there was something amiss despite my seemingly good health; thus the
result of the exploratory surgery was disappointing, but I cannot say
it was a shock.

I felt no need to question the test results or wildly seek second and
third opinions.  Viewing the pictures taken by the CAT Scan of my
liver, I had nonchalantly asked, "Are there supposed to be spots on it
like that?"  Before the doctor had given an answer, something within my
mind yelled, "Of course not, you idiot!"  The doctor responded
likewise, although considerably less profound.

That which helped me deal with my verdict, coupled with my suspicion
that life, for me, had been sailing along a bit too smoothly and the
fact that I had cancer previously, was an unusual strength to adapt to
adverse situations.  From early in my childhood I was able to have the
objectiveness to realize that things don't always happen to "the other
guy"; actually, if something could go wrong, it probably would.  If
there was a log poised between two opposing banks of the creek, the
odds were that I would fall off of it in crossing.  In a world of
"other guys" I was just one, yet that in itself proved I was immune to
no adversity.  Thus, instead of "why me?" my question was generally,
"why not me?"  I happened to be one of the cancer statistics, and
I was far from alone in my plight.

Mine was no easy burden, yet it was mine to deal with as best I could;
wallowing in a murky pool of self-pity would accomplish nothing.  When
I felt a wave of pity tempting me with its utter worthlessness, I would
accommodate it for a brief period and then cast it away to pause and
reflect upon those whose health involved more horrid complications
than my own.

In keeping with some individual's idea that everything happens to the
other guy, often the same people will feel that they are alone in their
suffering.  The person who cannot empty his mind of envious jealousies
toward the healthy only further torments himself, and subtracts from
his capacity for peacefulness.  Although those who yet possess their
health should appreciate it, they should not be made to feel guilty for
their fortune.  Every mortal being will one day find himself confronted
by life's ultimate reality, death.

My dad, characteristically pessimistic, was not overly surprised by the
news that my cancer had returned.  After all, he was quite used to bad
news.  It was just one more undeserved bombshell to fall upon our
family.  One might assume that time and past anguish would have
provided a natural immunization to further emotional rending.  Still,
somehow he felt the pain; I saw it in his eyes.  For Mom, the news was
emotional heartburn and swept like a roaring fire through her chest.
After Dad phoned her she caught her breath, walked to my old bedroom
and stood in the doorway for a long while.  Then a feeling of anger
added fuel to the fire; she had remained at home for conferences,
giving her time and effort for the children of other parents, yet some
never bothered to attend their scheduled conferences.  It had been a
slap in the face; coupled with my poor health report, however, Mom felt
victimized, as if by traitors.  She stayed home. . . she "should" have
been there.

Mom stared at the lime green walls through a transparent screen of
tears and remembered me as a little girl, long-limbed and skinny.  It
was happening again; the impossible had returned to deal its final blow.

The pain of reality is not solely one's own.  If an individual's
relationships with family members and friends are of foremost
importance in his life, the news of his illness will have a profound
effect on everyone.  Their reactions play a significant role in
determining the patient's sense of emotional stability and well-being;
he must witness the emotional pain felt by his loved ones, evident
through tearful outbursts, inappropriate anger, or pervasive gloom, as
each person thinks of the future and the way in which the loss will
affect his own happiness.  I feel it is crucial to share the internal
suffering openly and honestly between family and friends, for a health
difficulty, although borne by one, is a burden felt by everyone
personally involved.

Though I had prepared myself for whatever the outcome might have been,
I had not been certain that the enlargement necessarily predicted the
presence of cancer.  There were, after all, many other disorders that
could cause the liver to enlarge.  My haunting emotion that I had not
overcome cancer was now parallel with reality; my "balloon of
health" was beginning its descent.  I focused my eyes on three flower
arrangements which were blooming profusely on my nightstand appearing,
it seemed, out of nowhere.  They formed an odd contrast to the bleak
and antiseptic atmosphere, as if to say that life can continue even in
such places as hospitals where dim hopes and faltering heartbeats evoke
a sense of gloom which permeates entire corridors.

I began to barrage my father with questions, many of which he was
unable to answer since he had not yet conversed with the doctors to any
great degree.  He could only tell me that the surgeon opened my
mid-section and took a biopsy.  Seeing that the cancer was widely
distributed throughout my liver, he was not able to operate and
therefore sewed up the incision with best wishes.

Because the cancer was the same type as I'd previously contracted, the
doctors believed that it had never actually disappeared in the first
place, and spread without their knowledge to the liver.  This might
have occurred at an early age, lying dormant, or more probably,
spreading slowly until it had touched numerous sites.  Leiomyosarcomas,
presumably, are considered primarily "older women's cancers" which may
spread to the lung; this baffled the doctors to such a degree that they
placed me on research after the initial bout, at age thirteen.  To find
that it had again defied their previous knowledge as to the behavior of
the average leiomyosarcoma, recurring in the liver without so much as a
trace in the lungs, was considered absolutely mystifying and unique.

Despite the uniqueness of the cancer, the fact remained that I was a
young woman with a dreaded disease. . . one that had supposedly been
"cured" by the lengthy operation and chemotherapy treatment.  I
reflected how my oncologist (cancer specialist) had reassured the
permanence of my cure by saying, "There is more of a chance of your
being killed on your drive to the clinic than of having a recurrence of
cancer."  He was that sure.

I do not envy the doctors.  Daily they encounter sickness and health,
yet are limited in their ability to heal and assure their patients of
continual well-being.  They are accused of being incompetent when they
cannot act as God.  They are assumed to be uncaring and detached, when
in all actuality they would lose their sanity if they were subject to
emotionally react to each individual sadness.  When they deliver the
truth to a waiting patient, they are often called tactless.  They are
blamed for finding a health problem and thus disrupting their patient's
happy-go-lucky lifestyle.  Personally, I'm content with doctors and
feel a need to demonstrate that gratefulness.  When the surgeon visited
my room after the operation, I greeted him with a smile and attempted
to make him comfortable.  I knew it wasn't easy to face me; we looked
at each other like old friends and he took my hand in his own.  What
could have been said that had not already expressed itself in his eyes?

I questioned Dr. Telander about the various specifics of the operation,
and casually inquired as to the reason they did not "simply rip the
sucker (my liver) out?"  He then informed me that one cannot live
without the organ.  Slightly embarrassed, I said that I had never been
much of a biology student and continued with other questions.  I truly
was not aware that the liver was an organ of such consequence.

Although I never encountered Telander again, I was assigned to a doctor
who made one or two rounds daily to note my progress.  I bombarded him
with any questions which happened to cross my mind, no matter how
stupid they seemed.

