Chapter THIRTEEN: Year At Home And Diary (2)

Sunday school was not as bad as MYF, because of the teacher's presence and the short length of class. I felt sorry for the teachers, poor volunteers who offered their services each Sunday morning, only to receive inattentive abuse. I often wished that the minister would have cancelled church school for junior and senior high, and instead allowed them to talk the hour away, since that is what happened anyway. When an attempt at discipline was made to silence the noise, the discussion planned by the teacher would all but collapse and students, or at least, many of them, would sit despondently in their seats, with plaster-cast pouts on their faces, and refuse to answer questions unless directly asked. Then the answer was generally a curt, "I don't know" followed by steamy silence. I wished that I had the clout and the following to right these proceedings, yet a plea on my behalf would have been unheard or ignored; unless my barrier would permit me to enter into the instructor's discussion and help in that meager way, I could do nothing to reinforce the teacher's strength except, through silence, keep the bedlam at its current level. Our church, I found, shared its problem with other denominations.

March 24, 1976... wrote another poem about spring... really nice out today!

I remember the day and was inspired to write about that which I saw around me. I carried a note pad and pen to the wood pile behind my house, and taking a seat, allowed my pen to drift along with my mood. As the sun pelted its warm rays on my back, the world seemed so beautiful and my heart so full of the world, that I had to capture the feeling forever. I possessed no poet's eloquence at age 14, though I did seek to express honesty and beauty in the written word; I wished that everyone could see and feel the life which permeated every puff of breeze through the tight-budded trees.

I felt rather guilty that I fostered such ill fervor toward going to church and, as a gesture of good will, sent a copy of my poem to the minister. Perhaps I wished to ease my own mind against the suspicion that I was on a collision course with atheism; for although I did not feel like a heathen, I was terribly aware of a rift between my ideas and those preached in church; some of the statements actually filled me with wrath; I searched my mind for the cause of my annoying fury and, years later, I was finally able to define my religious belief and be at peace with myself.

To return to my story, I mailed my poem and settled back to pursue the daily routine. One and a half weeks passed, finding me at church and longing for an alternative. It seemed miraculous, for my wish came true.

Apr. 4, 1976... I didn't go to church because I got hungry, so I went with Les and Mrs. K. to the Modernistic Restaurant. I had 2 1/2 pieces of French toast, 1 sausage, hot tea. I wish I'd gone to church tho' 'cause Rev. Jones read my poem "Spring"! A lady told Mom that I should try to publish it! Seven others commented on it! WOW!

Ironic, life. Besides the honor of having my poem read in church, it was published in the weekly church bulletin since a number of individuals had asked for a copy of it; in the following weeks I was sent two thank you notes in the mail for sharing my writing with the church. It felt good to know that my efforts were appreciated; more importantly, it prompted people to take a second look at nature's splendor.

Spring

It's the beginning of Spring, And God's in the air, Not just in my woods, But everywhere.

I can feel him like the breeze As it blows on me, And so can the robin, the eagle, the bee.

And as the sun's rays Beat down on the earth The world suddenly awakes And is filled with new birth.

Under the leaves so dead and brown, Sprouts a Spring Beauty, and life is found.

Spring is life... Of this I've no doubt, I feel I'm alive, and I want to shout!

Lauren Isaacson 8th Grade

I used to sit on my front steps and watch the storms approach. The sky would turn gray, then dark, inky blue as thunderheads bearing rain scouted a path above the tall oaks surrounding our house. Lightning seared the murky, restless skies as I peered into the dark abyss above me, and when the storm drew hauntingly near, I would relinquish my seat for one inside the house.

My love of storms was not blind love; I respected the power of nature and maintained my distance, continuing my vigilance protected by four walls. I once witnessed the mauling destruction of a seemingly healthy oak as the wind cracked its trunk at 20 feet above the ground and sent its entire upper portion sprawling to the woodland floor. I gawked in astonishment and breathed a sigh of relief that the tree had not fallen in the direction of my aunt's home. Wide-eyed, I realized that my hands were shaking; I left the doorway and took a seat in the living room.

A Storm In The Offing Storm clouds are coming, The wind is in wrath; Soon raindrops will penetrate Everything in their path.

The sun is still shining, The birds, still in chorus... But this will not last, For a storm is before us.

