Continuum
"I have walked in the mountains and seen the beauty surrounding me.
I have heard the babble of a stream and the eerie hoot of an owl."
"I can see and hear. . . I've known what it is to feel
physically normal. Some people never do."
". . . the core is intact despite the withering exterior.
. . . that undefinable part of oneself that lives beyond
earthly existence."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Continuum
Feb. 13, 1984... I have often thought, "If only I could make time stand
still.".. when I am involved in an enjoyable day. I know that wish
could not possibly occur, but if it could, it would most certainly be
a selfish desire. In that same instant, perhaps another individual is
struggling with overwhelming sorrow, and an extension of that sorrow
would cause the individual many times more difficulty. No, it is much
better that time continues. The inconsistency of life necessitates the
seconds, minutes and hours which make up a day. Life is, at times,
difficult to bear, and time passes, allowing one to rest and derive
solace from the bits of serenity found here and there along the way.
I would not elect to make a change (even if I could) in the system of
time unless I was able to better that particular moment for all
concerned.
After Dr. Freeman stilled my paranoia and filled my cavity, I'm
conscious that my own worth (in silver) has escalated! I sat outside
on the "stoop" (what a name). . . suddenly I was inspired to compose a
poem. . . I rushed inside for a piece of paper upon which I could
unleash my inspiration. It was a beautiful day, complete with sunshine
and snowy clouds sailing rapidly by overhead.
The Truest Friend
The air is fresh
With the promise of Spring...
Sap flows to the treetops,
The chickadees sing
The insects respond
To the warmth of the sun
And the grass will stand tall
E'er the day is done.
Myriad clouds reign
A flawless blue sky...
Short-lived is their kingdom
Through which they fly
For springtime delivers
Their wealth to the earth
To nurture the land
With the newness of birth.
The time so quickly
Hastens by. . .
Soon spring is gone
And summer, nigh
(As after dawn,
The pearly morn)
Upon warm wings
The summer is borne.
Time goes on
Like an endless maze,
Melding seconds to hours
And hours to days.
The seasons reel onward,
Ever the same,
While humanity strains
Against winds of change.
It is well that time
Is beyond man's control
For to meddle therewith
Would but injure the soul.
Time, alone, is willing to share
Grief too great for one to bear,
For time will come
One misty dawn
When the mind has grown
And sorrow is gone.
Perhaps time
Is one's truest friend...
One's sole companion
'Til the very end.
Lauren Isaacson
February 13, 1984
Feb. 20, 1984... I had a brief cry in my room while holding my green
parakeet. It seems to know Norm is gone. I can just hear Norm saying,
"Even bird misses me!"... he used to get a rise out of me by saying how
good he was... "Even bird LOVES me!"... or looking in the mirror at his
reflection he'd say "Damn! I'm handsome!" he would never get his hair
styled so he'd ask me if I liked his hair and when I'd just smile he'd
say, "Dummy!"... it was a standing joke... I made Dad's birthday cake,
then sat outside for a time and wrote another poem about emptiness.
The Cure
It was not food I hungered for
Nor did I seek material gains...
I thirsted not for toxic drinks
Or pills to mask life's heartfelt pains...
I did not look for merry crowds
To fill my days with mirth;
I only sought totality
And peacefulness on earth.
Into this world, I came alone
And so, I must depart;
My life-long cure for emptiness
Was loving from the heart.
February 20, 1984
Lauren Isaacson
Mar. 19, 1984... I realize some people who keep diaries do not include
those things which would detract from their personalty. However, I
feel that a journal cannot be complete without those embarrassments,
for they are a part of me and help me to improve myself. I speak of
negligence and selfishness tonight. . . I came across 3 toggle buttons
in my sewing things which Norm had purchased months and months ago.
They were intended for his big sweater, and I'd volunteered to to sew
them on; I never did, and eventually. . . until now. . . forgot about
the job completely. Now I regret my laziness with regard to
follow-through on projects. It just seems so stupid of me, and I
wonder why I put it off. It was not a big hassle... I just never got
to it.
Another thing of which I am ashamed is that since I can't eat
everything, I tend to be rather protective or hoggish over those
certain foods which seldom make me sick. One such food is cake. At
the steak supper the other night, they were selling baked goods. We
bought some things, among them 6 creme-filled cupcakes. They were
delicious, similar to Ding Dongs. Anyway, I ate 3 of the 6, and then
tonight, Dad was going to have another. . . the last. . . and I was
silently upset. Later Dad said I could have it, that he didn't really
want it. I felt bad even though I hadn't mentioned anything aloud to
him about my wanting it. . . perhaps we foster a bit of selfishness
whether we will admit it or not. I am disgusted with my own selfish
quirks which occasionally spill out, but at the same time I feel
fortunate that I am able to be aware of them. Awareness leads to
overcoming faults. Later I took pictures of a hibiscus and of birds
near the feeder using my 2 x extender. I again embarked upon my quilt
project, sewing together more squares. It seems that I have sad spells
whenever I sit down and reflect upon Norm, recalling our times
together. Whenever I'm alone, I tend to break down. I'm glad I can
release my emotions. It seems incredible to me that Norm and I won't
be sharing Canada together. I have no desire to go with any other
person, for it wouldn't be the same at all. I hope it will work out
with Mom and Dad. (I will have to remember my ear plugs, for both
snore!) I'm sure I can enjoy the trip...I'll take books and my journal
to tide me over in the car.
Mar. 23, 1984... It seems, as yet, an impossibility that Norm and I
will no more share the lovely transformation of winter to spring, and
all those seasons to follow. Perhaps my time is now best spent alone,
for in this way I shall be able to be with him in my mind and feel
within myself those qualities which we shared.
Perpetuation
Skeletal remnants of autumns bygone
Habitate the woodland floor
As if, in silence, to assure
That through each death
New life will come.
And so it is that spring explodes,
A vibrant mass of color,
Flaunting the essence of life itself;
Thinking not of life long past
But only life forthcoming.
In the wake of smold'ring heat
Emerald cloaks a naked branch
And guards the fruit
Which bear the hope
That blossoms will not cease to bloom.
When golden overtakes the green
And shadows yawn 'fore noonday sun,
A message, though unspoken, blows
'cross weary field and aged grove
To beckon, as to timeless friends,
A sojourn shared 'neath winter snow.
And thus, a pod from which all life has flown
Must bid its earthly stance farewell
And harken to a chillwinds' call
To rest unto eternity.
Lauren Isaacson
March 28, 1984
April 1, 1984... April Fool's Day came and went without incident... it
was great to feel better! The afternoon was well spent in a lawn chair
outdoors. I thought of many things, and it was nice to be alone...
read some old poems and writings and then wrote a new poem about
hatred. I really like it...
Fatal Emotion
A mind which houses
Naught but hate
Kindles eager flame
Which lick the doors
Of happiness
Until the one
Who lives within
Becomes engulfed
And is consumed.
A fire which feasts
Upon itself
Is not a means...
It is an end.
Lauren Isaacson
April 2, 1984
April 4, 1984... It's almost as if Norm never lived here now. I've
always been very adaptable to my environment. . . I guess I've had
to be. I've seen so much change, and if I didn't roll along, I could
never be able to stand everything. I think a lot of Norm when I'm
alone, but when I'm busy I can let go of my problems. I wouldn't be
writing so much if all was "quiet within." I also realize that some of
this "buying binge" which I have been experiencing of late has to do
with my sense of loss. I'm trying to restore that which has been taken
from me through material finds. I seem to need to keep my mind
occupied. . . two things which satisfy me most are my photography and
my room. . . aside from my writing and being outside. Hence, my
purchases for both of these "passions" of mine. I would get the things
eventually, however, the need is here now. . . I am fortunate enough to
possess the "means" through the use of money I would have used for my
college education. . . I have not waited; after considerable thought,
I have made these purchases, and have found all to be very much to my
enjoyment. Mom said, "It's good. . . there's so little you can do
now!" I guess she's right. I'm limited physically...
April 5, 1984... Decided to simply relish the beautiful day! I sat
outside in a lawn chair, photographed more flowers and then wrote a
poem. I really enjoyed the afternoon! Sherry (Syracuse, N.Y. pen pal)
called and we talked for quite a long while. She's a good kid;
be coming around July 1st.
Reflections
Though each day comes
But once each year
Nay, only once forever
I cannot block
My mind's dispute
That this day's twin
Has dawned before.
It seems as if
The time has lapsed
In naught but
Backward motion,
Encompassing
That long-lost day
E'er before the changes passed.
Perhaps through these
Reflective days,
The mirror
Of more carefree times,
One may rekindle
Tender sparks
Which in the darkness
Burst to flame
To guide and warm
The dismal heart.
Lauren Isaacson
April 5, 1984
April 14, 1984... Started our trip to the Smokies...had a good day.
April 16-19, 1984... Took pictures of forsythia, redbud and
rhododendron; the mountains are gorgeous! It has been cold enough for
light snowfall in the higher elevation, adding to the beauty of the
deciduous trees as well as the pine. Each day I'm having trouble with
my bowels... I had to go to a gas station... nearly had a nervous
breakdown... it was locked... when I finally got the key, I could
hardly get it open in time. I was beside myself with anguish and
terror. Shortly before, I had a similar experience with another
bathroom. While in a park area, I was afflicted with the dire
necessity to "go."... it is difficult to make a nonchalant brisk
stride convincing as one hastens to the "john." In Gatlinburg I had
yet another siege, but luckily we were at the motel. I drove only
two times on the trip. . . sometimes we would have to stop within
a very short time... I was so scared! I feel like a Class A Slob!
May 27, 1984... I'm off on another rampage concerning feelings and
other people's dogs! I get so infuriated by careless dog owners who
believe that everybody ought to love dogs too, (as well as the
distasteful traits that go along with them). Mom said that it is just
natural for a dog to mark it's territory, that it must be an
unchangeable characteristic. I said it could be unlearned. . . did you
ever see a seeing-eye dog that paused to mark each tree? The poor
blind person would not be able to make it down the street! So much for
that subject!