Earnest conversation between a patient and those with whom he
interacts, whether doctors or family members, is a necessity.  Although
the truth is often painful and frightening, I am a faithful advocate of
knowledge over ignorance, and feel it is to one's benefit if he can
receive the news of his illness in a manner which is, at once, tactful
and concise.

Rather frequently I have heard accounts of close relatives of a
terminally ill patient begging the doctor not to divulge the full
implications of the patient's health.  The plea, usually something to
the effect, "Oh no, Doctor, you can't tell him. . . the truth would
kill him!" is somewhat curious in the context it is used, for
doubtlessly the patient will die whether he knows all of the facts or
not.  For those who doubt the beneficiality of telling the truth, let
me further illustrate my assertion.  After receiving a clean bill of
health, a person who has, unknowingly, contracted leukemia continues
with increasing difficulty to do the activities which he formerly
accomplished with ease.  This individual is not ignorant; despite any
clever lies that initially might have given comfort, it will be evident
that something is wrong as symptoms gain momentum.  Withholding
information depletes the individual's right to spend his time as he
wished and, I might add, to work through the possible stress that is
associated with such devastating blows.

The most terrifying part of a horror story is when the killer is yet at
large, faceless and unknown.  This general prefix applies to any fear,
I feel, because once the unknown is brought into the light and
understood, it can no longer evoke the terror it had when it rampaged
through the mind as a veiled monster.  A person is not afraid of the
dark, but rather, what lies concealed within it.  Similarly, illness
can evoke feelings of terror as the body degenerates before an unseen
attacker.  If a person is educated about his illness, I believe a great
deal of trauma could be avoided.  Instead of presuppositions, one had
facts, and as in the horror story, once the killer is recognized, the
audience is given the hope that the victim will see and overcome the
horrid pursuer.  With regard to the patient, this could mean hope
instead of futility; when described symptoms do not appear, the patient
assures himself of more time to enjoy his redefined life.

If a patient is led to believe his life is far from ended, he may put
off preparations for those who shall survive him.  When, through
misguidance, he discovers that he no longer has the time which he was
"allotted," he may feel frustrated and foster deep regrets.
Preparations cannot be made without a previous knowledge of one's
illness and should one fall rapidly into his demise, there shall be
no time for the assumption of his rightful choices.

Many people have confessed their more precious moments were spent after
the knowledge of their forthcoming death.  Life was lived to its
fullest, since unimportant worries fell venomless before meaningful
concerns.  There can be rediscovery of those aspects of life which are
so easily taken for granted; one can relearn to see the world other
than through the tunnel vision of self-preoccupation.  Look up and
drink in the sight of a star-filled night; peruse the ground for the
tiniest flowers, and catch and return a stranger's smile.  Savor the
smell of an orange and feel the cool rain pelt upon bare arms.
Often the most elemental of things bring the utmost pleasure.

I had only two objectives to accomplish while in the hospital;
education and recuperation.  With regard to the latter objective, I
pressured the doctor, to a certain degree, to note my rapid rate of
recovery so that I might be able to sample hospital food.  I wanted to
make certain that I ate solid food in days, not weeks, as had been the
case on my initial stay at St. Mary's.  My body cooperated with my
scheme, and I was soon eating voraciously.  I didn't care what
everyone else said... I thought the food was delicious.... even though
my first meals were made up of liquids or soft food.  It was a joy to
be able to eat again, and my body was in dire need of replenishment;
I was never nauseous following a meal... perhaps my stomach was too
starved to concern itself with the extra energy it would have consumed
in making me sick.

The ward in which I was recuperating was rather small for the four of
us who slept there, and I was more than exuberant upon receiving the
information that I would soon be moved to a semi-private room.  The
ward was buzzing constantly with activity, as the elderly women were
given various medications, mental awareness quizzes, and frequent
visits by the physicians.  Visits by nurses would occur throughout the
night and therefore afforded little true relaxation.  Privacy was also
a difficult matter, since curtains were the only form of separation
from the crowd; I often wished to speak with my father, but felt
undeniably hindered to do so, as I did not wish to evoke an atmosphere
of secrecy nor did I want to impart to the general public one of my
personal concerns of fear.  Another observation of my surroundings,
which I might add, I found more humorous than disturbing, was the fact
that my roommates doubtlessly felt quite at ease due to their obvious
lack of consideration for the more lady-like behavior customary in
other social situations; they freely gave full reign to any of numerous
gastro-intestinal noises which plagued their comfort, creating a
laughable facet of hospital living that perhaps few would appreciate.
True to character, I tried my best to squelch any roars of hilarity and
enjoyed the entire affair silently in the confines of my corner.  My
move to a semi-private room was a remarkable improvement, and I found
my roommate to be amiable and very sensible.  A middle-aged woman, she
was hooked up to at least two machines to drain impurities from her
system.  Her unpleasant state was further increased by her husband's
bland concern; she was alone at the hospital, which was made even more
apparent when her call to home spurred less attention than did the
football game her husband was viewing on the T.V.  Although she
chuckled about the brief episode, I am sure the apathy on the other
end of the line must have hurt.

Shortly after my placement in the room I was allowed to eat "regular"
food.  To be quite candid, I was elated upon hearing the news and asked
when I would be receiving the first sampling of solid fare.
Surprisingly, I was able to procure a snack that very evening and
feasted royally.  My nurse cautioned me, not wanting me to have
difficulties later with indigestion, yet no such ill consequences
occurred and I contentedly slept the entire night.

Having been placed on solid food, I rapidly gained strength and
proceeded to exercise my body to further aid in its full recovery.
I still tired easily, however, and found myself obliged to nap on a
regular basis; in this I have always been fortunate. . . I have an
ability to sleep despite adversity.  Sleep is the only drugless manner
in which to temporarily release oneself from a troubled mind, providing
of course, that the subconscious does not wreak its own havoc through
the presence of nightmares.

The day came that I had been working toward with such intensity and
fortitude of spirit. . . that being the day of my release from the
hospital.  When the doctor made his morning visit he informed me that I
would be able to depart early the next morning.  I asked whether I
would again see Dr. E. before leaving, and learned that a visit was in
his plans.  As it happened, he arrived shortly, and before my father
had eaten breakfast; this allowed a one to one confrontation which I
truly preferred.

Whether through avoidance or mere circumstance, the doctors never paid
any visits when my father was present.  They would make their daily
rounds early in the morning, long before he had arrived, or at night
when he left for his motel.  This seeming "avoidance" could have been
due to the fact that I was no longer of child status, and the doctors
felt that decisions should lie heavily on my behalf rather than
confusing matters by including the emotionally wrought inclinations of
my relatives.

