m.u.f.fled steps were heard outside the door, and I had a slight sensation of de ja vu. Then the door burst open, and a tall man entered, booming a friendly "h.e.l.lo" to both of us. We all shook hands and seated ourselves; soon afterward, the three surgeons, Drs. T. M. and W., entered as well as a young smiling doctor who was there simply to observe. Dad rose again to greet the new comers. As the pleasantries died away, the business of the meeting came to our attention.

Because my tumor had been cancerous, there was naturally the question of whether surgery alone had been action enough to free the entire cellular structure from my body. As far as the surgeons could recognize, they had removed all cancerous cells, but since cells cannot be seen by the naked eye, the doctor's supposition could possibly have been incorrect; for this reason the meeting was called to determine the next course of action. Since mine was a rather unusual case, they felt at a complete loss as to the route which should be taken, and having stated several options decided to privately confer the matter. The doctors filed out of the room. Dad and I looked at one another. The whole situation seemed ridiculous. The surgeons were "certain" yet the state of my health was rendered "uncertain" by the presence of cancer.

One word, and yet it made such a difference; it was almost mathematical; just as surely as positive and negative numbers, multiplied, equalled a negative response, certainty coupled with uncertainty yielded uncertainty. Moreover, I began to feel like a subject, someone against whom plots were devised; there was to be no specific method, no scientific plan in my treatment. . . and while I reserved faith in the doctors, I knew that an end had been reached wherein my self-confidence was worth just as much to my well-being, if not more.

When the doctors returned, they confessed that, although a decision had been determined, their means of arriving at said decision was quite simplistic and utterly devoid of calculation. The decision was literally pulled from a hat, producing a solution which read, "Chemotherapy," and to which they would adhere unless our wishes were opposed to it. At this point, the surgeons took their leave of us, and I voiced my farewells; they disappeared into the hallway, and the door slowly drifted back, to close silently and blot their retreating footsteps. It seemed strange that I should never see these men again when, for a month, they were daily visitors and trusted allies.

We were now alone with Dr. E. and the silent, smiling observer. Dr. E.

explained the situation which had formulated, defining chemotherapy as a means by which cancer was cured, sweeping any and all lingering cells from the body with a deadly blow. In my case, the treatment was viewed simply as a protective measure, a guarantee, that all cancerous cells were wiped out; given such a characteristic, especially when considering my previously mentioned uncertainty, it was already obvious to me that we would not refuse the proposal. As we sat motionless to hear the rest of the definition, I became aware of the observing doctor whose eyes were riveted to my face with an uncanny, relentless fascination, while his lips remained curled in an unwavering smile; it mattered little where I would place my eyes, his gaze feasted on my features, ingesting hungrily every emotion my countenance displayed. I listened half-heartedly to Dr. E.'s conversation; he explained that treatments would be paid through the research funding since my cancer was a rarity, and would therefore place my family under no financial burden. It was nice that my experimental therapy would be no cancer on my parent's bank account, I thought dimly; my concentration was withering under the infernal scrutiny of the observer's beaming eyes and steadfast smile, for there was no benevolence in that plaster-cast smile, only a keen desire to devour one's expressions; and I knew that he waited for a certain look, a show of anguish, an emotional outburst.

Dr. E. continued. He was explaining the ways in which chemotherapy affected the patient. Something within me did not want to hear what would happen, yet my mind took it in; I would feel sick, nauseous, weak. I would be susceptible to infections and viruses... I would be afflicted with occasional aching... I would lose my hair... I could die. Tears, unbidden, welled up in my eyes so I tried furiously to will them away; I did not want to cry in front of those lidless eyes.

It was rude, callous, to stare so unflinchingly as another's future was verbalized and deftly ill.u.s.trated by a doctor who knew all of the hideous cruelties of which chemotherapy was capable.

Dr. E. pa.s.sed a form to my father, instructing that both he and I read carefully, and sign if we were in agreement to its statements; our obligations, their obligations, etc., etc., etc. I was staring at my knees, fighting tears desperately. My head was bowed low to escape the face which would not leave my own, which granted no peace or meditation. Dad balanced the paper on his knees and signed his name with confident strokes; he pa.s.sed it to me. "You can read it first,"

he said. My eyes were a haze which saw through the page. I did not need to read it, for I knew what I had to do; knowing, however, made it no easier.

I signed without thinking, without reading one word. The observer was grinning widely now, a s.a.d.i.s.tic glimmer of pleasure seemed to sparkle in his eyes; I did not have to look at him directly; his luminous frame of mind pierced my unseeing stare. Tears shone on my face. I wondered bitterly if my performance had satisfied him.

