Through these Eyes Part 8

I recall a day in which three cla.s.smates and I were shopping at a drug store when one suddenly decided to buy a pack of cigarettes, giving the cas.h.i.+er an a.s.suring, "They are for my Dad," in response to the skeptical appraisal of my friend's age. Wordlessly, the woman accepted the money and bagged the cigarettes. My friend smiled heroically as the four of us ushered from the store. After obtaining a book of matches, we strode down to the woods behind my house and followed the trails until we were deeply beneath the cover of the leaves and beyond all source of detection. The pack was opened with the gleeful antic.i.p.ation which only came with the breaking of a rule. Two girls eagerly lit up and puffed smoke into the clear air. The pack was presented to me. "No thanks," I shook my head. I had no desire to start a habit which not only was a risky endeavor in terms of maintaining health, but also reeked in an offensive manner. "Besides,"

I thought, "it doesn't even look cool." I envisioned a woman with a white stick drooping out of the corner of her mouth and an old man sucking pathetically on the smoking stub of his cigarette. "You sure?"

someone asked, offering the pack again. "No thanks," I replied and started walking toward home. One of the girls joined me, and, as if we had been unexplainably spooked, ran back through the woods to my yard.

Out of breath, but glad to be rid of the odor of the cigarettes, we stood silently below the house and waited for the other girls. Upon reaching the top of the hill, the two asked why we ran. Bending the truth, my friend said, "We thought we heard someone yelling for us..."

Personally, I don't know why I ran. My refusal and dismissal of the scene had been sufficient, for I had felt no antagonism from my companions; yet, beneath the canopy of leaves, I felt trapped and scrutinized by unseen eyes. Flight seemed to be the natural course of action. If my tactics failed and I was repeatedly urged to do something that I had no intention of doing, I too, would use "Mom" as the rejoiner to a simple "no." Mom never worried about having a "mean old lady" reputation among her children's friends, especially if it saved them from performing undesirable actions. Packing an excuse like "Mom" was ammunition so powerful that I never felt alone when faced with a difficult situation; if I could not handle it, "we" could!

By sixth grade I had accepted the fact that, as one of the tallest students, I would always be seated at the back of the cla.s.s and stand at the end of the gym line. Each year, I remember wis.h.i.+ng that the lines and rows would, for once, be arranged alphabetically, allowing me a change of scenery from the backs of people's heads. I never had the chance. The policy remained the same and the students grew in height...but so did I.

My last year of grade school was also a year through which I spent pleasant noon hours, lunching at the home of a lady whose family attended our church. I shared lunch with Vera's youngest son, Todd, and two other boys whose names no longer exist in my memory. Vera was great. She rarely smiled, yet she had a terrific sense of humor which fell somewhere between "dry" and "sarcastic." Her laughter was a reward in itself, for it was easy and genuine. Within her sober face was more humor than most people could fathom because she had the ability to see humor in life.

Sixth grade left in me a good impression of my early school years...I remembered the good and the bad, for the two elements were inseparable.

I thought of the holidays, from Halloween's dress-up parade followed by a night of trick-or-treating, to Valentine's Day parties, and Yuletide paper chains. I reflected upon the fall carnivals and ice cream socials, the frantic chaos of recess and the joy of art projects.

I smiled at the science jingle which, through the attacks of several boys and myself, suffered a comical change of wording to "The sun is a ma.s.s of undigested GAS, a gigantic nuclear TOILET..." and perhaps as a sort of revenge for so dissecting the lyrics of the educational song, I encountered my first migraine headache in science cla.s.s, during the middle of a test.

I thought of the teachers, and the quiet spoken janitor, Mr. Ed, who faithfully polished the halls to a sheen and silently cleaned the floor after someone threw up.

I considered the princ.i.p.al who was feared, yet respected, for his ability to control the school in an orderly fas.h.i.+on. He had the type of stern glance which turned one's lunch into a ma.s.s of lead; a rumor that he possessed a spanking machine in his office persisted in my mind until the second grade. I never sought to disturb him; thus, when I was instructed to report to his office, my throat became the victim of muscular strangulation. Once stationed before his desk, the princ.i.p.al reprimanded me concerning a book which had disappeared from my desk.