Personally, I was relieved that I was able to confront the doctors
alone, thereby allowing a fluid question and answer session,
uncomplicated by concerned family members who might have misunderstood
information, or in their excitement, failed to hear other facts and
necessitate repetition; these group encounters are seldom low-key when
they do occur, and thus I found myself ill-prepared to deal with such
intense conversation while still drained from the operation itself.

When Dr. E. entered the room I had prepared myself for ingesting a fair
amount of information and sat upright in my bed with a pad of paper and
a pen to capture all that he was about to tell me.  Moreover, the days
which I had just spent in the hospital were not simply taken up in
leisure time activities such as watching television or browsing through
magazines; I had devoted a great deal of time to serious thought.

I feel that everyone has a limit as to how much he will endure, both in
the physical and emotional sense.  Since physical well-being reflects
one's emotional health and vice-versa, the body will set its own
limitations if one is but aware of them, and of course, heeds them.

It is not living, but the quality thereof, which for me determines my
capacity to endure physical or mental pain.  Life with excessive pain
is merely existence, and it is precisely that mode of existence which I
shall always wish to avoid.  Life for the sake of life is merely the
fearful abhorrance of death, the final cycle in earthly existence.

Undergoing a full year of chemotherapy was sufficient time for me to
grasp a clear idea of the drugs and their side effects.  I knew at 14
years of age that I would never again be placed under such physical
duress; I knew that my emotional health would be in turmoil.  To once
again attempt to prolong life through such dreadful means would be a
price too high to justify.

If one cannot say "Enough!," he is reduced to a mere shell of his
former self through treatments which cannot cure; the illness itself is
not so cruel.  Moreover, one who accepts treatment without a hope for a
cure dies in pain multiplied by the lack of peace which reflectance
would have brought.

When cancer was once again found to be the culprit behind my distended
stomach region, the decision whether or not to accept treatment was
virtually incontestable.  My only objective was to leave the hospital
and return to my redefined life; I desired to regain my strength before
it waned as a result of the cancer itself, and this was possible only
if I had no treatment.  I felt that this was the beginning of the end
of my life, and I did not wish to relinquish any of that time toward
the pursuit of impossibilities; treatment is a poor word to bestow upon
an ineffective poison which would deplete life's quality.

The doctor wore a distinctly business-like air as he proceeded to
explain the details concerning my general state of health.  I
methodically wrote his words on paper so that I would not forget any
relevant details in my later discussions with my family and friends.

The available treatment was chemotherapy, and although there were
different drugs in addition to the former lot, he professed that none
would actually cure my type of cancer.  The result of undergoing
treatment would be the temporary shrinkage of the tumor, with the hope
perhaps, that a new and promising drug would be discovered in the near
future; the side effects would echo those which had so delighted me on
the previous encounter.  I could not help but wonder if the time lost
during the administration of treatment is subtracted from the days
which one supposedly gains from having it.

Seeing that I was not reacting to the option of treatment with feelings
of great joy and anticipation, he then turned to the more sober issues
of death via liver encroachment.  Listening attentively, I made certain
that all of my questions were adequately answered before he fled from
the room.

Liver cancer, he said, was usually painless; if pain was a factor, my
doctor could prescribe a remedy which would lessen the discomfort.  As
the liver dysfunctioned, it would lose its ability to metabolize body
chemicals; unable to rid the body of poisons, lassitude would set in
while the appetite decreased.  Finally, sleepiness would overcome any
effort to remain awake and eventually result in a coma until death.

I felt sorry for Dr. E. as he told me these facts.  I could tell that
this visit was extremely difficult for him since his eyes did not often
meet with my own and he seemed eager to sprint from the room.  I had
been a "five years and cured" case; the fifth year after my first
operation he dismissed me with a clean bill of health.  We had given
each other cordial good-byes, never thinking the next year would bring
such disappointment.

Before he exited the room, the doctor restated that the chemotherapy
treatments should commence within a month if they were desired, perhaps
his way of punctuating the option which he knew I did not wish to take.
I nodded in acknowledgement.  It must be difficult for a doctor, one
whose profession is that of helping people live, to find he is unable
to offer a cure; it brings to the surface the fact that medicine,
although miraculous in many ways, is not omnipotent.  Once again we
said good-bye, yet this time, I knew it would be our final farewell.

One of the more difficult tasks I had to perform was expressing to my
family my wish to forego treatment.  They needed to cling to the hope
that there was something to be done for my malady, and were not pleased
upon hearing my steadfast rejection of chemotherapy.  Since I had
foreseen, somewhat, their probable reaction, I was prepared for a
lengthy duel and had therefore decided to write on paper the key
directions that I wished the conversations to follow.

The two discourses which ensued were emotional, yet controlled.  I knew
I had a weighty task to perform if I was to gently but thoroughly
bespeak my desires to my worried father, and later my mother and
sister, and further persuade them to accept those decisions.  I
candidly explained my repugnance toward chemotherapy, punctuated by the
facts that it had not worked previously and the doctor had related that
although there were new drugs, none could cure my type of cancer.  With
all sincerity, I said I did not know how long my life would prove to
be, yet I wanted to maintain a life of quality, for that best equated
my idea of what life should hold for each individual; I desired to own
a sense of peace which could never be attained if I continually chased
the spectrum of miracle cures so prevalent in a world whose main
objective, for many, is the procuring of wealth.  Time itself meant
little if it did not also have the amenity of joy, and in my 19 years I
had experienced more quality than some individuals realize in a
lifetime of 80 years; I stressed that my family was an important part,
indeed, and inherent part of that quality.

I hoped that my family would be satisfied with my judgment, although
their disapproval would not have altered my stance; I feared they would
attempt to force treatment upon me through relentless conversation and
in so doing, make life at home unbearable.  This, happily, was not the
case.

After receiving my dissertation, my father needed time to think and
sort out the information he had just heard, and decided to take a
lengthy walk into town for the duel purpose of eating lunch and trying
to digest the disturbing truth which cancer brought to the surface;
mortality does not concern itself only with the aged.  While he was
gone, I replenished myself with both food and rest.  My mother was to
arrive in the afternoon, and I fully realized I would have to repeat my
performance for her and Sharon, my older sister.  I wished to appear as
normal as possible.  I had curled my hair and applied my usual dose of
eye make-up to improve any pallor which might have been visible due to
the operation; I did not want my appearance to evoke unnecessary
amounts of gloom or despair.  Satisfied that I had done my best to
improve upon myself, I settled back in the bed, clad in the glorious
hospital garb which resembled pillow ticking and decided that I
coordinated rather nicely with the rest of the decor.

