"Okay... you're all finished," the nurse said, smiling widely. She pulled the needle swiftly from my hand, pressing a square of alcohol saturated gauze to the arm, then wrapping more gauze tightly around the needle "wound" to prevent further bleeding. I found that pressure applied to the area helped immeasurably to ward off bruises and I would therefore often hold my hand or arm in a vice-like grip for several minutes after a needle had been removed, thereby lessening the chances of a gruesome bruise and its accompanying discomfort. Thus, I held my hand tightly with the other and slid off the table as my Mom stood to leave. "What are those?" I asked the nurse, pointing to two white canisters made of cardboard. "Those are in case you get sick... do you want to take one with you?" "No... I feel okay so far. I'll see you tomorrow," I replied, happy that one injection was over, yet realizing the fight had just begun for me.

Cancer invited numerous battlegrounds and INCALCULABLE wars.

Researchers were plagued by their hope to unmask the potion which would be the cure, the precious liquid or pill which would purge cancer from our bodies and crush its memory forever. Doctors invested time and energy to diagnose the most beneficial methods of treatment, prescribing the horrifying potent drugs to their patients while promising better days to come. And the nurses were great. Many of them were quite young, beautiful girls. They didn't seem to mind their daily business of poking and jabbing, despite the occasional "wailers"

which could be heard, protesting the needle p.r.i.c.k or the mere thought of it, from somewhere down the hall. They walked about, wearing pleasant, genuine smiles, as if their appointment in life was a joyful one; dealing out poison with a steady hand, trusting unquestionably its supposed ulterior motive of killing cancer cells and saving lives.

And yet, battered lives were everywhere, scaling all age groups, races and religions, for cancer knew no barrier and bore no prejudice; cancer took the weak the strong, the indifferent, the proud, the cheerful, the embittered... it took all, greedily, in an unquenchable hunger. Some it took slowly, savoring each minute, while others it consumed rapidly, stealing life with a voracious appet.i.te; still others, a paltry few, were ignored and allowed to linger awhile on earth, facing the question of death while embracing the essence of life, until another hand embalmed their existence.

Cancer searched for one's true friends; it could bolster some relationships and destroy or alienate others, for the word was as malignant as the disease and struck fear in the stoutest minds and the truest hearts. Its scars were inflicted on the patient, his relatives, his friends... and its wounds were deep, blackened by the apprehension of death; a will to survive could challenge the meek while the ultimate humility scoffed at another's pride until it bent into humble disquietude. Inner wars evoked change; in this area cancer posed great opportunities, for it was the pirate of both time and the quality of life, and if one neglected to acknowledge these as life's greatest a.s.sets, he was living valueless and blind; money, power, prestige...

vanity... were rendered obsolete worries or gained a new perspective for those who saw the need to change and courageously sought that end, whether through insight or the forced enlightenment of unavoidable death.

Secure in my values, cancer itself could not crush or debilitate my inner self; it clarified myself, bringing forth both fort.i.tude and frailty, defining my character; I was who I always had been, emotionally enlarged and with a keener sense of awareness. The physical battle with cancer is enough without also having to struggle to regain or develop one's values and relationships; I was fortunate, indeed, to be packing the right ammunition to the front line of battle.

We dismissed Curie and the subway, ascending to our car's level in the parking ramp. The sun shone brightly through the ramp's open construction of cement and steel. I squinted instinctively and turned my head away.

Once in our kitchenette, I turned on the T.V. and stretched out on the couch. The drapes were drawn shut and I preferred them to remain so; natural light never seemed to enhance the appearance of a motel room and lent the furniture and other appointments a rather brash, gaudy flavor. Light brought forth defects with indisputable accuracy; as the drugs flowed through my body, I knew that the awaited irregularities of treatment would soon parade victorious and unabashed about the domicile, and out of sheer discord, I too, would shun the sun's scathing glance. My only wish was to blend into the shadows and lie completely un.o.bserved.

The TV was, at once, a blaring disturbance and a welcome distraction.