To conclude the business of the hour, a date was determined for my return to the clinic; the commencement of treatment was two short weeks from the present, and time would not slow its tempo for me. I would have to enjoy those days while I was able. Dr. E. stood, signifying that the meeting, and his time, had reached its duration; I bid him a respectful good-bye and he ushered his abominable side-kick out of the door. Dad and I gathered our belongings and departed in their wake, walking toward the lobby. Climbing in the elevator, descending to our floor, climbing out of the elevator, walking to the car... it all seemed mechanical. While our bodies glided toward our car, self-propelled, we decided to leave the town that afternoon. Somehow, the future demanded that the need to go home be satisfied. We went.

The September sun crept low, tempting winter as it reclined toward the western horizon. After we had left the city behind us, and found the route which would lead its weary travelers home, Dad broke the silence of our brooding minds. "Would you have been satisfied with just the operation? Would that have been enough?" I shook my head slowly back and forth, sitting quietly and gazing as the pavement was consumed by the miles. "No..." I said, faintly echoing my mute reply. We drove on, into the fading light. Uncertainty rode with us; it was the impetus which quailed for insurance, taunting our future-bent minds with doom and dread. Uncertainty wielded mighty weapons and sharp words. "What if..." was too persuasive to warrant refusal.

We arrived in Moline long after sunset; it was a beautiful sight, crossing the Mississippi, for the river reflected the street lights in a profusion of multi-faceted bands which sparkled like a king's h.o.a.rd of precious jewels. It seemed a warm welcome, though few people were stirring, and those that stirred knew us not. That we knew the land was enough.

The streets on which we drove seemed like old friends, unchanged, and somehow dearer to the heart after the extended absence; Fourth Avenue, whose narrow confines should never have known four lanes of traffic; 53rd St., which boasted one of the few brick surfaces still in use; and 7th Ave.... the corner mail box, the parallel rows of houses, and finally, our gravel driveway.... home. As we neared the end of the avenue, the headlights caught a curious banner of white which appeared to stretch over the entire drive. We approached and stopped beneath a sign which read, "Welcome Home Laurie," professionally lettered in blue and red; it was the work of John Moore, Steve's father. Welcome home?... indeed, yes!

The following days seemed a continual welcome; my aunt made some of my favorite rice pudding, neighbors dropped in, friends visited... and to my surprise I received more cards in the mail. I busied myself writing numerous notes expressing my grat.i.tude for all the demonstrations of concern which I had received as well as a note of appreciation which appeared in the church bulletin in reference to all the cards sent to the hospital; it was a job I viewed seriously, because no one had been obligated to do anything for me. Just as I was doused with affection, I might have been completely ignored; thus, I believe it is of the utmost importance to acknowledge another's selfless expenditures, whether their value be measured in hours or coins. To turn one's back upon the kindness and concern of others is a silent, but effective voice which speaks of one's own innate selfishness and dearth of love, for although giving should be a pleasure unto itself, it is a human propensity to seek further pleasure from the fact of the recipient, and if the latter remains expressionless and verbally dense, he denies the giver of his utmost joy. Giving is more than simply the ability to spend money; the ungracious and ill-mannered are often unaware, or perhaps more accurately stated, heedless of this fact.

School was already in session when Dad and I returned home from Rochester and although Mom and he went to work regularly, I refrained from going to cla.s.ses for several more days. I was still quite weak from my operation and related weight loss, and my stamina and endurance were a mockery to their former capabilities, but my underlying strength helped me overcome all of the obstacles which I had hurdled, as it would similarly allow me to master those which lay ahead. I was strong; cancer was my solitary barrier to a clean slate of health.

Returning to school, which was always a nerve-wracking experience for me, was further complicated that year by my late arrival; moreover, my health dictated that I use the elevator instead of the stairs, an instruction which I abhorred because I felt myself to be a spectacle.

Had my personality enjoyed ladles full of attention, my reaction would have been that of pure delight, for in addition to utilizing the elevator, I was allowed to select a friend to carry my books, and together we would leave the cla.s.ses early to avoid the jam of hallway traffic. I was also instructed to come to the nurse's office to eat a morning and afternoon snack, as well as to rest during the physical education period. I characteristically despised being singled out from the crowd in such a way that everyone's attention was momentarily turned on myself. This time, however, it could not be avoided, and with a plea for inner fort.i.tude to my mind, I followed all of my directions obediently. When I was able to forget my embarra.s.sment, I was quite grateful for the special treatment which I was given.