Mom and Dad thought it in my best interest to re-furnish the up-stairs
room that had been Norm's. I'll make it into a living room.
May 29, 1984... Death is the end of life on earth as the living
perceive it to be, however, man will forever derive solace from the
hope that death does not also herald the end of awareness.
Sometimes I wonder why an individual chooses to write at all, for I'm
quite certain that there is no thought written today which has not been
written previously. It is astonishing to read the words of Plato and
his associates, for one discovers again how alike man's thoughts have
been throughout the ages. Taken in this scope, it is truly egotistic
of someone to claim his ideas as unique at all. We are born and
develop at varying rates, but even the highest of minds have no doubt
had their equal at some point in time. Despite similarities, I write
for necessity rather than immodesty; I have little doubt that my sanity
would be thus intact if it were not for the scratches which I
frequently mark on a page.
May 30, 1984... I watched the partial eclipse of the sun through a
paper-punched hole! Gary and I left for Wild Cat Den at noon. I
drove... since Rt. 22 is "under destruction" I had to go on 61 through
Blue Grass. We hiked on the trail and I snapped a few pictures. Once
the moon passed away from the sun it was hot again; I became rather
overheated as we walked back on the road.
After I got back, I started feeling pretty rank. I over-did and
overheated too. It took me the rest of the day to get back to normal.
I always "hammer" myself out in the sun or when I do something. It
makes me mad because it's an inconvenience. I guess I'm always testing
myself or trying to prove I can still do some things.
May 31, 1984... I struggled with a poem about memories and how they
fade (but that's not all bad)!... photographed a yellow iris,
spiderwort, a daisey-like weed, and some chickadees. . . I again
grappled with the main elements of the poem, finally setting the whole
package aside to retain my sanity. (It wasn't really that bad!)
Faded Memories
The mind records pictures
And fleeting sensations
Of life's precious moments
And futile concerns;
Images as random
As pieces of film,
Developed with care,
Preserved with love.
Yet, in time
One's pungent impressions
Of years gone by
Are obscured
By a fathomless haze;
The imprint
Of a radiant smile
And laughter,
Tender as the dew...
The image from a mountain top
And autumn's coral moon...
But also dark imaginings
And mornings
Bleak and gray
Are strewn among
The misty hoard
Which time
Has struggled to displace
And bury
'Neath a tranquil sea.
The unhealed wound
Evokes more pain
Than does the faded scar...
So should it be
With memories...
Fragments scattered
On life's path
To mingle with nostalgic dust
Should not besiege
The growing mind
With sorrow or despair...
For once dismissed,
The inner self
Can, with the whole,
Be joined as One.
Lauren Isaacson
May 31/June 1, 1984
First Impressions
There is a friendly countenance
That still my mind holds dear...
A face of striking character,
An aura sure and strong...
He seemed to own that innate spice
Which tender few possess...
Without trite conversation
I knew him as a friend.
Perhaps the passage of an hour
Would prove my image wrong...
Yet could it be that feelings
Speak more truthfully than words?
Lauren Isaacson
June 2, 1984
June 4, 1984... Sometimes it seems to me as if those afflicted with
long-term or chronic illnesses, whether physical or mental in nature
are often able to find and retain meaning in life. It is rather
discouraging that many cannot shape their lives without such
catastrophic events, for all around there are reasons for contentment
and understanding if one is but openly aware, and perhaps, willing to
spend time alone, immersed in thought.
June 11, 1984... Mom came up because she knew I was upset. . . we
began talking and finally the hatch on my emotions gave way... then I
rampaged about how there was the notion that Mom and Dad were to blame
for all of our family's strange and various ailments. "It had to be
something to do with their combination to make all their kids have such
odd disorders." Well, I don't believe it. Some people always have to
point a finger of blame for their own misfortunes. Mom and Dad didn't
give me Big C. I just will not buy that. And to blame parents for
being screwed up in the head is not intelligent either, because it not
only is the parent but the way in which the kid deals with what his
parent says, that make or break problems. People do the same thing at
work... it never has anything to do with their own personality... that
people have a hard time being around them... well, I got it out and
cried a bit and it really helped. Mom was up here 'til 12:00!
June 12, 1984... Looked at a few slides in the morning... upstairs a
better part of the day. . . so tired. . . slept most of the afternoon.
Dad sold Norm's motor for the canoe. . . we sure had fun with that...
once a year was enough, but boy, what a riot. I always think of our
late fall ride when we had KFC along and we bought some Grolsch beer
because I needed a bottle of it to draw for art class. It was so
brisk, we needed to wear our "Pepto-Bismol Suits" (snowmobile suits).
It was also great in the summer to lean over the bow and let it bounce
over the waves. I have so much time to sit and think, yet less control
over my emotions... weakness causes me to be upset concerning things
which I would otherwise forget about. Now, all I can do is talk it out
or write it out!
June 14, 1984... I look into the star-filled sky and feel that there
must be a Creator; the galaxies continue beyond the farthest reaches of
man's telescopes, and so they must continue forever, for if there
should be an end... a wall ... then surely something must lie on the
other side; and thus, I am overwhelmed.
If only people would not be blind unto themselves! If only they would
hear and understand. . . but then there would be no need to talk.
Life Song
A cool breeze filters
Through summer's last green,
The raiment grown weary of bygone heat,
Weaving with the insects' drone
An eerie, melancholic spell;
Forever crickets seem to chant
Amid their restless, aging cloak,
Singing through both day and night
As if their ever present trill
Will mask their own mortality.
So vigilant these singers are
Yet they are not aware
That those who never cease to sing
Their daily melody
Simply mirror common thoughts
(And mirrors but reflect the song
That Life is wont to sing.)
Beware the cricket and his song
Lest you, as he, be singing still
When autumn shadows yawn,
For never can one live again
the hours of singsong mindlessness
When one sought not that higher note
Which would embrace eternity;
The change which robs each creature's breath
Is deaf unto Life's steady chant
For what is Life
But numbered days
That march from countless decades passed
Unto the land beyond?
Lauren Isaacson
June 15, 1984
Sensory Dreams
My eyes yearn to see those things
Which I have never seen...
To scale the highest mountain peaks
That rule the evergreen...
My legs desire to trace the way
'Cross meadows, fields, and streams
And to traverse that narrow path
Where few footsteps have been.
I would love to feel the wind
Upon my flowing hair...
To hear the birds and smell the flow'res
And breathe the unspoiled air.
If stars were made for wishing,
And dreams made to come true
I'd conquer all my frailties
So these dreams I might pursue.
Lauren Isaacson
June 16, 1984
Captive
(Milkweed Pod/Man)
Borne through the air on silken shafts,
The product of a waning life
Is hastened on its windward course;
Imprisoned in its silver craft,
It journeys toward that fateful end
Where it shall rival life and death.
Man thrives upon the tender thought
That he is master of his life,
Remembering not the autumn seed
Whose dormancy is blessed with life
Through nature's will and circumstance;
Yet is not man as surely bound
Unto his birthright's soul and mind,
Entrapped upon the winds of time
And captive of the senses?
Lauren Isaacson
June 17, 1984
Beyond
How I long
For a place beyond
Where land and sky are one
Where the beam
That will shine
Upon fruit and vine
Is a true, benevolent sun...
Where age and time
Are not maligned
Like sun obscured by cloud
And battle fields
To peace shall yield;
Old scars it will enshroud...
The unseen frights
Of moonless nights
Nowhere shall be found
And love will fall
On each and all
As rain upon the ground...
Here joy shall wind
Throughout the mind
As streams toward a pond
And I, to One,
As all, to One,
Eternally shall bond.
Lauren Isaacson
June 10, 1984 (1st and 2nd)
June 21, 1984 (finished)
Time spent immersed in thought is time best spent. One can cleanse his
mind and clarify his beliefs, as well as open himself to the objective
definition of new ideas. Some thoughts: Marriage can be
self-inflicted punishment. The habitual liar will bury himself alive.
Mom finished typing all of my poems dated from my time at Augie to the
present... they look nice.
July 1, 1984... I think my spending spree is quite similar to Norm's
after Tracy took off. It's like you are trying to fill a void by
masking the same old place. It keeps the mind occupied, too. . . but
no matter how occupied the mind becomes, trivial concerns never quite
do the job. After all the money is gone, the emptiness still persists.
At least I can enjoy the mutuality of our relationship, and look
forward to great things in the future. . . long after I am released
from this "earthly bondage."... it must be worth any trials one need
endure previous to the journey into "the beyond." I believe I shall
see Norm again, as I do now in my dreams.
July 3, 1984... I woke up and speedily dressed. Hyman's was going to
deliver the furniture. Les and Dad took my antiques upstairs before
they arrived. Everything fits and I think it looks great. It was
rather amusing... one of the topics we hit upon while the movers were
upstairs was the raft of old bottles (whiskey) I have displayed on the
console... (from the Thrift Shop). One of the fellows said, "Women
shouldn't drink when they're pregnant." I wasn't completely sure, but
I thought he was referring to me. When I went down to get the check
for him, he said, "So when is it due?" I said, "Don't feel bad, but
I'm not pregnant. I have a liver problem... my liver's enlarged."
I felt sorry for him; how could he know? He was just trying to be
friendly... maybe he had a family of his own. I guess the episode did
make me realize that I don't exactly look like a "stick" anymore. . .
but it was rather funny.
July 7, 1984... haven't done much today... didn't feel too great... did
take Steve to The Dock for a late birthday celebration. He likes that
place the best. I could just eat the salad, bread and Won-Tons. We saw
a guy with a hole the size of Texas in the seat of his pants; he was
taking a woman to eat at The Dock! I wonder how he'll feel when he
finally discovers why everyone is smiling at him?!!
We sat at the Moline Riverside Parkway for awhile, 'til the bugs drove
us out. . .there were millions of those "cheap bugs". . . what a waste!
They're built so cheap... all they can do is incubate, breed, shed
their skins all over people's cars, and then die!