It helped pa.s.s the time, but also reminded me of the slow rate at which time was drifting away. Between soap operas and game shows, advertis.e.m.e.nts about detergent that actually conditioned one's hands, and gasoline; "Ping, ping, ping, Leonard..." filled the afternoon.

Suddenly I realized that my first post-treatment symptom was beginning its onslaught. Nausea woke my deadened senses and I sat up, nervously alert, trying to decide whether I should make my painful exodus to the bathroom or stay seated on the sofa a brief while longer; sometimes the mere sight of a gaping toilet bowl was enough to prompt my nausea to overflow, and picturing the sight in my mind, I decided to put off the inevitable until I was certain I could wait no more.

As it happened, within minutes I could wait no more and ran headlong for the bathroom, emptying what little remained in my stomach from breakfast into the toilet's wide jowls; it was a small offering, yet peering at it wrenched my stomach's deepest confines and I vomited again and again, flushing the awful stuff from view.

Relaxing as best I could, I exhaled and sunk back on my haunches, then slowly shifted until my legs were crossed. Resting one elbow on my knee, I cupped my hand under my chin and listed to the right. Mom stood outside the bathroom door, worried and helpless. "Can I help you?" she asked cautiously. "No" I said into the palm of my hand, not wanting to move, knowing the surges within had just begun. She brought me a gla.s.s half-filled with 7-Up, which I accepted gratefully. The putrid taste in my mouth was masked after bathing it in soda, yet my stomach did not allow it to be digested, and I quickly relinquished my meager sampling to the stool. Water affected my stomach in the same way; nothing was accepted.

Soon I was retching violently and my stomach, long since devoid of all possible contents, began hurling its digestive acids up my throat, followed by bile, bitter and green, which burned like fire. It seemed to me that I would turn my stomach inside-out or vomit my intestines if the battle did not end. I felt poisoned, as if every living cell was fighting to live and dispose of the vicious drugs which were entrapped in my veins.

Until 9:00 p.m. my stomach raged, while I bleated and hacked loudly, uncontrollably, wracked by the seething nausea of my body's turbid rebellion. Then as if the effects of the drugs had ceased warring against me, I was able to safely withdraw from the bathroom and fall into the enveloping softness of the couch. I felt exhausted, and extremely wretched and demeaned; such futility, such utter vulnerability, I had never before experienced. To think that this abuse was welcomed seemed an incredible madness, especially with the voice echoing, "It's for your own good!" in the back of my mind.

I was able to eat a hard-boiled egg before going to bed, which Mom gladly prepared. Her face was drawn into symmetrical lines of pure sympathy which she could not conceal, and was distraught because of her inability to alleviate my misery; although she could not share the physical burden with me, I felt that she bore emotional pain beyond that which I took upon my brow. She wanted always to do "more," yet her presence alone was, for me, more than enough.

The following morning I ate no breakfast, considering it would be an imminent folly so soon before my treatment was administered. Instead I got dressed and flipped on the set to stare at it blankly while Mom crunched delicately through her bowl of corn flakes. The toaster coughed up a piece of toast. She rose to fetch it from the machine, b.u.t.tering it as the scent a.s.sailed my nostrils. "I wish you could eat something, honey," Mom said, reluctantly biting into the b.u.t.tered slice. "Yeh..." I dreamed idly for a second, then replied, "I better not though." I didn't want to make a public spectacle of myself should the anti-nausea shot not take effect.

Our motel had a courtesy car service which we decided to use; by notifying the main desk in advance, the service was almost always available when we needed it, free of charge. The motel had both a car and a van, although generally the van toted us to the clinic and back again; thus, hastening to the lobby, we caught the van as other pa.s.sengers hoisted themselves into their seats. The van droned into motion, taking us past residential streets and avenues until the clinic buildings grew above the trees with an air of infinite superiority.

Pulling in front of the Mayo building, the driver coasted slowly forward, awaiting the closest parking place, and finally plunged toward the curb as a taxi drove away; then, braking quickly, he opened his door the moment the van stopped and dashed to unclasp the sliding door.