As it was, I attended school only three days, but in that time I reacquainted myself with my schoolmates and was readily accepted in my former circle of friends. I was unused to such attention which my late arrival and circ.u.mstances seemed to evoke, yet it was pleasant, just the same.

A memory which surfaces in connection with my few days of school was my guarded reservations toward my appointed English teacher whose innate haughtiness took on the unfriendly guise of derisive sarcasm when one of the less fortunate students directed his attention. He enjoyed the reprimand to an excess which was unprofessional and beyond reason, as he would rend his subject before the other student's eyes to gain their general humor, and camaraderie. I would sit quietly throughout the cla.s.s, listening carefully to the lesson lest through inattentiveness, I be attacked by the ruthless teacher and then breathe a great sigh of relief when the clock read five minutes before the bell.

Very few memories formed during the three days of school, indeed none which dealt with curriculum or activities; those I described were pinpoints of feeling, of emotion, rather than events that were special unto themselves. Such, it seems, is the manner of my existence; thoughts and feeling compose myself; events simply form the backdrop against which, while it remains intact, memories are viewed.

It was a Friday evening when Mom, Dad and I set out to Rochester again.

Because Dad had already taken many days off work, he would only drive up to the clinic with us and then catch a return flight into the Moline airport on Sunday; the shop rules had been relaxed (when I had surgery) for Dad's benefit, and as grim as the circ.u.mstances were, the boss could not abide the thought of sending Dad forms to complete to satisfy the company, especially considering his flawless work record.

Nevertheless, it had been over a month, and Dad could not expect to take more days without giving a formal written explanation and statement of intent as well; with Mom's vast acc.u.mulation of sick days, there was no need for my father to remain during my treatments.

The hour of our arrival was quite late, but since we had two weeks to plan the trip, we had the foresight to make reservations at a nicely furnished motel rather than leaving our luck to chance. It was a marvelous improvement from the motel of our initial excursion, having individual bathrooms (instead of one down the hall) and kitchen facilities which we would use later.

We indulged in sightseeing and shopping throughout the weekend until Dad's departure, lending to our time the best possible sense of normalcy by pursuing the activities which I found most enjoyable. It was impossible to forget the promise of Monday's treatment, however, and it seemed to me that I was followed by a haunting shadow of unrest, while before me, ticking loudly, was ever the face of a clock. Too soon Sunday came and Mom and I watched as Dad's plane taxied down the runway, turned and scorched a misty path into the blue sky. We drove back to the city, stopping to buy groceries to outfit our kitchenette, and then arranging them in the cabinets of our temporary home before seeking a restaurant for the evening meal.

The so-called "last supper," my last meals taken before all eating had to cease to comply with the demands of the morning blood test, were traditionally grand affairs. I ate whatever struck my taste bud's fancy, which in my case, was always a chicken dinner. I doted on fried chicken to such an extent, ordering it on every occasion in which we ate dinner at a restaurant, that Dad eventually blamed "chicken" as the culprit behind my development of cancer. Although the doctors a.s.sured him that my love affair with fried chicken had played no part in germinating my disease, he still "hated the stuff"; as with all unreasonable, unexplainable, occurrences the desire to find a reason is a fiery quest, which unfortunately is not extinguished by merely pointing one's finger of blame on a subject. Only acceptance can wash away the flames born of despair.

The morning was fine, with the exception of the knots in my stomach.

We drove to the clinic buildings, finally parking in the Damon car ramp. From the garage, it was easy to get to the various buildings, as an elevator ran directly into the subway system of the clinic. When the doors of the elevator parted we no longer needed to pause to read the informative signs posted on the facing subway wall; we were acquainted with the network of intersecting lines and headed right, through gla.s.s doors and followed the aging, dimly lit corridor until, a block or so down, we met with the fastidious decor of the Mayo building. Still we maintained our course, past a fleet of elevators and its waiting patrons, a pharmacy and bookstore, and a corridor which sloped slightly upward leading to the Plummer Building; we covered more ground skirting a hallway which allowed a brief glimpse of sunshine through vertical windows in the wall, and plants began to appear, growing fiercely toward the light. They were scattered in artistically positioned containers, guarding the final corridor which led to the Hilton Building in a stately, yet beautifully satisfying manner. The Hilton Building itself had even more plants in the waiting room of Desk C; indeed some of which were better described as trees, noting the vigor with which they seemed to soar skyward. If only I had such luck with plants, I thought, seating myself on a fiery orange chair.