The wind is now lashing The trees without care, And their sap is now flowing With each breath of air.

The sun's face is veiled With a blanket of gray; The heavens break open, And rain fills the day.

Lauren Isaacson 8th Grade

Apr. 7, 1976... I kinda' got sick after I ate the cream of rice so I just read more of my Science. Then G.E. came over and we did crafts. I made a wishing well with clothespin halves glued on to a Gerber food jar. It's neat. She even brought an African violet from Mrs. O. I also made Easter egg decorations from real blown out eggs covered with napkins. At 2:00 Tracy and her sister picked me up. We went to (the mall) for a beauty show... wasn't much fun... didn't even get made up!... I got to sign up for free samples though. I'll get some!

I had few actual contacts with my classmates of 7th grade, for I shared little in common with their faster-paced lifestyles and the saying, "out of sight, out of mind" carried a thick slice of truthfulness. To pass the time I often wrote nonsensical poems. The old west was the brunt of one of my endeavors...

Revenge Doesn't Alus Pay! (AS told by an old Mountain Man)

This is the story 'bout a woman named Sue; Her man wuz kilt by Injuns... her fam-Iy, too! Now Sue bore a grudge worse than most could tell, She'd get revenge on them redskins if she had ta go through hell !

'Ol Sue used a lang-gwadge that stung just like a bee, And she could draw a pistol faster'n you could knock your knee! One day while she wuz lookin' fer somethin' good ta eat, She spied a group of footprints, made by moccasined feet!

Sue tracked 'em 'til she found 'em near the river bank, And roped the neck of one, then gave it a yank. The minute that the others heard the terble cry, They gathered up their weapons and saw her by and by.

Well Sue was pretty crafty, but not as much as they, For soon she turned and fled... her being the prey.

In an instant they were on her... that poor, devilish Sue, She did not win the battle, for she herself was slew!

This is the way Sue ended, it may seem sort of cold, But she still lives in stories that many folks have told.

Lauren Isaacson 8th Grade

Apr. 30, 1976... Dr. Murrell's office called and said I had to get another blood test because my white cells are down. I've gotta' have one Sat., too. For awhile I was saying some unwriteable things. I was so upset.

I could never quite understand why they wanted to take more blood when my count was down. To me, that made little sense; I would have thought I should keep all of the blood cells I could.

I saw enough of hospitals to please a hypochondriac; further contact, after leaving Rochester, seemed beyond reason. I wanted only to be left alone; sometimes life seemed so unfair. I was quite familiar with needles by April, after having received countless jabs and nearly as my bruises without complaint, yet orders for additional blood tests effectively hindered my level of tolerance. Telling myself that, "blood test were no big deal after all I'd been through," would sometimes suffice to relieve my gripping tension; other instances, I could say, "By now you should be used to them," and then go merrily on my way. There were other days when no rationalization would console me.

May 4, 1976... Looked through my catalogs and dreamed...

I loved to dream over catalogs and fill out order blanks, as it took my mind from nausea and helped pass the time. Often, I would actually fill out an order blank yet never send it; catalogs were far more entertaining than magazines, for they were composed almost solely of pictures.

I was amazed that I should be the subject of jealous resentment; while I was home vomiting, or sitting hairless in front of the TV, they could run about, full of energy, eat a double-scoop ice cream cone without heaving the rest of the night away, and let their hair dry in front of the TV. I was not resentful of their life; why would they resent "how much I had"? I continued to send for things, loving to receive mail. Clippings and advertisements for free samples were hoarded and quickly posted. I sent my name to a beauty club, thinking that the make-up would be of benefit to my sallow complexion and also something to which I could look forward each month; to my dismay, I received a letter rejecting my application and refunding my money, with an explanation that I was too young to belong. My mom promptly returned the check, accompanied by a letter explaining why I wished to belong to the club. I hoped they would understand, yet their response was beyond my greatest expectations, for they made me a V.I.P. member wherein I would receive all cosmetics free of charge. I was ecstatic that I was allowed to join; their additional favor was a true gift indeed, and I quickly mailed a letter of gratitude for their uncommon generosity.

Aside from my family, I told no one of my monthly benefactor, for I feared the partially concealed jealousy which I had already seen too often. I disliked having to be secretive, yet my paranoia ran deep and I did not wish to stir further coals of bitterness within others.