We stood, each clumsily jumping to the curb as the driver supportingly grasped our arm. The door rolled shut with a bang. "See you later,"

the driver remarked as he swung himself into his seat. We entered the gray marble building and wove our way through the ma.s.s of people to the elevators. After watching and waiting several minutes, we finally found an elevator which could be persuaded to take us down to the subway level; in a building with nearly 20 floors, most people, it seemed, desired to travel up from the main lobby.

The traffic dwindled as we approached Curie. A long subway tunnel connected it to the mainstream of clinic activity, yet Curie itself was singularly remote from all else, as if, being the nucleus of cancer treatment and related disorders, it was purposely kept at a safe distance. Following the dim corridor to its end we met with a set of gla.s.s doors and admitted ourselves into the waiting room. I sat down, drained of energy; the room had not changed, yet I had. I no longer wore the smile of agitated insecurity and ignorance of the previous day. My smiles were only for people whose eyes met my own in a chance union. While Madame Curie looked over her patients, the receiving body of radiation or chemotherapy, she seemed to me a menace of happiness though carved of stone, for upon her death, she bequeathed no true wealth... her offering bore a great price for its recipients. Indeed, some "beneficiaries" paid with their lives upon receipt of Curie's great gift. "But it's for your own good," the voice echoed, pushing madness aside. If I did not believe the voice, I heeded it; perhaps it formed my sole resolve to continue, and to endure.

Once inside a private room, my anti-nausea shot was administered, followed by the injection of therapeutic drugs. Dr. E. appeared only momentarily, yet Mom followed him out of the room to question him beyond earshot. I later learned that, tormented of heart, Mom had asked the oncologist if he thought she should quit her job to stay home and care for me. "By no means!" he answered directly. "Quitting your job of teaching might make Lauren think that you have given up hope.

You must continue your lives as normally as possible." She nodded with renewed understanding and re-entered my room. The IV had nearly run its course, and the nurse stood by, ready to remove the needle as soon as the solution had emptied into my veins.

"Is it okay if I take one of those?" I asked, pointing to the white canisters aligned neatly on top of the counter. "Sure," the nurse replied, handing one to my Mom. My stomach was already plotting its rebellion, and I wanted some security should an impulse overthrow my will before we returned to our motel. As long as I did not involve myself in conversation, and inhaled only short breaths of air, perhaps my qualms would subside. "There... all done," the nurse proclaimed, wrapping my hand in gauze. "Bye," I said grabbing the bandaged hand tightly; "See you tomorrow."

Mom and I traced our earlier footsteps back to the Mayo building and there phoned the motel. Several minutes pa.s.sed, then the courtesy van rolled up to the front doors. A doorman issued us out of the building with a friendly, "Have a nice day, now." That man was the epitome of flamboyance; he struck everyone as a neighbor rather than a stranger.

He must have loved people, for people were the essential ingredient in his position at the clinic. A genuine smile, a fresh h.e.l.lo; he too, doled out medicine, and maybe helped to ease a few aching hearts.

I was grateful to be able to collapse upon the couch and watch the T.V.

from my p.r.o.ne position; I took no interest in books or crafts, for they seemed too taxing and exhaustive in my condition. Rest was my comfort between nausea and weakness; I welcomed nothing more than I welcomed the thought of quiet repose.

As I laid on the couch, the afternoon peeled away, pa.s.sing much as Monday had done. It suddenly occurred to me that I felt tense, especially in my jaw, and curious, sat up to work my mouth. I was not nervous, nor had I need to be, yet the jaw clamped tighter still. I placed my hand on either side of my face to gently knead the apparently cramped muscles. "This is crazy," I thought. "A Charlie horse in my face!" I rose from the sofa, searching my mind for a reasonable solution to this dilemma. "I'll brush my teeth..." I flew into the bathroom, squeezing paste on my brush, and began to scrub viciously.

Nothing improved. I looked at myself in the mirror just as a transformation took place. Having no control over my jaw, the bottom row of teeth pulled to the left, straining against its natural alignment and audibly cracking as it contorted my entire face. "Mom...