July 10, 1984... This is the first day in, well, I'll bet a year or so,
that I didn't apply a speck of make-up on my eyes or elsewhere! It was
another HOT day. Mom and I worked on the rag rugs. She cut the warp
thread to size and I strung three strands through a needle and
proceeded to tie the fringe on the rug. Yesterday she unpacked all my
china from the storage boxes in the cubby holes; we put it in my
antique buffet. It looks great! It's fun to see it all again.
The Day
I watched from my bench
On the sun-dappled lawn
As the cool glow of morning
Aged to radiant noon.
From youth to prime
In naught but hours
With n'er so much
As a backward glance,
Disdainful of its hapless plight.
Scarcely had the Day begun
When shadows bent from earthly things,
Yet steadfast to its mission bound,
It envied not the youthful light
That shall tomorrow take its place,
But with unselfish wisdom
Shed its golden beam upon the earth;
And when the distant western sky
Let go the aged, fiery disk,
Whence, for hours, it reigned complete,
Precious little time remained
To cast upon the glistening haze
A brief reflection of the Day
Whose life had touched eternity.
Lauren Isaacson
August 23, 1984
"Of Butterflies"
In a shaft of yellow light
A monarch captures on her wings
An ambered, opalescent glow
While sailing on the Breeze of Life.
A seeming drunken path she weaves,
As if berefit of aim or goal,
For fields of flowers compose her world
And nectar sweet sustains her breath.
So high she flies
Yet sees no more
Than that which self-indulgence brings;
How glad am I
That through these eyes
I see more than the butterfly.
Lauren Isaacson
August 24, 1984
Aug 27, 1984... I had a tension headache tonight. It finally went away
after talking with Mom. Sometimes I wonder if I'll die the same way
Norm did... I have a bump on my thigh... who knows what it is! Then I
was thinking how every time someone sleeps in the other room or near me
on trips, I wonder if they're "gonna die on me." What a drag it was to
find Norm. Strange how I always kept an ear peeled for Norm; sometimes
I wonder if we have a 6th sense that tells us things apart from the
conscious world.
Sept. 1, 1984... I'm such a turd sometimes; I hate myself. I always
balk when someone starts to sing, no matter who it is; Mom loves to
sing, and with her it's also an emotional outlet. Whenever she sings
though, I cringe and she stops. Today she was going to sing a song
(that told a story). I uttered a small protest. She stopped,
apparently quite hurt. After I did that, I felt like nothing, but
there was no way to recall my "ugh" once breathed into the air. She
said, "I have feelings too," in answer to my, "I'm sorry, Mom!" and
went downstairs. When I'm writing I'm an intolerable creep to be
around. I don't know why I didn't think first and be considerate. She
always listens to my writings, no matter how trivial; why can't I abide
a few notes of song? I wish I knew why song grates so heavily upon my
ears... it always has. I most certainly have a terrible voice and use
it only on the rare "happy birthdays" and so forth. I'm kind to
society in that regard, at least. For now, I wish I could find a .45.
Mom came up and we talked. I feel better now. She felt sorry for
being too sensitive and what she called "uppity," and I expressed my
regrets too. After a cry, we both felt better. I guess we both felt
rather stupid!
Sept 6, 1984... Mayo Clinic sends out a form letter for its Statistic
Unit. I wrote... "It has been nearly 3 years since my re-diagnosis of
cancer and I'm still alive to tell about it. As the afflicted area is
my liver, I experience the symptoms generally associated with liver
diseases (so I am told), such as over-heating and water retention. My
liver has expanded to such a degree that casual onlookers sometimes
mistake my appearance for that of a pregnant woman. I was once asked
when I was "due"! Perhaps I should've said, "I don't know... so far
I'm 36 months along."
So much for my reply to Mayo Clinic... I sometimes find it hard to
believe I've lasted so long; liver cancer is seldom smiled upon as a
long-time acquaintance. If it weren't for Big C, I'd be real healthy!
I also stated that should some breakthrough be discovered for the
curing of leiomyosarcoma I'd appreciate notification. . . until then,
it is best to create one's happiness each day. I worked more on my
story... it's fun to do actually.
The Miracle Of Chance
The spider spins her silver threads
Into a silken sheen
Deftly pouring forth her self
Unto the net which is her life.
Though possessed of marked skill
This artisan shall reap no wealth
Begotton of her grand design,
And yet the misty hand of dawn
Transforms her modest web of silk
Into a diamond-scattered orb,
Sparkling as a precious crown
Before the rising sun;
Thus wrapped in lace
She mans her snare,
Entrusting nature with her life.
The spider dangles weightless
From her wispy spinnerette,
As does all existence hang suspended
In the grasp of chance.
For each successive heartbeat
Froms the web which heralds every breath
And leases yet another moment
From the miracle called Life.
Lauren Isaacson
September 19, 1984
QUALITY:
All things considered, I feel that I have had a beautiful life. I have
loved, and been loved in return by a warm family, and developed a
once-in-a-lifetime closeness with one of my brothers. I have been
blessed with a certain degree of intelligence, common sense, and
awareness. My countenance is agreeable and unobtrusive, and I have a
pleasant, though realistic outlook on life. I am adaptable to change
and strive for growth, not stagnancy of character. I have walked in
the mountains, and seen the beauty surrounding me. I have heard the
babble of a stream and the eerie hoot of an owl.
Though I am no longer able to actively pursue many of those diversions
which have so colored my memories, I yet possess their image in my
mind. I once felt the pleasure of vitality and physical endurance
marked by an unblemished body, and though my body is no longer
beautiful to behold, nor functions as it once had, yet it sustains me.
I am fortunate to live in a comfortable style among furnishings and
sentimentalities I love, and have the option to be alone should that be
my need and desire.
I am thankful for my many blessings, for I have a good life. Quality
cannot be marked by time, but rather, by the smiles along the way.
10/1984
Oct. 5, 1984... When I dropped the film off yesterday, I was mentioning
that I wish I knew some practical use for the film canisters. The clerk
said, "Now that you're pregnant, maybe you can use them as rattles if
you fill them." It always is a cold blow and it strikes me speechless.
I wonder what people think; I wear no rings... oh well, I know I'm
straight! That's what counts. I'm enjoying the sheepskin rug I
bought in Estes Park. It's gorgeous!
Traces Of Autumn
Autumn plays no timid song
And wears no modest vestment,
Flourishing its last hurrah
Before a restful interlude.
Dying leaves fall to the ground,
Whispering in the gentle breeze
To haunt the heels of passers-by
And gossip to the cold north winds.
The sweetly reminiscent smell
Born of leaves now laid to rest
Permeates the autumn air
And bids the traveler raise his head
To breathe the singular perfume
Before the icy gales of winter
Rob all traces of this heady scent,
Left to linger only in the mind
With autumns passed and indistinct.
Lauren Isaacson
October 14, 1984
Oct. 19, 1984... I took a drive but was fearful of stopping to take
pictures while alone... what a chicken. My Beauty Book order came.
Everything is nice; items will make perfect gifts.
Destiny
Though autumn weaves its image
With an all-pervasive air,
Encompassing one's senses
in its splash of brilliant color
and the rustling of the leaves...
in the scent of drying foliage
blowing freely through the trees...
and the taste of ruby apples
and the crispness of the wind,
The barren months which lie ahead
Touch upon one's very soul;
The slanting sun sets trees aglow,
Their leaves a restless fire
Kept alive by northern winds until,
As embers blackened by the flames of yesterday,
They tumble to the ground...
Carpeting the well-clipped lawns
And waiting for the icy hand
That shall transform their shape to dust.
Like the child who aged beyond
A once-beloved bear,
Leaves--uniform as paper dolls
Cut by fingers deft and sure--
Casually are flung aside
As if their purpose has expired.
Quietly a funeral dirge
Mourns balefully amid the breeze,
Heard by all and yet ignored
As if death denied may not unfold.
So silently the coldness seeps
Into the autumn breeze
And birds fall mute before its touch
So one might think the very chill
Had robbed their throaty cries.
No more leaves cling to the trees,
Making idle chatter,
For winter siezed their quiet voice
And hid it deep, 'neath frosty snow.
Silence reigns ov'r one and all
While clouds converge in murky skies;
Death obscures ones vision
To a darkly shade of gray,
And yet in time, the clouds recede,
Rendering warm the gloom-filled heart
And purging sorrow from the mind.
Lauren Isaacson
October 21, 1984
Oct. 22, 1984... It was a great day, until after lunch. I got
sick...it was extra discouraging when I realized the beautiful day was
passing me by. I finally settled my stomach and Mom and I drove on
some rural roads. Later, while in the safety of my home, I had the runs.
... Sometimes when I feel so sick, so lousy, I cry... but this time
I feel too sick to make the effort... so I just sit.
Oct. 24, 1984... Mom and I took a drive to Loud Thunder. I took some
pictures... it was beautiful out. There was a stick bug on me...
they're strange little creatures. Later we drove to Petersen Park.
Mom suggested I write a poem about the man who was using one of those
metal detectors. He was the inspiration; I did so, once home...I like
the poem.
Copper Pennies, Golden Leaves
An old man strolled through autumn leaves
Waving slowly 'fore his path
A wand to guide his watchful steps.
Were it not for earphones
Clapped upon his graying head
And a tiny garden spade
Warming in his gnarled hand,
I'd have thought the man was blind;
Yet blind this man might well have been
For all that he refused to see;
With eyes feasted on the ground,
He looked for copper, bronze, and gold.
A rusted bauble on a chain,
And perhaps, some pocket change
Lying 'neath the colored leaves
Was an afternoon's hoard...
And a splendid reward...
For several hours spent
With his back bent to the sun.
'Twas a shame he could not see
The wealth amid the shining trees...
The leaves turned golden by the sun
Falling near his outstretched wand
Yet of no value in his eyes.
After all his sightless quests
Are only shreds of memory,
This man shall have no hoard of wealth...
Only pennies in his hand.
The golden fragments in my mind
Are wealth beyond an earthly price;
For ten million copper pennies
I'd not trade a single thought.