May 6, 1976... I wish the magazine would come soon! I hope to get tons of pen pals.

By the middle of June letters began to arrive from all parts of the country. I was ecstatic, and diligently wrote correspondence in return. After a passage of a month or more, the letters from new pen pals dwindled in number, and I was able to establish firm postal relationships with many individuals. In all, I had received over 50 letters; and to my agitation, one phone call from a nitwit who claimed that he wanted to be a "phone pal." (NO thanks). Although I responded to all letters except one, which was from a guy desiring a full-length photo of me in a bathing suit or shorts, some never wrote again or so infrequently that I was uncertain who actually lost interest first. However, these partings did not bother me since I still wrote regularly to over 20 people and that number alone kept me running to the post office for stamps and buying paper on a grand scale.

The business of writing letters became an outlet for creativity and self-expression which, at that point in my life, I needed very much. While one's circle of friends changed with one's interests and values, pen pals were sufficiently detached from the prejudices of the immediate atmosphere and therefore became friends at a safe distance to whom feelings could be written without the usual fear of confidentiality. Actually there were only two or three pen pals with whom I shared any depth, for many desired only to speak about their boyfriends and favorite things to eat, and refused to rise above the superficial acquaintance afforded by one page letters and a 15 cent stamp. Expectations and needs varied with these individuals, just as they did within local relationships. Some needed only a correspondent and others, a confidant; the duration of mutual interaction via post depended on the compatibility of these aspects.

I wrote "Definitions" on May 10, 1976; it captured a bit more introspection than some of my writing.

Definitions

Dreams are like the eagle When it is in flight, Plummeting down a mountainside Or soaring out of sight.

Success is like the sky When clouds roll away And beckon to the sun To brighten up your day.

Failure is a shooting star Which hurls itself around And makes a crater in your heart, Crushing spirits to the ground.

Birth is like a flower As its' leaves unfurl, Rendering its' love for God To city, country, world.

Death is like an endless night To those who don't believe, Cloaking them in darkness, The old to the naive.

Lauren Isaacson 9th Grade 1976

May 16, 1976... I went to church with K... just Sunday School, tho'... Man, I thought our class didn't pay to much attention and those guys threw stuff, wrecked Bibles and everything. K. dropped me home around noon. I was real depressed for some unknown reason.

Thus, Sunday School was a scene I loved to avoid, even in other churches. I felt incredibly guilty that I did not have the fortitude or spirit to deride the callousness enacted by some of the kids; since I was already miles from their friendship, I should not have worried, yet I wished to draw no attention to myself, especially that of the negative sort in their eyes. My internal suffering would then have been much worse; I opted for alienation over derision. My idea of a "religious lift" was a sojourn of solitude among the woodlands.

For my mom and dad, though, my sickness created tension in itself. Its presence, and the nausea, hairlessness, and so forth that reminded them of its presence dined voraciously on their happiness. During the day they both immersed their energies into their jobs; exertion was only a temporary relief, however, and years later I learned that my mom had sometimes let out an involuntary sob after the dismissal of the kindergarteners when her thoughts encompassed my loss of hair. I rarely saw their anguish, for it seemed that they concealed it very well. Occasionally, when it ran over, I did not know how to react; their pain caused pain for me.

May 22, 1976... Didn't do much today. I dusted and then cleaned my room (and) listened to records. (I was sorta depressed and I guess I made Mom depressed too, because I asked if it was OK to use the record player and she said "sure, that's what it's for. I always told Norm that but he'd never use it. I guess I just raised the whole bunch of you kids wrong." And then she started to cry).

"No, Mom," I thought, standing silently in the doorway. Depression weighed heavily on one's self-confidence. Luckily such feelings within Mom were transitory and soon replaced by her characteristically positive attitude; aside from her good nature she did not have time to be depressed, for she rarely had time to sit. Maybe it was just as well, since there was hardly a shortage of worries. The time and energy she could expend in worry was more productively spent mixing and baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies (and it certainly left a better taste in one's mouth).

Generally my visits to the clinic were clearly punctuated within my diary; in effect, five pages were barren of script except for a quickly scribbled sad face, each accompanied by a concise four letter word, "BLAH." The text would resume on the day following my last treatment.