I think I've got a problem." She came and looked at me, her eyes widening at the spectacle before her. "I can't control my jaw"; the obvious statement I blurted out of the side of my mouth made us envision the only possible cause we could ascertain; LOCKJAW.

Mom dialed the motel's front desk, stating firmly that her little girl had to be driven to Emergency right away, then grabbing her purse, her only essential, pushed me out of the door. We ran to the lobby where a driver was ready and waiting. "How embarra.s.sing," I thought, looking down to shield my face from view. "A pimple on your face is nothing!"

Scrambling into the car, our transit was soon in progress. Meanwhile, my jaw had taken on a personality of its own. As it had formerly brought my bottom teeth to the left, it now forced its way to the right. Not content, it again pushed to the left. This continued all the way en route to the hospital, while I was wondering if I had come in contact with a contaminated needle and Mom calculated how soon I would die!

Once at the Emergency unit, Mom tried to give the doctors and nurses a coherent explanation of my situation as we saw it happen, as well as to alert them to my enlistment in the chemotherapy program, while they stared at me with disbelief. They nodded in response to the information, then allowed us to sit in a room by ourselves. A nurse came to the door, briefly surveying the scene, and wordlessly departed.

I looked questioningly at my mom who shrugged her shoulders; "Maybe she had the wrong room..."

The time crept by while my mouth humored itself with further acrobatics. Bored with the lurch-to-the-right, lurch-to-the-left routine, it opened wide, beyond my greatest expectations, and remained thus for several minutes. I was lucky that there were no flies buzzing about; I could not have impeded their entry except with a rapid flick of the hand. A nurse looked in, then darted away.

I sat beside Mom, my mouth poised in the shape of a horrendous yawn and began to see the humor in my predicament. Open mouthed, it was impossible to smile, but my eyes began to glisten and I let go of a gutteral "haw...haw...haw." I must look like "Surprise," impersonated, I thought, my amus.e.m.e.nt gaining momentum.

Another nurse stuck her head inside the room. Mom glanced at her and she too, sped away. Mom grew angry; no one helped, they just came to see the spectacle. I was a side-show and could almost hear them talking excitedly among themselves... "Boy, that hit and run was sure gruesome, wasn't it?" "Yeh, but did you get a load of that kid in 2C?"

"Ha Ha Ha Ha." So far most of the "peepers" only saw my profile.

"Hey, Mom," I said, throwing the words carefully, "The next time someone comes to the door to look, how'bout if I give 'em a full frontal view?" She turned to look at me as my yawn slowly relaxed to facilitate yet another position.

This time my mouth puckered to form a tight "O." I looked at Mom whose worry was finally overruled by humor, and she burst out laughing. "I'm sorry," she said, "but you look so funny..." I didn't mind, for I was laughing heartily now, issuing strange "hoo hoo hoos" into the room through my tunneled lips. "Here we are," I thought, "laughing like lunatics, when I might have Lockjaw!" The doctors, however, didn't appear to be concerned, for there was still no word or antidote, and an hour or more had elapsed. All I desired was an ounce of relief; my jaw was incredibly sore from the forced contractions, and a pain pill would have brought immense satisfaction, yet I could merely wait, and try to relax.

Finally after countless repet.i.tions of rights, lefts, ooohs and ahhhs, a doctor strolled in the room with a red liquid. I had, by then, given up my idea that I had contracted lockjaw and looked hopefully toward the man as he approached. The contractions had slowed in frequency as the hours pa.s.sed, yet my mind still begged for relief.

"Well, we finally figured out that your muscle spasms were the result of the anti-nausea drug that had been administered to you; drink this and I'm sure you will not have any more problems... just don't let them give you any more of those shots!"

I took the red liquid and drank it down; it burned like fire. I thought of my stomach, hoping that my draught would not infuriate it to the point of plotting a revolt; I had been lucky through the afternoon, having experienced no symptoms of nausea during the facial contortions.

Reflecting upon this favorable aspect, I realized the hours could have proven much worse, and was relieved that I had ignored my stomach's plea for breakfast.