When the entire group arrived it was already late in the afternoon.  My
father accompanied Sharon's family on a tour of the area, leaving only
my mother and Sharon to visit with me directly.  I noticed that my
mother had lost weight, underlining the worry that was inscribed on her
face; Sharon's face echoed that emotion, and I knew I must speak with
care.  It can be difficult to avoid mechanical speech when one is
trying to maintain control of his emotions, yet to do so can prove to
be less injurious to the listeners if they share one's feelings on the
topic being discussed.  Cold facts divulged without the benefit of a
warm heart will only multiply the pain; there is no sense in hurting
loved ones through callous explanations.

It was with painful resignation that my family members then present at
the hospital accepted the future which I so desperately needed to
control.  More than my resistance to treatment, (for they too had
witnessed the drastic effects which are inherent characteristics of
chemotherapy) the family was besieged by the inevitability of my death.
There was now the real possibility that I would die long before my
parents, and in this they felt little capacity for contentment.  At the
close of our discussions, I believe everyone derived a handful of
solace through the hope that "miracles DO happen"; there were reports
of complete remission and cases in which the cancer inexplicably
vanished, leaving no trace of its former habitation in the individual's
body.  Continuing research in the realm of cancer treatment was also a
source of emotional sunshine to my family, and allowed everyone to look
toward the homeward journey with anticipation.

I felt exhausted.  Though I truly enjoyed seeing my mother and was
grateful that my sister's family had made the time-consuming trip, I
was happy to grant their leave to partake of supper.  As they departed,
I sunk back into the bed with a sigh of relief.  It had been quite a
day... and it was not over yet.  I attacked my dinner tray as if it was
the only food I had seen in days; it is amazing how an emotional strain
can deplete one's energy as thoroughly as participating in a rigorous
activity.

While I was alone with my roommate, we opened the curtain which
separated the two halves of the room so we could talk and feel more in
tune with the world.  I felt extremely lucky to have been placed with
such a personable lady, as television is a poor excuse for
companionship (unless one is sharing a room with an unpleasant and
irrational whiner!)  After my family had departed, she expressed that
she had been rather awed by my duo performances.  She said she
"admired" my strength and ability to verbalize my feelings, and
although I graciously accepted her compliments, I told her it had been
a topic about which I felt quite strongly.  When one's decision is
incontestable, and is fueled by past experience and anguish, the future
can quite easily be foreseen.

I believe that one has made the correct choice if, after his decision
has been voiced, he feels an overall contentment and freedom from
excessive amounts of mental duress.  Everyone must live with a
patient's choices, but only he dies with them; this is why it is
crucial for a patient to voice, and the family to heed, his personal
opinions regarding his future.

Later that evening the troop returned from their meal and converged on
the room.  Since it was rather small to comfortably house six visitors
on one side, we made our way into the hospital corridors to see those
sights which happenstance would reveal.  We eventually found ourselves
in a quiet waiting room which boasted several comfortable and very
accommodating couches, as well as a few tables upon which the numerous
fragments of jigsaw puzzles were scattered.  At this point, any form of
diversion was welcome, especially for Sharon's kids who doubtlessly
felt a trifle suffocated in an atmosphere where everything squeaked
with cleanliness and relentless order; I'm sure they were not the only
ones who felt intimidated as they passed through the marble hallways.

We entertained ourselves as best we could, electing to remain in the
vicinity of the carpet and couches until it was time for them to leave.
Engaging in small talk and battling with the jigsaw puzzles until
totally infuriated at our lack of progress, the night fell away.  When
the visiting hours had reached their end, my parents and company bid me
good-night and left memories of the day which had just elapsed, as well
as renewed excitement for my release from the hospital.  I reviewed the
day's events as I lay tucked between crisp sheets and a mound of
pillows; it had been an exhilarating experience, yet one that brought
little actual joy except the knowledge that one has been understood and
has found peace with himself.

I greeted the morning with exuberance, and the physician in a likewise
manner; it was as if I radiated undiluted joy.  I watched as he
methodically checked my lengthy incision, and then assured him that I
felt fine when he quizzed me about various details concerning my
general recovery.  Well aware of my excitement, he cleared my passage
for dismissal and had me sign any necessary papers bearing witness that
I had indeed left the ward on that day.  As I rattled off my happiness
for going home, he smiled, knowing the elation was no personal
reflection on him, and said, "Home's always the best place to be."

When breakfast arrived, I attacked it with customary glee and then
turned my attention to packing.  I also took great pleasure in making
myself presentable through the application of some eye make-up and
donning civilian clothes; it seemed that my release from the hospital
was not final until I had my shoes, instead of bedroom slippers, on my
feet.  I am sure that it is quite psychological, but I think that white
smocks make an individual feel worse than his physical health should
dictate!

I did not wait long before the family arrived and the time had come to
be escorted from the building.  Amid the rousing excitement, I wished
my roommate a speedy recovery and presented her with one of my floral
arrangements; it filled the space where her husband's bouquet should
have stood.  Looking back, I hope it brought more happiness than
sorrowful longing for those unforgettable considerations which were
never hers to enjoy.

My dismissal was something akin to a landmark affair for me.  Although
I was in the hospital for only a week, the freedom to walk in the cold
November wind embellished my spirit with a feeling of vitality.
Standing amid the elements of nature, it was not difficult for me to
accept the cycle which bonded my existence to all living things.  To be
consciously aware of life's complexities was living in its truest
sense; in life is both urgency and tranquility, yet when viewing life
as a whole, there is little difference between the two.  Thus the cycle
is congruent; though it changes, it remains the same.

It was in this state of mind that I left Rochester, Minnesota.  Later
that day I was welcomed by my brother, Norm, who then received the
"news" with the added support of my parents.  We were generally in good
spirits, which evoked a rather frustrated, "I don't see what you're all
so happy about!" assertion from him; that we should be pleased when no
remedy was available was disconcerting. . . with time, however, he was
able to understand the importance of quality in life.  He also was one
who did not do those things which would bring turmoil to his life.  If
one continually succumbs to the notions and desires of others, his own
thoughts are rendered meaningless, and likewise, is his existence.

