22, 1984... I made breakfast for Norm and me, then after doing
dishes together, I got my camera equipment and we took off for Loud
Thunder, around to Muscatine, and back to Credit Island. I used my
sunset and graduated filters. We had lunch at Hardee's. Les came for
supper. Mom had a roast. After everyone was in bed, Norm decided to
cook up that brown macaroni that I'd bought last year while on the
Alivizatos diet. I'd never gotten up the nerve to cook it before. . .
curiosity got the best of Norm. He put cheese in it to help the
flavor, but actually the stuff wasn't too bad. It was more grainy
because it was never processed. We watched "Funny Girl" on the late
show but gave it up. It wouldn't end 'til 2:00 A.M.
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