Through these Eyes Part 55

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 relations.h.i.+p 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 m.u.f.fin 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 b.u.mmed 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 antic.i.p.ation. 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 relations.h.i.+p. 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 relations.h.i.+p. (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-s.h.i.+ft 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 ch.o.r.es 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 acc.u.mulate 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 pa.s.sed 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 relations.h.i.+p 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-c.o.c.ked 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.