PAGE 212

Essay:
Suffering

SUFFERING

Cancer, or any debilitating injury or illness cannot be viewed as an
act of God which is bestowed upon an unsuspecting public as randomly as
winning tickets in a perverted lottery.  I reject the thought that any
supreme diety would choose certain individuals to suffer and allow
others to live peaceful and fulfilled lives, or through their own
choice, aimless, meaningless lives; I do not feel that a God would thus
inflict an individual either to punish him for wrong-doing or through
suffering, make him into a stronger human.  Though it may be a
consolation to believe that suffering has a purpose, I believe that an
individual's pain has no more divine purpose than if he'd stubbed his
toe.  While the mastery and acceptance of ill fortune will make a
person stronger, it would then seem that everyone could benefit from
grief, and God would therefore assure each person of his parcel... but
it doesn't happen that way.  Grief is part of existence, and while
certain people may have more than "their share" as far as statistical
averages follow, nature does not operate through calculated averages.
I believe cancer befalls individuals just as blight will infest a
perfectly healthy tree and cut short its life expectancy.  It is
interesting to me that many individuals will always attempt to justify
their illness in such manners in order to keep their faith intact; as
far as they are concerned, a loving God must have a reason for doing
such a thing to them.  People have forgotten that illness is a part of
life, and perhaps more prominent is the fact that many refuse to
acknowledge their own mortality.  Just as illness is an inherent factor
in nature's infinitely complex cycle, death also belongs to the natural
order of things.

"God will not give us any more than we can bear" is also a disagreeable
reason (to my way of thinking) for explaining why suffering is God's
gift to us.  Far too often, the burden is too hard to bear and the
person is unable to cope, leaving him bitter, enraged or even insane.
This cannot be pigeonholed neatly as suffering which was to the benefit
of the individual... or that which was "no more than he could bear."
Moreover, why would a diety wish to dole out pain to some simply
because they could "handle it" while allowing others to go their merry
way through life because they would have "cracked" under the grief?
The latter group may empathize with the former lot, yet they cannot
"enlarge their spiritual horizons" through observation alone.  Thus,
while the former group grows in insight and reflection, the latter
enjoys life's surface values and are bereft of the "enjoyment" which
true suffering would bring.  Who, then, is the better off?

PAGE 213

Essay:
Quality in Life

QUALITY IN LIFE

Another aspect concerning religion and death which never ceases to
amaze me is the devout Christian who believes that one should strive
for every possible breath 'til the end, as if life for life's sake is
of foremost importance.  To me, this is saying that heaven is not as
great as proclaimed; if their faith, indeed, is so steadfast and
secure, would not the proposition of the imminence of heaven produce
more smiles than that of another painful breath of life?

I feel that life must contain an element of quality to be worth the
actual existence.  To me this would mean wrapping myself in thought,
and perhaps, subsequently unleashing my hoard of mind-words onto paper,
where they would then remain for later perusal.  My thoughts and sense
of self are more precious than any physical activity I might pursue, or
monetary affluence I might acquire.  This fact may be the reason why I
am content despite physical limitations and inconveniences and my
deformity in stature.  Though if it were my choice, I would most
definitely elect to be of stout health, I feel that I am yet rich in
the far greater facets of character; for it is one's mind which makes
the person, not the body.

When I see one who is healthy, I don't envy that person, nor do I feel
I "deserve" health more than "so and so" who lives a wild life but
remains healthy.  In fact I would never trade my life for that of
someone else.  I would still want my mind, body and soul.  While I may
detest my body's waning functions, I would not care to live in
another's body a life which had no meaning.  Moreover, it is not
possible to know the sorrow which he might have borne, or the gripping
habits which have tortured his mind.  If I've ever envied a person, it
was only my former, healthier self.

Moreover, quality of life reigns over the quantity of one's days.  If
one has attained a level of consciousness with which he is content
despite ill tidings, he has reached a sense of quality in existence, no
amount of time will better that which only the mind can attain; after
all, what is ordinary existence but the pursuit of aspirations which
shall place shelter over our heads and feed our hungry bodies?  For one
fostering a higher ideal of life, every day matters are not a bore or
resentment; they are inherent facets of life which easily yield to
accomplishment when it has been acknowledged by that individual that
there are unseen elements far greater than a comfortable lifestyle
which renders life meaningful.

PAGE 214

Essay:
Bargaining and Prayer

BARGAINING AND PRAYER

The idea of "bargaining" for more time never really occurred to me,
although I was quite aware that this type of reaction was often enacted
by an individual whose life was to be lessened through physical
incapacitation.  I shall always smile to remember the movie "The End,"
wherein a terminally ill man determines that suicide is his only hope
to retain dignity in death; he tries countless measures to kill
himself, all of which fail due to their haphazard nature.  Finally he
swims out to sea in the hope that he will tire and drown, but at the
last moment, decides he actually wants to live and calls upon God to
give him the strength to swim ashore, tempting God with a 50% pledge
and regular attendance in church.  The movie was a humorous comparison
to the way in which some people truly bargain for more time; I feel
that this type of reasoning can only injure the individual, especially
if God should "reject" his proposal through a worsening of his
condition.

A healthier alternative, which also allows for the patient to maintain
his religious stance.... if indeed religion is important in his life...
is to instead "hope" for a longer life.  Hope does not as easily fall
into the realm of religion and therefore remains a separate source of
emotional comfort; there is no dependency upon God, doctors or other
people to cure him.

Given the fact that man was blessed with a mind of his own, which is
essentially too complex for him to understand, it amazes me that he
continues to speak of the mind of God as if bestowed with
acknowledgeable characteristics, abilities, and functions.  Often
people will say, "God gives one the strength to bear loss... pain...
hardship... etc." as if one bereft of inner fortitude can expect to be
given that gift through prayer.

I have always believed it to be more fruitful to pray for strength
rather than a cure when faced with terminal ailments.  I do not believe
that one can "lean on" God and await replenishment, since I cannot view
the essence of God as a crutch or in any other way which would place
Him outside of one's self.  If God resides within an individual, He
cannot be a crutch.

Perhaps it is better to say that one's belief in God gives him
strength; for if God sent strength as an answer to prayer desiring
strength, why do not all people receive the feeling of renewal?  Why
are some left to insanity, psychosomatic disorders or neurotic
behavior?  To credit God for one's strength would only serve to
discredit His "unanswered" prayers, as is the case with physical
disorders.  I do not believe God would endow one with the fortitude to
deliver himself from anguish and neglect the emotional appeals of
others.  Housing such thoughts can be devastating.

It is one's unrealistic expectations of God that can sometimes create
turmoil for an individual, which again may result from the attempt to
personify God.  This attempt on the part of an individual to personify
his deity often results from his need to feel guarded and loved;
without family or friends he can still have a heavenly father and thus
is not alone.  My strength comes from within, and is augmented by
loving family members.  I tend to think, rather than to pray, for I
feel the unity of all creation is within me and encompasses all things;
thus even my most quiet thoughts are not spoken in emptiness.