Lauren Isaacson
October 24, 1984
Oct. 25, 1984... I made Mom and Dad's bed, but neither seemed to take
note. That's OK, each probably thought the other did it!
Oct. 31, 1984... I love Halloween... I carved two pumpkins after Dad
cleaned out the internals for me. Sick, sick, sick after supper; I get
so depressed. I decided to write a poem; I wanted to cry, but it
would've taken too much effort. Time is better spent writing.
Yesterday's Dreams
My heart is filled with salty tears
My eyes shall never shed
And my mind reflects the many roads
These feet will never tread...
Forgotten and exhausted dreams
And those that cannot come to life
Are buried like the husband
Of a newly widowed wife;
So while the dreams of yesterday
Shall never be exhumed
Perhaps those of tomorrow
Shall defeat the moldering tomb.
Lauren Isaacson
October 31, 1984
I've been thinking about Halloween as I knew it. I loved it so, even
though I didn't care much for the candy. It wasn't such a worry then.
Now everyone's scared; afraid some weirdo will put a pin or poison in
the candy. They even X-ray the treats. Dear Abby feels "trick or
treat" is a threat! Most kids wouldn't know how to trick someone. . .
when Dad was a kid they put entire hay wagons on top of barns or tipped
over the out-house. . . soaped windows and often were dunked by the
inhabitants of the house as they stood under an upstairs window pulling
their rat-a-tat-tats! They deserved the cold soaking.
Nov. 1, 1984... My stand on immigration, abortion, and criminal justice
would probably classify me as nothing short of an inhumane and
prejudiced killer. I have my reasons, however. I believe there must be
quality in life or life is simply existence. Population growth hinders
peace within humanity, and chaos results, not happiness. Abortion
saves children from neglect, inherited negative patterns of behavior
such as moral outlook and personality traits that would be given from
the mother and the erstwhile father. Finally, one who violates or
murders another person does not deserve life, for he gave his subject
no choice; in innocence the victim lost his life.
Nov. 5, 1984... Mom and I enjoyed an amusing situation today while
running some errands. Moline's 23rd Ave. is under construction, and a
truck hauling tar pulled in front of us. A red light stopped us behind
the truck, it's exhaust chokingly black. A workman was standing along
the curb, engaged in conversation; when the truck started up again, it
blew black smoke directly into his face. He noted our sympathetic
amazement concerning his predicament and immediately stuck out his
tongue in the direction of the truck, thus portraying his disgust of
the entire affair! Some of those little shared moments can "make the
day"!
Nov. 13, 1984... Sometimes I wonder if at least a good third of my life
has been spent sick. . . whether from Big C or other junk!
The Wings Of Time
Bourne upon the wings of time
Memories cloud my eyes today,
Masking o'er the tempting sights
Which seek dominion of my mind...
Childhood years that mocked
The very passing of the days,
Wishing time would hurry on
Quickly, as the setting sun.
I smile upon those early years,
Fueled by futuristic dreams,
For long I did not have to wait
'Ere time clipped short the youthful flame.
One need not beckon unto time,
Master of the endless hours
Both passed and yet to come...
When life is gone, time remains,
Ancient, yet forever young.
Passed moments and tomorrows
I live only in my dreams.
Today is all I truly have,
Bourne upon the wings of time.
Lauren Isaacson
November 24, 1984
I've thought so much about the "givers" and "takers" in a society. It
is amazing to me that there are actually those who feel no obligation
whatsoever to help or to give to others. Unbelievable! Most people at
least feel a twinge of guilt about being so selfish. If everyone was a
taker, the world would be nothing but "existers." Nothing would be
accomplished or invented. Why is it that a taker must always be asked
to perform a duty? Perhaps selfishness breeds laziness... let George
do it!
A child cannot give except with the knowledge that he will at a later
time be amply rewarded. Maybe this trait cannot he overcome if the
awareness factor is not there to aid in "overcoming."
When one gives freely and without expectation, it is beneficial to both
self and others. Givers do not hinder.
Why do takers think they are so special that they don't have to offer
conversation, aid, or show gratitude? What contributes to their lack
of obligation? A lack of conscience, or is it a lack of conscience
awareness???
The lazy and the selfish will not put themselves under any strain...
neither will the inherently low-esteemed. Perhaps a low self-image
combined with an inability to face that image leads to ingratitude...
gratitude would compliment the other, thereby raising his (the"others")
status. . . and lowering one's own. No matter how old this kind of
person grows, he will never mature. It inspired another poem...
Aged Child
Possessed of apathetic eyes
Which mirror only childish wants,
He kindles flames of disbelief
When thoughts bereft of rationale
Are thrown amid the unspoiled breeze.
The unrivaled child of woe
Amongst the realm of thinking man
Exerts naught but vehemence
Toward duty and concern.
Ill mannered and unkempt,
An animal regards itself
More frequently, indeed.
Demands spill forth,
Yet aid will never be returned.
The mind, developed, yet constrained
By ropes he will not cast away,
Displays a blatant haughty show
And retreats behind a stagnant pool...
A silent product of neglect.
Lauren Isaacson
November 25, 1984
Nov. 26, 1984... I put the lights and decorations on the Xmas tree.
It's nice to have the house look like Christmas. Mom and I went to Dr.
M. She had some growths burned off and I had some questions. I feel
so stupid. Nothing can he done. My heart races, I have that bump on
my leg, swelling, nausea, the runs, heat problems, low lung capacity,
emotional weakness, tire easily, appetite fluctuates as does food
appeal, thirst, and water retention. All that can be said is that my
case is very unique. . . questions really have no answers.
Nov. 30, 1984... I have another dissertation to expound upon. . . to
those needing to "find themselves," let me say this: It cannot be done
by cheating on your spouse, or hitting the honky-tonk bars; rather, go
away in a remote wilderness or park, and all alone, spend time getting
to know who you are and what you believe in. There is no turning
yourself away when you are alone. . . you must face who you are.
Should you find that you do not like who you see, trust your judgment.
Don't go running to a "shrink" to have him tell you "you're OK."
Chances are, your own opinion is right; take the traits you dislike
and try to improve your disposition. Find the love you buried under
trivial matters. Trying to improve is better than hiding behind a mask
you loathe and despise.
Dec. 18, 1984... Thoughts on my extensive reading: Strive to attain
harmony with your beliefs, for the price of discord is bled from the
heart. Attempting to rationalize that which cannot be rationalized
is a cruel and purposeless task that shall not be mastered; it is like
digging a foundation through unyielding stone with a paper shovel.
It cannot be done.
Feb. 25, 1985... I wrote again today; if I can keep a decent momentum,
I'll make progress. After supper and a bout with diarrhea, I decided
to try to venture washing my hair in the shower. Even a simple task
becomes a worry. The shower is in the basement, the toilets are on
first and second floor; what if I should encounter another siege?
Feb. 27, 1985... I wrote more today, although it was rough going, words
weren't flowing. I wish summer was not coming up again. February flew
past, and my story is not half-way. I get so tired, or sick,
interrupted or otherwise side-tracked. When I can write, there's no
guarantee that I'll be able to get my brain jump-started. I need a new
battery; perhaps I have "Writer's Retardation." . . . writer's cramps
aren't sufficient!
Feb. 28, 1985... Sharon came around noon. I had one of those really
sick days. Later in the afternoon I could sit outside; I wrote a poem
The Present
Do not forsake the present
Holding fast to yesterday;
Do not search for treasures
Buried deep and long decayed...
A moment lost cannot be won
For memories fade as the setting sun
And n'er will be regained.
'Tis best to think of what you are
And one day shall become.
Lauren Isaacson
February 28, 1985
Feb. 28, 1985... I got sick at night. I hate it,
but I just have to sit it out.
Mar. 2, 1985... Afternoon sunshine brought me outdoors. I was in a sad
and reflective mood; the poem follows...
Life's Dusty Road
On life's dusty road I tread
Alone, save for that inner peace
Which bears me 'long when spirits fall
From that which is and cannot be;
For sorrow is a grain of sand
Which festers in the open heart
And preys upon the tender mind
Which seeks the sun
Beneath the clouds.
I cannot claim a smoother trail;
Though faltering steps impede my way,
I travel on through misty glade
Past crossroads of a different hue
And onward, though deep shadows loom.
Footsteps mingle with my own
Yet on my path, I walk alone;
The dust I bear upon my feet
Attests that my road is unique.
Lauren Isaacson
March 2, 1985
Mar. 4, 1985... Mom gave me a permanent today. I feel like Goldilocks!
It's fuzzy and appears to have been braided... but it's an improvement
over my limp hair. The liver must have taken it's toll on my
"extremities."... hair, nails; I hope my teeth don't go! It seems to
be better for me to eat throughout the day whenever I feel hungry.
It is truly March; the wind's a regular terror!
Mar. 7, 1985... Tomorrow Norm would have been 34. It seems rather
strange. I wrote a profound thought yesterday; "Does not the sunrise
from out of the Darkness?"
I finished re-reading the 2nd of the Tolkien trilogies
and began the 3rd. I love those books.
My room and "living room" are so neat. I just love having my "apt."
...it wouldn't be this way if it weren't for my Big C. I'd be making
money somewhere and probably still live here, but as far as furniture
goes. . . well, who knows? Maybe I'd have done this. I know I'd also
have wanted to save and scrimp for a down payment on a house. Strange
how a person's life can be so altered from that which one had desired.
Health means so much, yet few are thankful for it. I remember how
great it was to climb in the mountains. . . now that is all I have...
memories of health long passed. I suppose I didn't truly have health
since late grade school years. Cancer had been with me for a long time
to have grown so large in my stomach. But of course, cancer isn't my
foremost pain. . . that comes only from the death of Norm. I used to
laugh far more often, for we were always joking around. It was such
fun. I'm lucky to have had such a relationship at all, for few do
in a lifetime.
Mar. 12, 1985... Needed to sort through my clothes. So many I can
no longer wear.