Toward the end of May we drove up to Mayo Clinic for my third to last series of treatments.

May 26,1976... Woke up (DAAAA!) had X-ray and blood test. They took so much blood that I got sick to my stomach and dizzy. When I got to the "finger prick place," I was sobbing and crouching over, so they took me in a room to lay down. I cried in my little room they put me in for awhile. Then I was all right... They pricked me in that same room! Service!

I remember that day very well. It seemed that I did not feel quite right as I walked toward the waiting room for the blood test that morning, and once I was forced to talk, I realized how displaced my senses were, for I could not even answer their routine inquiries of cordiality.

"Take a seat, please; make a fist." The nurse tied a rubber strap tightly about my arm and began to search for a vein.

"Where are you from?" she asked.

"Lauren Isaac..." I stopped abruptly, looking up at her as embarrassment painted my face a brilliant hue of red.

Thinking she'll try another question, perhaps an easier one, she asked, "What's your name, huh?" To which I replied, "Moline, Illinois." My head began to spin in confusion and I wondered if I was going mad. "I'm sorry... I don't know what's wrong with me today..." I said, my voice trailing off as the dizziness intensified. Nothing of this sort had ever happened to me. I was extremely relieved to exit the vicinity of the blood test, for I despised losing control of myself in front of others. Feeling like an idiotic fool, I wondered if the nurses thought I was new to the procedure, or scared, or squeamish...

The remaining portion of the day went smoothly after eating breakfast.

Mom and I went shopping after taking Dad to the airport. I got a new wig, a brush, and wig shampoo.

A new wig. It took some persuading on the part of my mom, but I finally agreed to try on some new hairpieces. My wig was beginning to show signs of wear after constant daily use and, admittedly, it was looking rather tacky. Despite these facts I was reluctant to go through the nerve-wracking process again, especially since I was now completely hairless and found the idea of publicly displaying that trait in a department store utterly repulsive. We browsed through the maze of styrofoam heads and many-hued tresses until a sales lady approached us. I studied the floor intently while my mom explained the color and styles I wished to try. Immediately the lady produced several boxes housing clumps of curled hair which resembled dead animals, and motioned to the mirror. "Uh..." I stammered, trying to muster up my courage. "Could...I...try them on in a dressing room or... something? I take chemotherapy and I... don't have any hair..." The woman hardly flinched. "Sure, go right over to woman's apparel..."

What a relief! Behind the curtained partition I shed my relic and, standing before the mirror, tried one wig after the other. "I swear, nobody has this much hair!" I exclaimed, frustrated. "Think of the milk you'd have to drink to grow hair like this!"

I selected a wig which closely matched my old one in its younger days and vowed I would somehow smash it down to the proportion of real hair. Would you like to wear it?" Mom asked, referring to the new clump of hair slumped inanimately over the edge of the box. "No way," I plastered my tried and true wig on my head and it unhesitatingly fell into place, conforming to my head like an old felt hat.

The following afternoon my treatments began. However, we received a pleasant surprise by learning that we could transport the last two days worth of drugs home with us and allow the hospital to administer them to me. Thus, after the third treatment, we were given the expensive vials of yellow, clear and ruby red liquid, along with instructions for the doctor, and placed the potent ammunition in a cooler.

May 29, 1976... Took Chemotherapy and headed for home. Got home around 3:00 or 4:00 p.m. (TWO relatives) were already here. (one) gave me a book on beauty... maybe she's trying to tell me something! HA! HA!

May 30, 1976... Had chemotherapy at home. It took a long time to get all of the things situated. It was injected, I threw up, etc., and then we went home.

May 31, 1976... Had Chemo. It took an awful long time today. Home. Watched T.V.

Chemotherapy, administered at home in Moline was an improvement which boosted my morale. For the first time my diary entries did not consist merely of sad faces and hurriedly scrawled "BLAH'S." I didn't feel "good," but I seemed to feel "better." I could breathe fresh air instead of the motel's stale stagnancy of bygone cigarette ashes. I could even throw up in my own toilet. Home treatment was indeed a delight.

June 2, 1976... I got sick tonite. I guess it's just the chemotherapy doing its duty! I made myself barf at 10:00 p.m. I should have barfed sooner.

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