The librarian said it was still missing; if it was not returned I would be obliged to pay for it.

I could barely speak. I had borrowed the book from the library, yet someone else had stolen it from my desk; it was not at home, nor was it in any other desk. In vain, I questioned the boy who sat at my desk throughout English cla.s.s, a renowned trouble-maker, who admitted that he had, without permission, opened my desk and "looked at the book."

This was of no consequence to the princ.i.p.al, however, and since it was never recovered, he made me pay the entire cost of the book. I had suffered an injustice, blamed and punished for that which I had not done. I reflected grievously over the situation, and remembered the only time in my life that I had contemplated stealing. I was in an old drug store, gazing at the jewelry spread upon the counter top and spilling from bins of miscellaneous content, when I spotted a tiny cross which had fallen from it's chain. It belonged to nothing, and would one day be discarded among an array of damaged goods. No price tag fluttered on the tiny shape; and it was the only one of its kind.

I picked it up and placed it in the palm of my hand; the small cross would not be missed. I stared long and hard at the bright gold trinket, feeling as if I was in a vacuum. I heard nothing but the chaotic ramblings within my mind, the rationalizing manipulation versus the over-powering guilt which lashed viciously at my temptation to steal. I felt suddenly as if my thoughts were naked and replaced the cross in the bin of jewelry. As I walked from the store, I saw the irony in my stormy, inner confrontation; I was going to steal a cross, the sign of goodness, purity, and love. My internal suffering was terrific, although I resisted the compulsion; the thought would never be purged from my memory, for with it, I learned a great lesson.

I slipped back to reality. Great lessons did not s.h.i.+eld an individual from shouldering blame that belonged to someone else. Goodness was not always rewarded in life, for despite a personal history of moral decisions and ethical choices, an individual must exist among people who, through their hurtful life styles, obliterate the rights of everyone they touch.

I paid for the book, having nothing to show for my expenditure but a h.o.a.rd of futile self-pity and the knowledge that I was innocent of any wrong-doing. School came to a close as the summer ripened into its cla.s.sic heat at noonday. Desks were emptied and scrubbed. Homework ceased. Antic.i.p.ation flooded the cla.s.srooms. The students bid their teachers good-bye, vowing to visit in the future.

Some returned, but I never did. The present traversed the old hallways, while the past would never live again except within my mind.

I had no place there among the youthful faces and shrill voices; the building belonged to the present...it belonged to them.

The Mountains

When I dream I think of them, Majestic peak and Aspen hem;

And in climbing them, The flowing slopes,

It brings to me A world filled with hopes.

The rain and thunderheads up there, With lightning they come, fast as a mare.

I love to watch all the life that they keep, The wolf, the fox, the hawk, and wild sheep.

Filling it's crannies, streams can be found, In their tossing and turning, they're thrown to the ground.

So please, oh, please, come and see This mountain paradise along with me.

Lauren Isaacson - 7th Grade - 1975

PAGE 38

Chapter 9

Discovery of Tumor

"There is always too much time before an unpleasant event; too much, yet not near enough."

CHAPTER NINE

Discovery of Tumor

By the end of seventh grade, Jr. High no longer seemed an immense edifice, and my confidence, as well as my acquaintances, grew. Each day, before or after lunch, depending on one's lunch schedule, we would a.s.semble in our respective "homerooms"; here we could talk among ourselves if we did not become noisome or in any way obnoxious. I made two acquaintances in the room, and between the three of us, idle chatter abounded. One day I remember above all others. I was involved in conversation with the two girls when I looked down at my stomach and noticed that it was definitely lop-sided in appearance. I called their attention to it so that they also could share in the humor of my distortion. We all laughed in simultaneous bursts of wonder at the spectacle, then moved on casually to other things. I figured that my stomach was bloated from gas. "No big deal." However, for the next several weeks, I maintained a vigil on my stomach, and to my perplexity, the odd "lop-sidedness" persisted. Eventually I decided that I should divulge the discovery to my parents.

It was summer vacation, and school would be in the past for three beautiful months. The annual family trip was only weeks away, and I could barely wait. When Mom said that I would have to go to the doctor, I felt an eerie certainty that something was drastically amiss, and therefore requested that we first go on our trip to Colorado; I knew that if my sensation was correct, I would never be able to see the mountains...at least not that year. The trip, I felt, could not be postponed.