Mar. 13, 1985... I wrote a letter to Jon. One of the patients who
journeyed to Greece called. Max (another patient) died yesterday. I
tried to calligraph a card for his mother, but couldn't seem to control
the pen well today. Whenever another of the group who went to Greece
dies, I wonder when I'll go,too. Almost all of the ones I knew are now
dead. Some cure! It had, at the time, seemed rather promising. Some
have said they didn't see why we went; if they had a loved one, they'd
probably be on the first plane!
Mar. 27, 1985... It was just 65 degrees; I sat outside in shorts and a
light top. A balmy spring breeze is filtering through the still-barren
branches of the oak trees, and despite a slight chill in the air, the
sun obliterates any shiver which might otherwise have broken upon my
skin.
Mom persists in weeding, nurturing her plants, not heeding the
complaints of her aching back, while Dad rakes and resets the ground-
mole trap. . . "What could be more disturbing than a mole-infested
lawn?" And I sit... and observe... and listen. Across the hill, a
child chants a rhyme unperfected, to the hap-hazard beat of a jump
rope. The adjacent hill delivers the sound of a tree-trimming crew
ripping the remnants of a tree to shreds. The birds surround me with
a joyful chorus, assured that soon spring shall arrive, while a fly
attempts to sun itself on my knee and is foiled in its attempt. A new
and unfamiliar bird joins in the chorus, while a rake scrapes the lawn
in a rhythmic pattern. An incoming plane drones toward the distant
airport and is gone seconds later, only a minor disruption to the day's
overall serenity.
A can drops and hits the cement; the wind chimes attest to the steady
flow of the soft breeze. A child hollers a rhyme. I wish she would
shut up. Ah, she has! Or so the moment portends.
April 1, 1985... (April Fool's Day) I "got" Mom by telling her that
I flubbed on one of the posters I was making for the Salad Luncheon
publicity. I finally finished reading "The Rosary"
a candy-sweet idealistic-love romance.
Mom has begun to clean my upstairs; it's so good of her to do it. I
get so tired; I guess I have to give in, sometimes.
April 2, 1985... A good day! Wow! I wrote a lot!
April 3, 1985... Mom is doing all the typing for me; I'm so weak,
I really don't feel like doing much.
April 7, 1985... I am having a good day! What a change of pace. I'm
re-reading Jon's old letters. They bring back memories. Mom and Dad
had a good day with the rest of the clan. She brought back a lovely
lacey and beribboned egg to be used for a centerpiece. Sharon sent a
tiny basket with pink flowers and a miniature rabbit for me. She is
always lavishing me with demonstrations of love and affection.
Scott and Brad appeared to enjoy the books.
April 11, 1985... Problems again, but not so I couldn't enjoy the day.
It was in the 60's. I wrote a poem about spring.
Spring
All that which
I cannot be
Is part of its
Vitality...
The hov'ring bee,
The blossom fair...
The youthful bird
Upon the air...
A burning sun
That buries snow
In shallow graves
From whence life grows;
Embracing both new seed
And breath
And shielding each
From thought of death.
Lauren Isaacson
April 11, 1985
April 21, 1985... I've been reading Sherry's old letters when I tire
of writing. It's difficult to write about my first cancer experience;
reliving it is not easy.
April 22, 1985... I reminisced high school days; I remember a period
when I went through a swearing stage. Crazy. It doesn't exactly build
one's character, but for the time, it got one's point across. This was
only between close friends, of course. I never cared for public
vulgarity in any fashion. It's crazy, too, how one word is considered
"vulgar" and another, meaning the same thing, is not. Who decides
these things, I wonder? The one that really cracked me up was that the
proper British had to come up with a past tense of the word "shit."...
in their speech, it is "shat."
May 6, 1985... I tried to write outside, but it was impossible. Gnats
kept insisting on flying into my eyes. Mosquitoes were buzzing around
my legs, although none seemed inclined to feast; perhaps they were
still too young to know what to do with a human. When I used to be
able to do things outside, it was no problem; indoors bugs don't bite,
nothing seems an annoyance. Once inside and in the comfort
of air-conditioning, I wrote a poem.
Seasons Of Life
One mirrors many seasons within his very life;
The lush bouquet of springtime, hoarding life, vitality.
From the verdant, yielding mind sparks, like tree sap,
Bubble through one's firm, yet supple limbs.
Unleashing youthful hopes and dreams for growth unhindered,
Unrestrained by roiling clouds and murky skies.
As the spring to summer fades, so also, does the life mature,
Observing as the inky clouds derived of haughty restlessness
Recede into one's memory, to live subdued and quiet lives
'Til time denies their former flame.
The waxing moon of summer skies illuminates high-flying clouds;
The vessels of one's dreams attained, and hopes of liquid silver.
As summer dies, glamour wanes, and silver dreams to gold transform;
Shade not the sun from aging hearts, but bask therein and mark the glow
Which glimmers deep on ancient joys and even where dark shadows fall.
Despair not in autumnal gold!
In holding fast to summer's hue, beauty passes by, unseen,
And spoils itself 'fore winter's grasp.
Crushing life with frigid hands, winter heeds no stricken gaze
Which kindles in the youthful eye whose untouched life is yet benign
Unto the last, eternal chill; yet fear, alone, cannot impair
The misty sight of spring's new hope;
And though one life the snow enshrouds, in other lives,
Breath rallies still depicting seasons, fair and strong,
And promising life shall go on.
Lauren Isaacson
May 6, 1985
May 9, 1985... Mom asked if I'd like to give Sharon my bike because
hers is so difficult to pedal.. I don't know...I hate to let go of it
just yet. Some days I feel normal. Stupid, I know; guess it's part of
my way of maintaining hope. Another idiotic drama! Yesterday I asked
Mom to get some angel donuts. They were tarring the road, so she
brought two twists from Jewel. I nearly began to cry. I felt like
such a jerk; I have so few pleasures in food to look forward to;
it just hit me!
May 10, 1985... I calligraphed a Mother's Day card, put a $20 bill in
it along with a box of pretty soap for the big day.
May 11, 1985... I've read Jane Eyre, The Crucible, the four of
Tolkien's, Catch 22, The Stand, All Quiet on the Western Front;
most of them show human emotions in the raw.
May 12, 1985... We had a picnic; it was a beautiful today. Les brought
me a dozen roses; they're beautiful, too! Jon called, but I couldn't
talk long... problems, again.
May 16 1985... I wonder how much time, if any, I gained by having Chemo
the first time around. I had no other choice, especially since it was
thought to be a cure. I never would have it again. . . even if it did
slow the growth. Living without sickness, caused by the treatment, is
best.
May 17 1985... I get "down" in the mornings; physically, I'm at my
lowest ebb; it affects my emotional stability, too.
It's strange, but nice weather almost always makes me mad because I
feel obligated to get out in it. But, I can't write on my book if I'm
outside; there are too many distractions, mostly in the form of bugs in
my eyes. If I'm inside, I'm letting life pass me by, and yet, I'm not
neglecting my writing. It gets to me that I can't actually do much
anymore except sit around outside. No walks, bike rides, or walking
down in the woods. Oh, well.
I decided to get my camera and did get some shots of a great yellow
butterfly in the Beauty bush. Hope it turns out well.
UPS delivered another of my Lillian Vernon orders. I'll have a choice
as I give gifts. I calligraphed a poem inside of a blank card for
Steve's graduation. Then I took it and the Indian rug I bought him
over to Moore's. We had a nice visit.
My legs are like lead stumps. I've tried to cut out salt; why I'm so
plump way up to my knees, I don't know.
May 27, 1985... I just noticed the whistle hanging from my towel rack.
I put it there a few months ago in case I needed help. I was having
diarrhea so badly. I wondered how long I'd last. It's weird, but having
my death forecast is strangely comforting. So many things I won't and
don't need to worry about. I know and accept I'm going to die. What is
hard is that I still enjoy certain things; I don't really want to die.
Everyone is frightened of dependence. Loneliness is not a fear...
helplessness is another matter.
June 16, 1985... My legs look like Lincoln Logs. Oh well, I'll create
a Father's Day card.
Black? ... White.
Wrong? ... Right.
Up? ... Down.
Smile? ... Frown.
In? ... Out.
Whisper? ... Shout.
Good? ... Bad.
IRREPLACEABLE? . . . DAD.
June 22, 1985... Mom has been bringing up my meals. It's so warm for
me to come downstairs. The folks bought an insulated drapery to close
off my living room. The bathroom and my room will remain cool. Mom
also brought me three maternity tops. She told me it was very
difficult for her to buy them. I don't know whether I'll keep them or
not. Vanity is a funny thing. I keep hoping I can look good in
something, but it never ends up that way. My clothes are dwindling in
number, and some are not too hot. Mom also got me a purple nightie;
it's really pretty.
June 25, 1985... I'm glad I didn't have to go out and try on clothes.
I'll keep the things Mom brought me. It would be hard to shop...
physically and emotionally.
July 9 thru 13... another bout with the "runs." I was so down for
a time. I get depressed from reliving the past. Some things are
difficult to recall in such detail as I illustrate a part of my life
with the feelings I experienced at the time. It's draining; topping it
all off is the fact that I don't have much I can do to alter my life
now. I get sick of feeling sick, nausea, diarrhea, and weakness; the
daily scheme of events some days. I get weak; I cry. Well, I hope its
over for a time. At least I'm not down for this entire day!
July 22, 1985... the day started out great. . . good mood. . . even sat
outside for a time. After supper my heart started racing, palpitating
like a tick. My normal beat is 110-120 which is rather high. We tried
the breathing in a sack, holding the breath. Nothing helped. Mom
called the doctor and he prescribed valium. The druggist said they
would call when it was ready. They never did. Finally Dad just went
over; there it was, just sitting on the shelf.
Man, my chest hurt so, I thought I was having a heart attack. The
valium didn't help much. That was 3 hours after the episode had begun.
Mom slept upstairs on the couch; it was a bad night. . . sweating,
aching, and of course, that rapid heart beat! By 9:00 the next morning
it finally slowed to my normal fast rate. What relief. That was a 15
hour trauma! I don't see how my heart can withstand it!