Blood tests weren't so bad, unless my vein didn't want to cooperate, in which case, they fell into my "tolerable" category; although I seldom uttered a word, pain did not thrill me and I suspected that, underneath the person labeled "a brave little girl" was a very yellow human being.

I knew it would not alter a thing if I professed to being "lemon-yellow"; life coexisted with pain, and if you felt pain, well, that was life... but if you didn't, chances were, you were dead.

Everything had its alternative, and considering the uncertainty riding piggyback on my shoulders, I felt that I had only one route to pursue, even if it included pain. I didn't consciously think about my future, despite the promise of a cure after the siege, it seemed more appropriate to dream and take each blow of reality as it was dealt, without thinking at all.

The blood test accomplished, we left the brightly painted, plant infested waiting room and retraced our steps to the Mayo building, at which point we milled about the elevators until finding one which was not already protesting its capacity. It was a busy place.

When we reached our floor, excusing ourselves around those who had packed themselves tightly in the elevator rather than opting for another "flight," we found an excess of s.p.a.ce in the form of an immense waiting room. It had the sn.o.b appeal of a library; no one spoke, and few looked up from their magazines except when the nurse would stand by the front desk to read her list of names, after which, a slight transformation of the waiting room would take place as the selected patients strode up to her. Within seconds, the room again reflected studious tranquility and heads sank below the horizon of newspapers or books. In certain situations humans were so predictable. Here they were so reserved, so introverted, so unapproachable that smiles were left untaken simply because they were not seen; if one existed in such a location, he would believe that cordiality was dead, severed from the world. I looked around and wondered whether anyone would change his disinterested stare if a loud sneeze issued forth. I doubted it.

And with that, my name was called.

Forming a troupe of several people the nurse escorted us to individual dressing compartments and we were issued hospital gowns. I had been instructed to undress to the waist only, since my test was a chest X-ray, and then wait in the claustrophobic booth until further notice.

I finally unlatched the door and sat in the corner seat of the booth with the door agape, however, disliking my inability to see the nurse should she have happened by my door; I did not wish to be forgotten in the maze of hallways and felt more secure with a view. I had to know "what was going on"; blindness would be paranoia in its highest form for me.

Finally my name was called and I popped my head inquiringly out of the door, hoping that I could attach a face to the voice I'd heard. A technician in a blue jumpsuit was waiting in the intersecting hallway, and I followed him to a bench where I sat until they were ready to take my X-ray. It seemed such a dismal place; there were so many doors, and so few lights.

A door whipped open. "Lauren Isaacson?" I stood up and filed after the woman who led me into a dreary room that somehow reminded me of a bomb shelter. "Put your chin against the bar, here, shoulders forward, and take a deep breath." at which point she ran behind a heavy wall and peered out at me, continuing, "hold it now... hold it" Click! Rumble!

"Keep holding..." The machine silenced, rendering its five photographs of my lung onto the X-ray plate. "Breathe...." The woman was so businesslike; I wondered how often she repeated those words...

I wondered if she said them in her sleep.

"You can go get dressed, but don't leave the dressing room." "Okay," I answered. I stepped reluctantly from the armored room, unsure which direction the room was, and throwing caution to the wind ambled to the left, and then to the right, and amazingly, I found my room. What if the door won't unlock? I thought, appraising the s.p.a.ce beneath the door and floor; I did not have the best luck with locks, and remembered many a time when, on a vacation, I could not succeed in entering the motel room after scouting for a can of pop. Mom or Dad would always let me in from their side of the door, while I was still fumbling with the key. The door opened easily and I signed with relief; from the inside I latched the door, still wary of the lock and key, and proceeded to dress. Several minutes pa.s.sed, then a click from the loud speaker broke the silence. "Lauren Isaacson... you are free to go."

In other words, it was breakfast time and I galloped from my booth like a horse from the starting gate of a race.

Hungry though I was, when I seriously began to attack my plate, nervousness uttered a complaint which I was eventually obliged to acknowledge; it was just as well; my stomach was not adjusting to the idea that it had to get back to work, and strongly repulsed a large meal. Even my small breakfast conjured rebellion and I sat on the edge of my chair, sweating and quite nauseated, while Mom finished her plate of food. I tried not to watch her eat; the sight of food, the smell of food... it was everywhere when I felt sick. Leaving the restaurant I found the fresh air to be a measurable improvement; at last, when my nausea subsided, the visions of food danced from my mind and haunted me no more.