When people said they prayed for me, I looked at their statement as one
of thoughtful kindness because it demonstrated that they cared for me
and my family.  Yet within, a voice would scream that praying for
health misused the idea behind prayer.  Although prayer means vastly
different things to each individual, I like to think of prayer as a way
of communing with God; while there are many who ask God for favors in
prayer, to me this cheapens it.  I feel it should be used for the
attempt of attaining oneness with the eternal spirit and nothing more,
unless it is to unify one with himself and allow him to dismiss his
selfishness to think of and unite with others.  This well-known quote
echoes my sentiments: "God, grant me the serenity to accept things I
cannot change, courage to change those I can, and wisdom to know the
difference."

To further elaborate on the subject, I would assume that an individual
who divulged in prayer such a "bargain" would eventually feel the shame
brought about by the realization that he would never have sought this
plea or offered his humble services had he not first been stricken by
physical illness.  Most likely the thought would have never crossed his
mind.  One would think that the person would have waved God's flag in
times of health and prosperity.  But, as with the vast majority of
people, thoughts of one's own death rarely occur to those caught up in
the robust living of life.  Thus guilt can both evoke, and be the
product of, promises too great to keep.

PAGE 216

Chapter 26
Categories of Acceptance

"Even the smallest pleasures seem more meaningful when they are shared,
while the tragic moments are buffered by love. "

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Categories Of Acceptance

I was home once again, and my greatest wish had been realized.  Somehow
I thought my life would now be simplified, and that I could wield
complete control over the ways in which I desired to spend my time and
conduct my remaining life.

With something akin to fascination, I looked at myself in the mirror
and focused my eyes on my protruding stomach region which would one day
be the cause of my death.  The subjects of death and other intense,
wrenching emotions possessed a magnetism which had always held me
spellbound.  I was drawn to the startling views of human tragedy in
both literature and art forms; a life tottering precariously on the
edge of sanity or mortality could offer a glimpse of the more painful
aspects of reality which many often neglect to acknowledge.  Images
which accurately depicted the horror of war or the anguish of a mother
of a stricken child were those which captured my attention; though
beautiful works would please my eye, only the gripping views of life
held the capacity to stir my senses.

The thought that I now shared a common bond with those gripping views
of existence similarly held my fascination.  I wondered what my family
would undergo during the harsh period following my death; I pondered
whether I would see earthly lives when I no longer was part of the
world.  I spent lovely afternoons in peaceful reflection, drinking in
the earth's beauty to somehow retain the days as if they were my last.
Time itself lost its importance as I embraced the cycles of nature and
my own life as one, rather than separate entities. I marveled at the
pitiable lack of control we, as humans, have over our lives; after
attempting to rule the world, we are at last brought to the level of
all things through the element of mortality.  I shared a kinship with
autumn following the rediscovery of cancer.  Like a tree divested
of its leaves, its only proof that life yet flourished deep within;
I questioned when my color, too, would fade, rendering me helpless
against winter's icy grasp (death). Death was no romantic notion which
smuggled lives on moonlit nights; it was merely an endless cycle.

Nov. 1981... I quieted my thoughts and listened as a distinctly
familiar echo of sadness resounded in the autumn air.  It seemed as if
the old tree above me was attempting a futile last stand in the face of
the impending desolation of winter.  A blast of northerly winds
scattered the furiously spinning leaves to form a semi-circle about my
feet.

I picked up the leaf, noting its fragility as it crumbled under my
touch.  I realized that I was observing a change of seasons in which
only brittle remnants of spring remained to display that life had
actually existed.  A gust sent the fragmented leaf to be buried
unceremoniously in the midst of thousands of other leaves, which were
rustling their distaste for their hapless plight.

I watched several more leaves rattle a loud protest as the wind
determined their fate.  Another leaf, one which could easily be labeled
as a spectacular tribute to nature itself, was swaying gently in the
crisp breeze.  It was different from the other leaves, seemingly
unafraid of its destiny.  I continued to watch until it was slowly
delivered to the ground to rest in silence at my feet.

That is the way death was intended to be, I thought; stealing quickly
over its prepared and quietly waiting subject, death overcomes life
with no struggle and no outcry.  I sighed and wondered when I, too,
would be beneath the dried and decaying vestiges of many summers passed.

I culminated my restful sojourn amongst the colorful show of leaves
with thoughts that have frequently entered my consciousness during
reflective intervals; one must first accept death if he is ever to
understand life.

I will never forget an incident which occurred shortly after my release
from the hospital.  Seated in the middle of the shopping mall, I was
engaged in observing people hurry in and out of stores, and while my
face did not radiate feelings of great joy and elation, I did not wear
a mask of sorrow either.  Just then, a man happened by and remarked,
"smile, you're not going to die!"  I remember how idiotic that phrase
sounded to me, and it left me speechless.  "Yes," I thought, "I shall
die. . . and sooner than you might suspect." Everyone dies.

Quite apart from denying my illness, I found myself quite preoccupied
with it, and initially it was difficult to carry on in a "normal"
fashion in the sense that I could not detach my mind from the fact that
I had cancer again.  After learning of my recurrence I immediately
began thinking thoughts such as, "if I subscribe to this magazine,
I wonder whether I'll receive all of the copies. . . ," and while
driving down the road, "I wonder if I'll ever get a speeding ticket,"
or when in a pet shop, "if I got a parrot, it would outlive me."

I remembered my china dishes and realized that my dad had been right;
I should never have purchased something which represented the future.
The future did not belong to me. . . it was dissolving before my eyes.
My dreams were changing out of necessity, since most dreams depended on
time for their fulfillment... and time was one amenity that I could not
hope to claim.

Nov. 1981... I dismissed modeling altogether after appearing in a
luncheon (style show), which I enjoyed entirely.  I somehow felt unable
to accept the demands of the career when I felt my health situation was
so uncertain and unreliable.  Admittedly, I could have modeled for a
short time.  Somehow, though, it didn't seem important any more.  I was
tired...

I thought of the teenager who had a car, yet lacked the fuel
to drive it.

I speculated as to whether or not I would witness the spring-time
again, and could not help but question absently if my 20th birthday
would prove to be my last.  I was unable to release myself from the
thought of my impending death; I wasn't simply Lauren Isaacson.  I was
"Lauren Isaacson, victim of cancer."  I identified myself with the
disease and found my thoughts encompassing various subjects with cancer
continually in the back of my mind.  I never denied the presence of the
disease, nor did I wish it on someone else, and perhaps this is what
allowed me to bridge a period of gray disillusionment so common in the
acceptance of solemn news; I would much rather face a heart-rending
truth than to live amid a cloud of fantasy derived of the mind. Tumors
have no conscience, and no amount of wishing, cursing, or bribery will
cause the disease to disappear.  These mind-games will one day come to
an abrupt, emotionally wrenching halt or lead to personality
disturbances if not corrected; such reactions only injure the
individual or those with whom he must associate.