July 24, 1985... There isn't much that can be done for me, but it is
nice to be so relaxed. I'll take the valium for awhile, especially
while I'm so weak. Mom and Dad are a genuine godsend to me. I don't
know what I'd do without them in times like this. I look bad; white
face, dark eyes, I had best avoid mirrors! I got a catalog of basket
kits. I might send for some things. Mom talked with the doctor about
the heart episode. He said I should take the valium as soon as an
attack begins; if it persists after a 45 minute period I should go to
the hospital and be put on a heart monitor to see what is wrong. I
hate not being able to take the valium. I liked being "zoned out" for
awhile and so completely relaxed. I can understand why people allow
themselves to get hooked on a tranquilizer; they afford a great deal of
peace and mental relaxation.
Another thing that spurred my agitation was the fact that I enjoyed
being pampered by Mom. She'd wake me up, help me get cleaned up for
bed, and bring me trays for each meal. It was so comforting, like the
feeling of well-being which is so prominent in one's youth, when
parents are the primary source of protection and the sustaining power
of life.
Well, I got over it. I guess I just didn't feel like facing reality or
my life's idea of "normalcy" yet.
July 29, 1985... I had a great surprise... Jon sent 6 long stemmed
roses to me saying, "I hope you get better soon." It was so nice and
so unexpected, especially since I've been feeling rather isolated
lately. I wrote him a thank you letter.
Aug. 1, 1985... I got a letter from Jon; another nice surprise. A
letter can be held and read over and over again; a phone call is soon
just a memory. I have the "runs" again. Mom brought tea and warm
bagels all day. It helps a lot.
Aug. 11, 1985... I've decided to sell the Chevette and my Viscount
(bike); it's so stupid... they just sit there and I'm not going to get
any better. I'm 39 inches around the middle. The bike was $156 new
and it's in good condition. I'm asking $75 for it.
Mom did a raft of typing this past week. I sat on the front steps with
Mom and Dad in the afternoon. It was 75 degrees and so beautiful.
Aug. 25, 1985... It's strange, but when Mom and Dad are gone all day,
like yesterday, I feel half mad when they return. The truth is that
I'm not mad, I'm only in need of some conversation. I need to tell
someone about my concerns, or at least have someone around. I do want
them to go out; they need to get away. I had the runs; I'm rather
amazed also, by my ever-growing shape. . . it's hideous! And I have
tons of water retention. Oh, well! It wasn't my best day; I wrote all
day, anyway.
Sept. 11,1985... The Chevette has been sold. I should get a refund on
my insurance, too. The girl came with her boyfriend to pick up "her"
car last night. Dad took a personal check for it; I wish he would have
said "NO" to it, but they are probably OK. If not, I just sold my car
for $100. (Great)
I couldn't sleep for a while, because I was worried about the check.
So... I got up and clipped my toe nails! (What therapy.) (And it
didn't cost a cent.)
Today it is 70 degrees, sunny, a slight breeze, ah! I also have the
check in my account. Dad phoned to see how much of a refund I'd
receive on my insurance. . . it's just $50. Not exactly half of what
I paid for the 6 months, but they're not giving up anything!
I found the 4th and 5th grade postcards I sent to Mom and Dad from my
camp. They will go in my book.
Yesterday Margaret and I went to lunch. At the cash register the guy
said, "Looks like it'll be in the winter." I couldn't figure out what
he meant for a second, but then I realized that he thought I was
pregnant. I said I had a "liver ailment" and that many made the same
assumption. It never floors me at the time, but later I have to admit
that it bothers me. I start thinking about it; I get mad at myself
because there's no way for me to look stylish. I used to try to belt
big tops and "blouse" them over pants. Now, it looks ridiculous. I
never thought I could get this big; having to wear maternity clothes
and such. . . but then, I never thought a lot of things. Swelling legs,
going from a 31-I/2 inch span (in my middle) in the fall of '83 to a 39
inch middle now. (Normally I had a 24 inch waist... I thought I was
enormous then!) It's funny, but it just keeps on going, and you have
to accept it. At least my face is OK and I can enjoy some things. I
can see and hear and am reasonably mobile. . .and I've known what it is
to feel physically normal. Some people never do.
Sept. 13 through 15... Weather has been gorgeous! I've been able to
sit outside. It always inspires me to write poetry. One is about how
life never really changes.
Continuity
The tenth morn of December
I was severed from my mother's life,
Forced into a hostile world
And with a cry, drew my breath.
Christmas came, then New Year's Eve,
Yet nothing really changed.
Days passed by, and soon, years too.
My eyes focused on the world
Which offered more than it received.
I found love, and later, fear...
Then grief, and peace of mind;
I witnessed death and mourned for life. . .
Yet nothing really changed.
The world revolved and buried sorrow
In a mask of time.
Now I am weak,
The refuge of malignant death,
But still the seasons flicker on.
Leaves adrift, float to the ground,
While acorns burrow in the earth;
Remnants of life
And the hope thereof
Together meld as one.
When I depart,
Life slows not...
And nothing will really change.
Lauren Isaacson
September 15, 1985
Meditation On The Wind
In the trees, cool breezes sing,
Directing leaves with steady gusts
And urging forth pure harmony
From swaying, fully laden limbs.
No sweeter sound could ride the wind
Than gently rustling woodland brush;
I drink the soothing music
Playing lightly on the wind,
And instantly I feel refreshed,
For whispering leaves wipe cares away
And liberate imprisoned minds.
Lauren Isaacson
September 16, 1985
Sept. 29, 1985... I have been so swollen lately. My middle hurts when
I lay too long; getting up helps. I have the runs; couldn't go to
Dubuque for Mom's Sept. birthday; couldn't go to Margaret's to
celebrate her mother's birthday. I finally spent 2 hours of the
afternoon just sleeping. I finished a poem I was writing about Norm.
It follows...
Eternal Bond
Captured on a dismal morn
When winter's cloak
Concealed the sun,
My brother journeyed
From the earth,
Perhaps to grasp another time,
Or rest beneath the heaven's stars.
Perfect sorrow filtered deep
Within my mournful soul;
With sightless eyes
I scanned my mind,
Rendering memories whole. . .
And images, like broken shards,
I struggled to restore
Lest any trait be left behind
And thus, in death, forever die.
Crippling grief and grim despair
Withdrew its shadow from my heart,
For in myself, his life went on;
The steadfast and eternal bond
Which formed in life
Failed not in death.
We laughed, we smiled,
We understood,
And though I now must walk alone,
To loneliness I'll not succumb.
Lauren Isaacson
September 29, 1985
Oct. 17, 1985... It's great this time of year, although melancholic. I
sat outside most of the day. Then, as I watched this "mite" of a
squirrel, he struggled furiously to retain his grasp on a branch. He
frantically succeeded in attaining a safer location; he was noticeably
upset. It inspired a poem. I wrote one the day before; I'm not overly
thrilled about it, but that's life.
Autumnal Essence
Splendor, bold and riotous,
Bespeaks the grand autumnal mood.
Blackbirds cackle unrestrained
Among the trembling golden wood
While agitated squirrels bury nutmeats
'Neath the fragrant turf.
Fruit trees, heavy-laden, bend
Their branches toward the earth,
Spilling wealth from fertile lands
Into eager, out-stretched hands.
Lauren Isaacson
October 16, 1985
Ascent To Reality
From beneath the autumn leaves
I watched a youthful, auburn squirrel
Leap cautionless from limb to limb.
With no rival but himself
To test his acrobatic feats,
He bethought he'd mastered all
And, bathing in a pool of pride,
Washed apprehension from his mind.
The tiny sprite performed his dance
From tree to wind-tossed tree,
Alive with joy and pure delight...
He knew no pain, no discontent,
And thus immersed, called life a dream.
But noonday warmth soon disappeared
And golden rays slashed through the trees.
The sun cast spotlights on the lawn
And made the trees let go their crown.
Darkness stole the crimson glow
And, as through his domain he flew,
The squirrel ran before the night,
Thinking he could out-wit time.
On agile feet, both swift and sure,
He sailed into the shadowed trees,
Yet missed his mark in failing light,
Betrayed by faulty, youthful pride.
Catapulting toward the earth,
The wind reached out and caught his pride
And blew a limb within his grasp
To buffer his naivete'.
Life was not a blissful dream;
He panted in unsteady breaths,
Drawing strength from wisdom gained
Through time and circumstance.
Ascending toward the lofty heights,
His vision was renewed. . .
The world became Reality
Both beautiful and cruel,
While he transformed to earthly size,
A minute parcel of himself
Yet elemental to the whole.
Lauren Isaacson
October 17, 1985
Daydreams
Today I reserve for dreaming,
For dismissing the hectic world,
For unleashing my burdens unto the wind
Where, no longer imprisoned,
They'll haunt me no more.
If only today, how high I shall fly!
Soaring amid the fragrant breeze,
Adrift with the blackbirds
And fluttering leaves,
My freedom will beckon me
Rise higher still
And my spirit, unshackled,
Will lounge on the clouds
To create wistful visions
Of heaven above.
But daydreams must end
With the red setting sun
And, like autumn leaves,
Succumb to decay.
For today, dreams exist, not for 'ever,
Sustaining when all else runs foul.
Dreams, alone, are the soul food of God. . .
The ambrosia of heaven on earth.
Lauren Isaacson
October 24, 1985
Oct. 27, 1985... Todd and Debbie came yesterday. We had a wiener roast
for lunch; it was quite appropriate as the day was crisp and clear.
Today, after lunch, I asked Mom how long they would be staying; she
thought I was complaining and said, "sometimes I wish it was all over
for me so I wouldn't have to listen to all of this; everyone thinks
only of themselves, yes, everyone is so selfish." When I recovered
slightly I said that I hadn't meant it that way, but that I was scared
about getting too tired... I didn't want to say that, it sounded
selfish, too.
Too often I have experienced hurtful things when there is a visit;
while one can forgive and try to start anew with each visit, I find it
impossible to forget. When hurtful statements are made, that person is
still the same; there is still that part lurking behind the individual
and it becomes difficult to know how "genuine" is their countenance.