The following morning I departed for Curie with an aching jaw; it was minutely reminiscent of the feeling I would acquire after chewing a large wad of bubble gum.

Once at Curie we promptly notified the nurses and Dr. E. of my unusual episode of the previous afternoon. Dr. E. nodded his head slowly, his mouth working nervously. "That drug will sometimes have that effect on patients, but it happens so seldom, I didn't want to mention it to you." "Gee, thanks," I mused, silently. Personally, I would have liked to know all the facts. "Oh, well," I thought, "maybe it was no big deal, but to us it was worth a good scare and a couple of laughs."

A nurse came in and shut the door, instructing me to drop my pants.

"But I'm not supposed to have shots any more," I protested. "This isn't a shot," she said. "It's a suppository...for nausea," she added.

"Oh!" I swallowed my distaste for the idea, dropped my pants, bent over and took my medicine.

By the end of the week we were fairly used to the routine. We discovered that the driver of the courtesy car would let us out and pick us up in front of Curie, which saved my energy. For security, I learned to carry my white cardboard "barf bucket" to and from Curie.

Unless I was lucky, I would throw up all afternoon and into the evening; we therefore devised a way to make the bathroom comfortable by spreading a towel on the floor and placing a pillow nearby on which I could lay between seiges. Near 8:00 p.m. I could usually eat an egg,toast or a potato. Mom helped me clean up and dress for bed, then I would attempt to sleep until I had to wake and repeat the process.

After the fifth treatment, Dr. E. came into the room to set up my next date for receiving chemotherapy. My particular schedule was to appear approximately every six weeks for five days of treatment; each patient had his own ritual in which the drugs and their dosage, as well as the duration they were received, were as uniquely determined as his type of cancer and its extent. Chemotherapy incurred numerous variables, and the reaction depended on the drugs administered and the condition of the patient. I was amazed to discover that some recipients did not lose their hair or become nauseous in the least. Some even gained weight and carried on relatively normal lives, working and attending social functions, and basically thrilled they were alive; they complained only of their excessive rendezvous with needles. Although my effects were far from ideal, I was relieved that I was able to receive my treatments at Curie as an out-patient; free from the hospital. One's morale is better maintained, even if the breeze is felt upon one's face only to and from the clinic.

Dr. E. and my Mom conferred over a calendar, finally agreeing upon a date lying within the six week bounds. We would receive a packet containing specific appointment times in the mail shortly before our next visit. The doctor returned to my room as the nurse was wrapping my hand. After exchanging a few pleasantries of conversation, he sobered and said, "You'll have to buy a wig as soon as you can once you are home..." Hair loss would not be a gradual affair after having such a drug and his warning was not intended to be brushed off; I nodded that I would comply. "I'll see you in six weeks then," he drawled, and allowed us to depart from the room at our leisure. I took another white canister from the counter top and we stepped from the cubicle.

Mom had already stowed our bags in the car for our departure, so upon our return to the motel, we merely inspected the room once more for articles we might have overlooked and then made our way to the car for our homeward journey. I was seated beside Mom, outfitted with two white canisters, while she packed a sack of apples as an energy booster through the seven hour drive. Knowing that we would soon be wrapped in our own blankets improved my spirits to a great degree, despite haphazard retching sprees and pervasive weakness.

Toward evening my nausea subsided. We pulled into a rest stop and Mom stretched her legs. The sun hung low in the sky, undecided as to its course, casting shadows from the nearby benches and trees. I watched my mom as she walked about, surveying the fields under the suspended ball of fire, and then strolled back to the car. She suddenly seized upon an idea and opened the trunk, removing my camera from one of the bags. "I want to take a picture of you... your hair's so shiny." She positioned me on a rock and captured on film a being ready to metamorphacize; the changes had already begun internally, for bereft of energy, no smile escaped my ashen eyes or crossed my weary face.

Soon my hair, shining in the sun's slanted rays, would be gone,too.

Lives change not only by days, but by minutes as well. I slid off the rock and we climbed into our car once again; by late evening the streets of Moline were beneath us. It was good to be home.