In coping with a weighty truth of such magnitude, the family as well as
the patient, will experience various and ever-changing emotions, and I
believe it is quite important that these feelings are ventilated.
Simply because the family is not afflicted with the illness does not
mean that the individuals are immune to its emotional nuances.  In
fact, the family is sometimes the worse off; they essentially feel
helpless, unable to ease physical pain or shield their loved one from
his frightful pursuer.

When the family is able to openly converse on the topic of the
patient's illness and imminent death, the entire affair seems less
formidable, rather like a beam which is directed upon the unlit
recesses of a room, thereby dispelling the uncertainties which lay
dormant in the darkness.  Because there are manifold reactions to
adversity, related conversation will evolve at varying rates.  While
some people would be ready to speak candidly after a brief time, others
need to ingest the situation gradually and should not be pressed into
heavy conversation directly following a shock.  Moreover, there exists
in most humans the great need to face life's circumstances with dignity
and composure and would not, therefore, relish a serious discussion
until they could do so without losing control of their emotions and
causing a tearful scene.

Although it is unhealthy to continually dwell on the plight of the
family, silence is debilitating. . . especially if it evolves through
avoidance of the problem, rather than simply the inability to verbalize
one's thoughts.  True coping deals with self-expression, not the clever
avoidance thereof.  One should never attempt to stifle grief, for to do
so will create unendurable stress; and what, I might add, is so
terrible about venting one's sorrow in the form of tears, when the
situation certainly merits that behavior?

Anger is an understandable reaction to the discovery that one harbors a
debilitating disease, for since everyone must eventually die, surely
there are more pleasant routes toward that destination if given the
right to choose.  Moreover, anger is thought to be a less degrading
form of expressing depression.  No one wants to suffer or restrict
himself in a manner unnatural to his lifestyle, nor lose his sense of
control, no matter how much or little he actually has.

If anger is a prevalent emotion, its release is necessary; yet
projecting that anger on undeserving family members or hospital
personnel is unfair.  Anger is counter-productive when wrongly
displaced; fanatical rage and irate demands are increasingly ignored
and replaced by the unfortunate avoidance of the enraged individual.
No one can benefit from this chain reaction.

An alternative which could be used by the patient having the
objectivity to discover his outward rage is anger expressed through
writing or intelligent conversations rather than transforming the anger
into unfounded complaints.  The problem is not the unsmiling intern,
or the wife who arrived ten minutes later than planned.  The problem is
health, and if not dealt with, attitude as well.

A reasonable exception is when the patient's anger is derived of pain;
it is virtually impossible to be civil if each breath heralds another
moment of severe physical anguish.  This belligerence should not be
taken personally by either relatives or hospital staff, nor should the
unfounded anger described above be ingested as relating to their
presence or prescribed duties.

If it is attention the patient needs, it is more likely to be given
if he behaves in a manner deserving of amenity.  It is a pleasure to be
near a person who, despite his personal problems, can retain humor and
conduct himself in a respectable manner.  If my experience is any
indication of the quality of the residency in hospitals, I found the
staff to be most personable if treated likewise.  On the rare occasion
that a patient is forced to abide a hostile nurse, or one who refuses
to believe that he is suffering to the degree that he claims, a
complaint is well within reason.  One case in particular concerned an
incontinent elderly woman who, after an accident over which she had no
control, was chastised by a hostile nurse, resulting in tears which
should never have been provoked.  A patient is not paying for abuse;
moreover, a hospital without patients is just a stone building, and its
personnel is up for hire.  Inflicting emotional anguish has no place
in the medical profession.

When I felt frustrated by the constraints which resulted from my
cancer, I encountered no pervasive or continual anger.  Furthermore,
the anger was targeted at the source of my inability to function
properly, rather than projecting it toward an innocent companion.  Mine
was the self-contained anger similar to that which I would feel after
entertaining influenza for nearly a week; weary of its limiting effect
on my mobility and general well-being, I would hurl devastating
thoughts inward, then later proceed to calm my cantankerous spirit
and await the arrival of health.

My father held a rather negative view of the possibility that good
could prevail over evil; he always expected the worst, and often was
quite right in his assumptions.  Even so, expectation does not cancel
one's disappointment at having supposed correctly, and his broken heart
was obvious.  A touching moment in a movie, a poignant verse of song or
the reading of one of my poems was enough to send a tremor through his
voice in a later attempt to speak.  Often depressed or angry, he was
tormented by the many adversities which had befallen our family.  It
just didn't seem quite right that he should have such difficult burdens
after he had lived a morally conscious life; others, lacking all sense
of moral responsibility, seemed to live long and healthy lives, or died
simply because of their own ignorance and gluttonous indulgences.
Hounded by such sources of resentment, acceptance was gained, then lost
once again at varying intervals when he viewed the healthy, but empty
lives whose health, he thought, should have been my own.

Aside from the family, my dad had no confidant or close friend.  He,
like many members of the family, was quite self-sufficient.
Unfortunately, one's self-sufficiency, displayed in grave situations,
can discourage closeness, whether consciously or not.  Thus, when such
an individual truly desires someone to hear his concerns, no one is
near enough to care.  Even persons with whom one had worked on a daily
basis can prove to be unenthused listeners; often their association
clearly ends within the confines of the job description.

Though not always apparent, my dad was a highly sensitive individual.
An injustice or injury persisted, inflicting pain and stress.  More
than anything I believe my father needed unsolicited affection and
demonstrations of sympathy; lacking these, especially from his
co-workers, Dad felt himself betrayed by the one group with whom he had
spent so much of his time.  He could easily have drowned in self-pity,
for no one wished to help with the bailing out of his broken heart;
sorrow was like a hat which only he could wear.

My father would, on occasion, mention that if he had not married, or
had children, he would not have had to experience the pain of losing
dear children or seeing them riddled with health disorders.  Life
without emotional grief would be "easier" and more stable, yet to
shelter ones self from close relationships would also be an enormous
deprivation; love is the foremost joy of living, and it cannot grow
through alienation from society.  Even the smallest pleasures seem more
meaningful when they are shared, while the tragic moments are buffered
by love.  To separate ones self from affection for others denies a
virtuous human potential to develop, as it simultaneously creates more
emptiness than that which occurs upon the death of a loved one; the
grief-stricken survivor has memories, but the emotional hermit has only
stability.  There was indeed, a sacrifice for love.  It was one that my
dad was willing to take.