Mom apologized for her earlier statement; she was tired and rather
depressed. She said she "hurt" for so many people, she felt she was
falling apart. I had been so afraid of hurting her with my
confidences, afraid I wouldn't have anyone to confide in; I felt
incredibly alone. I was so happy she came up; I don't think I could
have handled such desperate loneliness. It was great to have a hug.
Nov. 5, 1985... I've neglected this journal; Dad made a frame for my
pointalism of the Grand Canyon. I have it behind the sofa on the south
wall; I really like it. Other events: Mom and Dad replaced Lynn's
stone at the cemetery with a large stone for our entire family; Lynn,
Norm, Mom, Dad, and me. They had not told me before, but I've been
wondering; when they talk with me about death it is so different for it
is spoken with love and deep caring.
We made up a memorial service for me from my writings; I have to select
the poems I would like and then it will be complete.
Nov. 7, 1985... The "runs" again, but I was able to sit outside by
afternoon. I wore the "Tahoe" sweatshirt Jon had sent some time ago
plus my corduroy coat. It was about right. I wrote a poem while
sitting there.
I wonder if I'll accomplish all that I truly wish to before I die. . .
My book is progressing; I keep writing poetry too, so I have a lot
done; a little at a time, and one day at a time! I'd love to finish
the quilt and also calligraph some of my poems.
Whispering Pines
I heard the pine trees gossip
To the passing northern winds,
Disclosing facts quite true, yet low,
In hurried gusts and whispered blows.
"The hardwoods lost their haughty glow. . .
Amazing how fast glamour goes!
Now they're merely sapless sticks
Bereft of life, 'twould seem...
They look so gnarled, so thin and sick
Beside our evergreen!"
Lauren Isaacson
November 7, 1985
Nov. 22, 1985... The 17th I began to run a temp; it continued and by
Mon. eve was 103 degrees. Mom tried giving me a cool bath. It was a
"real thrill" trying to get down in the tub. (I fell in, and barely
made it getting out... I have no strength in my arms or legs). Mom has
been sleeping upstairs since I got sick. Food "sticks" so that I would
welcome losing it. Mom has been serving me gingerale; it helps.
I've lost weight. Noodles are the only food that appeals to me;
it's at least a start.
I've not worked on my book since Nov. 7th. Many changes have taken
place; even with my weight loss I can no longer wear my beloved mink
coat; it's 2 and more like 3 inches from even touching right to left!
And to think I was once but 24 inches around the waist! Sharon looks
good with her disciplined weight loss. What emotional problems there
are to be reckoned with in this life!
Dec. 17, 1985... I didn't elaborate on my 24th birthday; I should fill
in the days. There were 30 birthday cards in all. I hadn't expected
it, since 24 is a rather "blah" age, and also, I keep thinking the
cancer situation will become old hat. I guess I was very wrong.
Thursday I walked with Mom to Bev's Xmas Coffee; just 4 houses away.
I got tired, then so hot; I could hardly walk home. Mom had wanted
to take the car, but I would have felt like a fool for such a short
trip. She was right; it was very tiring.
Saturday Mom had a special dinner planned so all could see the new
addition to the Isaacson clan. It didn't work out so well;
the guest of honor left!
Dec. 23, 1985... We enjoyed a lovely dinner at Chet and Margaret's.
The nausea almost spoiled my evening, but it finally passed (whew!).
There were just the 3 of them, the 3 of us, and Les. It's better
without all the weird things that happen when too many are invited!
Dec. 24, 1985... CHRISTMAS EVE DAY. . . I felt good today. Jon came
over around 2:00 and stayed until 4:00. We stayed downstairs by the
Christmas tree. He wrapped up a 6-pack of orange-flavored mineral
water for me. I had ordered a boomerang for him; and so ended our
Christmas.
The family Christmas was great, as usual. Les came, too. We had
Cornish Hens, potatoes, stuffing, bread and waldorf salad; excellent!
Afterwards, we read the Xmas story and a few other readings; then we
had our exchange.
Dec. 25, 1985... Todd and Debra came for today. Our big meal was at
noon. Mom fixed a turkey breast with all the trimmings. We had our
gift exchange in the afternoon. Todd got a kick out of his "reality
mug" and a Far Side daily calendar.
Dec. 27, 1985... I'm getting sick again, temp of 101... arhythmia heart
action lasted 12 hours. This was an illness of long duration.
I stayed upstairs. . . I had to waken Mom, (she has been sleeping
up-stairs). We tried the deep breathing, plus a few other things.
I finally took a valium and tried to relax. Mom called the doctor as
early as she dared; he called in a prescription for a heart regulator.
Jan. 1, 1986... Mom made Cornish Hens again for just the 3 of us.
I enjoyed the dinner so. We watched the Vienna concert at night.
Jan. 11, 1986... I stay upstairs now, coming down only to have Mom wash
my hair using the spray on the kitchen sink. The steps are such a drag,
and I like being near all the things I need. I'm so glad I have
the upstairs apartment.
I decided to get a color T.V.; Dad picked a 13 in. Sylvania with
remote control. I love it. Dad installed an aerial today.
I ordered a lambswool mattress cover; it will cushion these bones of
mine. I also ordered a book on decorating, 2 pillows, and a seat for
my toilet that will raise me up about 5 inches. (I'm aging fast!)
Margaret came over with a lovely bouquet of 5 red roses interlaced with
baby's breath. I gave her 2 covered mugs for her birthday. It's fun
to order all these gifts for others. Scott wrote me a thank you letter
for his Far Side T-shirt. I was so glad to get the mail.
I talked with Mom at night and blew out some more frustration. I get
so angry when I think about people who try to restrict me through their
high pressure persuasiveness. Just remembering past grievances evokes
terrific anger. I feel so vulnerable and have such a lack of control
anymore that anyone's pressure is a direct violation of my inner self.
I don't have the strength to fight; I get bent out of shape because if
I did what they did, it wouldn't be so easily forgiven. Why is it that
people feel sorry for those who continually screw up their lives.
"It just ain't fittin'!"
Jan. 24, 1986... I ordered a mini wash stand for outside of the
bathroom, a neat basket and also Mom and Dad are going to see what is
available in chairs and recliners as I'm having trouble getting out of
my old green velvet rocker. We have ordered an egg-crate mattress
for me; I hope it works.
Jan. 25, 1986... Mom and Dad went out and looked for a recliner;
they found a great one at Banworth and Udelhoven for about $400. They
brought home a photo and swatch to show me. I decided it would be fine
and they went back in the Chevy truck to pick it up. It looks great
in my room and is "Oh, so comfortable." It's a wall-away and won't
need to be "out" so far in the room.
I wrote to Todd explaining why I have such a distaste for phones, and
do not wish to have one in my room, my desire to be alone more, and my
hope that he will not be so troubled over these things. Sharon does
come, I know, but we have been close now for many years; Todd did not
come home but once or twice a year after finding work in other areas.
He gets so upset about my illness (its incurable nature); he calls
doctors all over the country to inquire concerning various treatments.
I hope this will help him to accept my situation.
Jan. 26, 1986... I had another dream about Norm; I recall I sat in his
lap and was worried I'd be too heavy. I was so happy to see him.
I went to sleep with the T.V. on; I wakened at 4:00 a.m. and turned
it off. I was down today; so tired and weak. This contributes
to depression. After crying a bit and talking to Mom I felt better.
More and more I need to be free of visitors. Dad came up later
and we talked, which was real nice.
Jan. 27, 1986...The egg-crate mattress and the high toilet seat came
today.
Feb. 4, 1986... I'm feeling pretty good these past few days. It's a
welcome change. My dreams are so horrible, though. I almost wondered
if I'd screamed aloud. One was about rodents that were attacking me
and biting my fingers.
I sent for an oak T.V. swivel; it works great. I've chosen more of my
slides so Dad can take them in for more prints.
Mar. 5, 1986... I've written through my high school years and now I'm
in the anorexic stage and Black Hawk College. It's so hard to work.
I'm either too tired or so uncomfortable. My mid-section is huge. It
hangs below my bikini underwear. When I sit I must be so straight or
it's uncomfortable. Sleeping has become more difficult, also. I get
up twice or more most nights. . . sometimes to go the bathroom, other
times my hips hurt (I'm so thin), or my ears pound until I sit up and
swallow. Sometimes I can't breathe and have to get up and position my
pillows on an incline so I can breathe easier.
Mom permed my hair again. It gives it body. I can use the curling
iron in the morning if it's needed. I feel better about my looks when
it's this way.
I haven't written in my journal for so long. Valentines were abundant.
The wall behind the sofa is complete; I've 4 photos ready to hang when
Dad gets the 9" x 12" photo of the shack in the Smokies. I have
finished putting my other photos in an album; at least they are no
longer loose.
Mar 29, 1986... Dad and Mom installed the air conditioner in my room.
(It got up to 78 degrees!) They're putting the other one in my living
room window. For awhile, I was afraid Dad was against the idea and it
sort of choked me up because I began to think I'd be enclosed in one
room for the next five months. It wasn't a great thought. Last year I
could get outside and roam around. Now, it's being upstairs and that's
about all. I felt stupid; I cry about the least thing anymore. I'm so
weak, I lose control easily.
I'm going to work on my quilt, so Mom set up the portable Singer on
Dad's high machine shop stool; I'll sit on the bed when I sew.
I've been taking Lasix 4 times a day; it seems to work better that way.
I take the Aldactone in between. It's difficult to walk. When I sit,
the water drains into the current position; when I get up, it feels
like my skin will rip.
I had problems sleeping until we put pillows under the egg-crate
mattress so I was propped up on a steep incline.
I couldn't breathe before.
Mar. 31, 1986... A great day, (AMAZlNGLY). I worked on my quilt for a
little while.
May 5, 1986... It's been a long while since I last wrote herein.
I guess I didn't find the energy and the will to do it before now.
Days are often so much the same.