It was beautiful outside; autumn was reaching its peak of glory in Rochester and Mom and I poked about the streets, waiting for our early afternoon appointment at the Curie Pavilion. There was a slight chill in the air, despite the ample sunshine and our light coats provided the warmth we needed as we kicked through the leaves. It was always cooler than in Moline, it seemed; fall had not quite arrived at home. I was glad; I didn't want to miss the color of the oaks, the acorns and the busy squirrels around our woods either; I wanted to take it in, to wrap its vision in my memory so that it could never be erased... autumn at home... would have to wait another five days.

Mom watched me with feigned happiness; she looked at my hair, a flowing, healthy ma.s.s of gold which cascaded about my shoulders, and felt sickened that it would soon be replaced by a wig. She knew that my hair was my foremost joy in the spectrum of physical traits and would be a difficult loss. Hair is vanity, to be sure, yet that observation counts little to the individual who must bear his bald reality with courage. Appearance does not make the person, but to say that it does not matter is a falsity.

I had remembered to take my camera, a small instamatic, which was an early summer purchase and my latest, greatest hobby. At various intervals Mom would s.n.a.t.c.h it from my hand and position me in front of a glorious tree or upon a rock, capturing the moment with a click and a smile. Later we would look at the photos and the smiles, yet remember the trauma of our thoughts; the deceptive faces in the photos did not fool our eyes, though they painted appeal in the visual world. The hair, the glow, the newly gained energy... all would be changed by the time the pictures were developed; we would be seeing the past and, I felt, by that time, the past would prove a better reality than the present.

It was time to go back to the clinic. Curie Pavilion, a cylindrical building from the perspective of an outsider, was located near the Damon parking ramp, and across the street from the Mayo building.

Actually, from the street view, Curie was only a gla.s.sed in elevator.

We entered the curious building and pushed the elevator b.u.t.ton; we had no choice of destinations; the only way to go was "down." Once below ground, we emerged from the elevator and plunged through a set of heavy gla.s.s doors into a waiting room. A bust of Madame Curie was observing her flock of patients from one side of the room. We strode up to the desk, relinquished our appointment card and took a seat. The people were quiet and grim; it was sometimes difficult to discern the patient from the relative in the unhappy place; worry pervaded the atmosphere.

I wondered what sort of fate I had accepted for myself; I wondered what joy could possibly exist for these people, what hardships they had endured, what expectations they possessed.

"Lauren Isaacson?..." We approached the desk; I smiled to break the tension, to soften the blow. We followed the nurse into a room and were told that the doctor would be around shortly. Everything was white or polished chrome. Sterile. Antiseptic. Professional.

I was seated on the examining table, swinging my legs, when Dr. E.

strolled in the room. "h.e.l.lo, Lorn" he drawled, "Mrs. Isaacson..."

nodding to my mom. He spoke with us for a brief period, asking about my health and referring to his clipboard of papers to tell of my "good"

blood test results. Everything seemed to be in order. "Well... we'll get a nurse in here to get your IV started, and then I'll see you again tomorrow morning." "All right," I said.

As he had promised, a nurse came in, shutting the door behind her, and produced a syringe. "This is a shot to help keep your nausea down a bit," she said, motioning for me to unclasp my pants and bend over.

What a mosquito bite, I thought, pulling up my pants.

Shortly afterward another nurse appeared bearing IV solution, tubes, syringes, needles... the works. I laid down as she strapped a tourniquet around my arm and began her search for a vein. It was a slow, meticulous search, which necessitated a smaller needle; she knew she would never probe the large one into any of my poor, tiny veins.

The nurse opened a drawer, producing a needle which had plastic tabs on either side of it; "This is called a b.u.t.terfly needle," she told me.

"b.u.t.terfly..." I echoed, peering gratefully at the tiny needle with plastic wings. She drew the tourniquet tightly about my arm once again, this time hastily securing a usable vein and taping the needle in place; wasting no time, the IV bag of solution was hung from a pole above my head, into which a syringe was emptied and consequently diluted. Immediately I began to taste the liquid running through my vein, but I subdued my discontent, hoping that the sensation would disappear; it did not, however, until the drug had filtered into my system completely. As the bag of solution gradually coursed through my veins, slowly, due to the small size of the needle, the nurse re-entered the room to watch its progress. When it had emptied, she raised the bag from its pole, removed the tube connected to the needle in my arm and opened two syringes; hooking them, one at a time, into the b.u.t.terfly unit, she squeezed the drugs from their containers. My vein which accepted the drugs felt icy, as if a frigid breeze had been directed on my hand from an internal source; an involuntary shudder pa.s.sed through my body.