A brief time later, I found myself in Colorado. The unchanged beauty was without flaw, yet to my dismay, I was unable to fully enjoy it.

Even small trails, which I had previously made with ease, I could not manage without an overwhelming urge to vomit. The thought of food was not at all welcome nor appealing, and my energy waned; I felt as if I had another mild case of stomach flu. My sister who, along with her family, had accompanied us on the trip, confided to Mom, "Laurie looks so fragile..." My weight loss was more apparent to her since she saw me on fewer occasions. My appet.i.te had slowly declined, and I had complained of stomach discomfort, prompting me to squeeze a pillow through the night. Occasional bouts of stomach flu would evoke such violent stabs of wrenching pain that I could only stand with my stomach tucked in, my back bent at a 45 degree angle to my legs. We never suspected that anything was wrong until I discovered the unusual appearance of my stomach. Even those with keen eyesight can be blind when gazing into a mirror, especially when the changes seen therein have occurred gradually, over a period of time. Moreover, I was always a rather finicky eater and found mealtime to be one of those obligatory necessities of survival. I was also quite p.r.o.ne toward nervousness, which wreaked havoc on my stomach as well; certainly my pangs were not abnormal, as I'd experienced them as long as I could recall, and they inevitably would render me without an appet.i.te. A lack of interest with regard to food on my part was nothing new; for years Mom urged me to finish my food or eat my vegetables, coupled with a lesson on nutrition or a threat that would not allow me to partake in later treats, such as cookies or ice cream. Feeling that I was healthy enough, I cared little about "sound nutrition" and "balanced diet" yet Mom's "cookie clout" sometimes carried a fair impact, (depending on the vegetables I was to choke down, as well as the type of dessert which taunted my eyes and tongue). No threat however magnificent was sufficient for me to make beets or spinach disappear; that was asking too much, and I gladly relinquished my treat. My appet.i.te posed little cause for worry and, as before, the symptoms of stomach flu soon were but a memory. The lump remained, however, glaring suspiciously from beneath knit s.h.i.+rts; the appointment with the doctor could no longer be delayed.

It was a sunny day when we pulled into the doctors parking lot, and I was in good spirits despite the natural qualms one encounters upon venturing into the typically noiseless waiting room. I was characteristically happy, and although I knew not what news my physical exam would unveil, I felt no need to punish the doctor for doing his job; he deserved a smile too.

Dr. Murrell was a man of few words, who wielded an aristocractic air with the unimposing quality of a true gentleman. He appeared to own a sense of inate calm which allowed him to divulge even the worst verdicts with unruffled dignity and composure; he transmitted ease to the waiting patients and relatives as if through a sort of osmosis and, I'm sure, avoided many hysterical outbursts as a result.

As he methodically inspected my stomach region I found it extremely difficult to refrain from laughter. Ticklish and quite unused to being touched, his various pokes evoked embarra.s.sing jolts of muscle spasms as I tried, without success, to squelch my chuckles. When he had finished, he announced that he wished the opinion of his a.s.sociate doctor and departed for several minutes. Arriving once again with Dr.

Errico, who then took a turn applying pressure to various points on my sensitive stomach region, they asked whether any specific areas brought about pain when touched. I replied that I had experienced none, and they nodded in silence.

As the two doctors prepared to leave the room to privately confer the meaning of my symptoms, Dr. Errico extended his arm to place a fatherly pat on my shoulder. As he did so, I felt my spine turn to ice in an unexplainable sensation of pure dread; it was as if his gesture foretold doom and I recalled the persisting thought which had echoed in my mind since the moment I discovered the lump. The news was not going to be good; I knew it now.

Dr. Murrell returned to the room alone, seated himself before the desk, then turned to face us. He was unable, as yet, to draw any conclusions, but desired me to check into the hospital for tests as soon as possible, and the preparations were made. I can no longer remember how I felt when I departed that day from the office drear to the bright flood of sunlight; I cried no tear, and spoke no words of resentment or anger, for those I would have recalled. I knew only that I had to discover the truth about that mystery which lurked behind a mask of skin.

The hospital, I found, was no place to be unless one was horribly ill.