I had a few physical set-backs through the months; one "flu" episode
nearly had us digging my grave. I really wondered if that would be it
for me and this world. I had to get the elevated (frame-style) commode
from Bev Verstraete. They had purchased it for her father.
It was awful. I was so weak; I couldn't get up from the toilet; even
with my raised seat. I tried and tried, but Mom had to help before I
made it. Even with her help, getting up was nearly impossible. I was
so scared. It had been getting progressively more difficult; I guess
I saw it coming, but it's still a blow when it finally happens to you.
It's so demeaning. I kept wondering what would've happened if I
couldn't get up and was alone; but then, of course, I'm not left alone
anymore.
I lost a lot of weight; my face is just skeletal now. Every time I get
a "bug" I lose more strength and can never fully regain it.
The thought of total incapacitation is rather horrifying.
It's bad enough now.
I have accidents in my undies, because sometimes I can't walk fast
enough to get there, and have no butt to pinch the rectum closed and
hold it back. It's never major; just a spot, but I hate it just the
same. I wear a pad for security now.
The 4 Lasix and 2 Aldacton daily don't really do the job. By evening I
can hardly breathe, so I can no longer recline in my chair. Dad has
made a high platform and secured it with screws so I can just turn from
my bed and sit down. The porta-potty is across from it. My world is
slowly closing in. The water presses both my heart and lungs causing
my heart to flutter from the pressure. Sleep has been difficult of
late, I have to sit up on the edge of my bed for a time; then I lay
down again. It's better by morning.
At least my foot is better; it was hurting like crazy... I must have
hurt it due to water retention (?).
Every time I lose more health it's like some big milestone has been
crossed. First it was the overheating, then going to the bathroom
restricted the daily walks and other outings; then I had to remain
upstairs... then the toilet... and on and on. Each time was such a
defeat. I cried about having to stay upstairs because I wondered if I
was just "throwing in the towel." Then I cried about not being able
to get up from the toilet because it scared me so!
May 19, 1986... Last night Mom and Dad brought pizza upstairs. It was
nice. Sharon came for a Saturday bus excursion to a shopping area near
Chicago. Mom, Sharon and Rosalind all went. Mom brought me a towel
for my wash stand and a nifty wall basket with a lid.
Sharon's going to be coming more often; I'm glad. In some respects,
she's like a second mother, yet different too. We share ideas and
interests and can talk well.
I've been awfully fatigued lately. All day I can barely keep my eyes
open, and writing is an incredible chore. I find myself nodding in the
middle of thoughts; it's very distressing when I consider the time
limit imposed on my effort drawing closer as the days fold away...
naturally, my life has a hesitant grasp on time; I do wish to finish my
literary endeavor.
Sleep at night is difficult, which does not sound logical after the
fact that I fight to stay awake during the day, but so be it. It's not
mine to ask "why."...
June 24, 1986... Such indignities. Dependency shouldn't have to be
one, yet it is. And the strange thing is that I feel I am losing
myself... slowly... as life trickles from my body, but still, with all
that has been and will be lost, every so often I catch a glimmer of
myself... in a gesture, a smile, and realize that the core is intact
despite the withering exterior. Perhaps the core is that undefinable
part of oneself that lives beyond earthly existence.
June 27, 1986... I'm beginning to understand the meaning of
intolerable. Sometimes, any more, I feel like a person tottering on
sanity's limits. As my weakness increases, my capabilities decrease;
I now not only have confined myself to my room, but to one small
quadrant thereof, in which I am surrounded by my bed, my chair, my T.V.
and (of course), my toilet. At least my mind is still free. Perhaps
it will remain so as long as I allow myself to cry and feel.
Last night was the first time I ever felt scared of life.
June 29, 1986... Tonight is loud with thunder... the deep, sharp
rumbling that shakes the house as if to remind the world that it is
alive. It is not subtle, but in it's brazen clap, I can find a reason
to rejoice; I live in the shadows of a wondrous and beautiful world,
yet thunder is one element of nature from which I have not been
excluded, for it penetrates walls.
July 9, 1986... It seems that I cry every day now. Overall, my life is
a discouraging mess. I'm just too tired to write. . . and scared to
try to sleep. Blast.
July 11, 1986... (Fri.) Yesterday Sharon sent me a carnation flower
arrangement. . . 2 pink carnations, greens and baby's breath. Real
pretty.
It's been getting more and more difficult at home. Last night Mom and
Dad had to lift my legs into bed; Mom is sleeping in my queen-size bed
right with me so that she can help me get back in after using the
toilet. It's tough to sleep, and I'm afraid I won't be able to get out
of bed... my arms and legs are virtually useless. They're like sticks.
We had some tough conversation.
(Mother's note). . . Laurie wanted me to call Hospice and arrange for
someone to come to the home and explain the various programs available.
I did so. Laurel Anderson was willing to come on Saturday morning,
but I felt this was not within her scheduled working hours and deferred
the appointment to Monday morning at 11:00 A.M.
Laurel Anderson came promptly on July 14 and we climbed the stairs to
Laurie's hide-a-way. There were many questions; if a contract was
signed, could the patient refuse food. . . would the "Concern for the
Dying" contract be respected in that no artificial means would be used
to keep the patient alive... would medication for pain be of the type
that would not sustain life. . . all of these must be answered before
Laurie would want to consider signing a contract with Hospice. In the
conversation, answers were given, but always with one addition; it
would be hoped that the patient could return to her home. HOPE was no
longer a part of Laurie's vocabulary. Just a few short weeks ago, it
had been there. She had not been wearing earrings for some time, and
noticed that one of the openings had begun to close. She had asked for
my assistance in piercing it again. Now she wanted an end to her
existence. There was not one position in which she could be
comfortable; her desire was to find comfort in the hospital bed's
maneuverability.
Satisfied that her wishes could be fulfilled, Laurie signed the
contract. Her remaining fear was that Laurel Anderson and the hospital
staff would think her a wimp!
July 14, 1986... (her last entry)... I made the decision today... I am
going into Hospice. No more fun... no more nuthin'
The ambulance service came at two o'clock. Through all of this ordeal
it was a comfort to have Sharon, Laurie's older sister, with us. The
two young men who brought Laurie downstairs were cheerful and so very
careful. The stretcher had been fashioned into a chair position
because of the limited space going down the steps. Upon arriving
outside, they positioned her so that she could remain seated, but with
legs extended. Not having been outside since December, and not being
able to walk the distance to a window for many weeks, Laurie was
fascinated by the beauty of the warm summer day.
As I rode in the front with the driver he noted an unusual odor and
both men were quite concerned. It was decided they not turn on the
siren and proceed at a faster pace because Sharon and Dad were
following in the family car; they didn't want to cause further trauma!
The ambulance made it to the hospital; it was found to be in need of a
"mechanical doctor," but it had fulfilled its mission.
The room was done in vivid color, not of the old vintage beige. As
Laurie was helped into bed, she caught sight of her reflection in the
mirror; she had not visibly known how she looked for some time. It
caused both disbelief and pain. Now came the true test. She was
manipulated into several positions; none seemed to help. As the nurse
left the room, Laurie finally gave vent to tears. During all of this,
she had been a true soldier. It was too much! She now felt she had
made a big mistake! Could we bring her back home? It was so little to
ask, and yet we knew we could not immediately ask to have her returned.
The hospital staff was in transition; the next shift was coming in.
This alone added to the confusion, but it also brought help. A veteran
of Hospice entered; with a multitude of pillows, plus more manipulating,
she was able to bring the comfort Laurie had longed for!
Later in the evening, that same veteran came in to talk and to advise
Laurie that it would be best to accept liquids rather than no
nourishment at all. We asked concerning the Lazy Boy and the porta-pot
from home. Both would add to her comfort. Sharon had left for Dubuque
before knowing that "bed comfort" had come to her sister, so I called
her as soon as I knew she was in her home. It was very difficult to
leave the hospital that night, but I had grown so tired over the past
weeks; I selfishly did go home.
Les and Dad placed the Lazy Boy in close proximity to Laurie's bed.
It was a welcome change. The staff informed me that Laurie had talked
most of the night. She had been given a bath in a portable tub; quite
a contraption! I had brought several photo albums as well as photo
files and a lovely volunteer was seated by Laurie as I left for my
11:00 appointment with the dentist.
After lunch, Laurie remarked that a tray had been brought with eggs and
bacon, a roll and fruit, but she had refused it. It had looked so
tempting, but she was determined to follow her own plan. The day
passed uneventfully. That evening her cousin, Gary, stopped by for a
visit. Upon his leaving, she kidded with him. Later, I went to
another section of the hospital to fulfill her desire for frozen
bar-type fruit juice. Dad and I left around 11:30.
July 16. . . Laurie was seated in the Lazy Boy when we arrived. Her
breakfast tray had her requested liquid diet, untouched. I wanted to
help her but she felt too nauseous. She wanted to sit on the edge of
the bed. We sat together for over twelve minutes; I, with my arm
around her back to brace her, she with her head leaning against mine.
She asked if I would help with just a sponge bath this time. We had
agreed. The nurse entered and wanted to begin preparing for her bath.
Laurie just shook her head and said that she felt too sick. She asked
to be seated in her chair; the nurse declined that wish. She wanted to
have Laurie lie down. We used the draw sheet and Dad and I lifted her
as far to the head of the bed as was possible. She asked to be raised
to a sitting position. Each time we pushed the controls she indicated
she wanted it higher. As she reached the highest level she looked at
Dad and me and said, "Hey, you guys, I'm going!"
Seconds later she was gone. It was what she wanted!
It was finally over!
EPILOGUE
written by
Todd Alan Isaacson
As a once beautiful young lady saw the torture of
her own body, and witnessed the relentless expansion
of a cruel weed that demanded to claim her life;
a new beauty could be seen through her determined spirit:
Soft, gentle eyes fully accepted the losing battle
of life on earth, and glowed a tired eternal
sweetness that transcended time itself.
The timeless beauty of Lauren, a spirit set free
to soar in the love of God forever;
this is the joyous gift that will bless us forever.