In one of our conversations, I once asked my father if he thought he
had basically accepted my health disorder.  He replied, "I don"t think
I will ever accept it, because it's not acceptable."  For his part,
maybe he just lives with it.  What other choice does one have,
excluding madness or suicide, but to live with it?  (It just doesn't
mean that he has to like it!)

Guilt very often accompanies the illness or death of a loved one, and
can be released through conversation.  The unfounded sort, stemming
from regrets such as a patient's unfulfilled dream which the relative
felt he impeded, or a mother's inability to detect subtle changes in
her child's health, is a counterproductive, if not debilitating, manner
of reacting to the problem.  These emotions are quite corrosive to the
individual, and it is important that they are quickly corrected; this
can be done through attentive listening and positive reinforcement.

After discovering the malignancy in my stomach, my mother effectively
chastised herself by asserting that she "should have noticed that I was
eating less and getting thinner."  She held on to her belief while I
tried to assure her that the extent to which the cancer had spread was
not her fault.  I reminded her that many children are rather lanky and
thin when they are growing too rapidly for any food which they eat to
transform into fat; the body needs the nourishment to sustain itself,
and has no excess for insulating purposes.  With time and reassurance,
she finally dismissed her guilt; I listened to her statements,
returning not with, "You shouldn't feel that way," but with reasons
which effectively reinforced the pointlessness of her guilt.  As with
any invitation to change one's outlook, a person fostering guilt must
be shown why his view is unreasonable and needs to be altered.
Statements such as "Don't feel guilty" define the desired destination,
but offer no direction as to the means of attaining that goal.  I have
sometimes wondered whether this type of guilt is not merely a
subconscious means of inflicting punishment upon ones self in order to
more deeply share the pain felt by the ill person.  Guilt which is
evoked through hateful thoughts or malicious wishes toward the ill
person is sometimes more difficult to manage, due to the fervor with
which the mental darts were hurled at the patient before the onset of
illness.  Abreast a wave of superstition, the guilty party quietly
blames himself, feeling responsible for the evil which befell his
victim.  It is important for the guilt-stricken individual to realize
he does not control the hands of fate.  To further complicate matters,
often the dying or deceased individual is surrounded by an aura of
purity, and it is deemed unfit to denounce his character despite the
validity of the statements.  Though loss makes memories all the more
dear to the heart, I feel that one should not forget that these people,
sick though they are, are human; they possess irksome habits and have
made foolish mistakes as does all humanity.  To elevate an individual
beyond his former limitations is an open invitation toward the housing
of personal guilt, since any negative emotions concerning the patient
will be thought of as hostile and unfounded; one is not only denying
the disturbing propensities of the patient, but also, and more
important, he is denying his true feelings, thereby trapping himself.

In this scope, I might add that elevating a person who has not yet died
can create an undesirable situation for him, in that he may feel
threatened by this new and unrealistic public opinion of himself which,
consequently, is greater than he is able to uphold.

Another sort of guilt, planted by the patient, is somewhat related to
the above.  Although conversation is generally thought to be a healthy
exchange between concerned individuals, there are those who,
unfortunately, take the business of sharing their health problem
wholeheartedly.  Applying no restrictions on themselves, they
continually voice their complaints until a situation is created wherein
the complaints are more of a burden to the family than is the illness.
I feel that reactions such as these on the part of the afflicted are
unfair and completely selfish.  Forcing constant awareness of an
illness upon a loved one is cruel and emotionally debilitating.

When a situation such as the one described occurs, I wonder whether the
patient truly loves his "subjects"; a caring individual would still
want his family to derive joy from living despite his inability to
actively take part.  Jealousy has no place in love, especially when a
loving relationship is placed in jeopardy by the imminence of death.
A patient's jealousy can often promote guilt; ultimately, however,
it begets only resentment, not true love and devotion.

My father was acquainted with a man whose wife was a constant source of
worry.  She was what I would call "the delicate type," in need of
constant attention and sympathy whether she truly needed it or not.
The day finally came when she found herself bedridden, demonstrating
the symptoms of an actual health disorder, and her personality took on
the shrieking demeanor of an angry bird.  She expected constant
nurturing care from her husband, yet nothing he did would please her.
After hounding him relentlessly to pick up an item at the store,
she would be enraged because of his "lengthy" absence.

Eventually the poor man agreed to place his wife in a rest home in her
home town.  However, through her injection of guilt, he still felt
obliged to maintain a daily vigil by her side.  The man became
emotionally and physically exhausted, and suffered to such an extent
that his sanity was nearly obliterated; in tearful, emotional outbursts
he would relate the "sad" condition of his wife, and elaborate in
detail their conversations and prayers, never thinking that her's was a
very disturbed mind.  Bereft of any other communicational outlet or
friendships, he accepted the blame for his wife's unhappiness.  In
effect, he was starving for conversation and emotional support, causing
an irrational view of reality.

Although, toward the last portion of her life, the wife was mentally
incompetent concerning her nasty behavior, she would have been capable
of changing her actions earlier in life, yet, through a jealous and
self-centered need, she obtained a constant awareness of her presence
by lamenting any flaw in her well being.  The husband may have enjoyed
the initial pampering as a means of elevating his feeling of
self-worth; here was a woman who needed him.  However, as any excess
can be overwhelming, her preoccupation for comfort was his final
undoing.  Had she thought less of herself and allowed him the freedom
to breathe, the obsessive guilt she strove to plant would never have
taken root in his mind.

It is essential that the patient allows his family to continue in a
"normal" fashion, for it must be accepted that there will be a time
when life must carry on without the sick individual.  This is not to
say that a husband should start to seek another mate before his wife
meets her demise; behavior of this nature is cruel and, I believe, says
that his wife was not loved but only needed for the beneficial comforts
she could provide.  However, continuing attendance in a church, or
meeting with friends should in no way be thought of as frivolous or
forgetful of the sick, but rather as a form of therapy for the living.

I wanted my family to continue its current lifestyle, and for the most
part, that was no problem.  However, Mom continued to feel guilty about
her health and ability to do anything she desired while her young
daughter was forced to stay home.

As my cancer progressed and I did less in the social realm, spending
week-end nights at home, my mother became concerned about leaving me
alone when they went on a small excursion or nighttime gatherings; she
worried that I might be lonesome or scared, or need help of some kind.
It was somewhat of a chore to assure her that I would be fine; should I
be scared or lonesome, it would pass, and with regard to my health, she
would be powerless to aid in my comfort even if she was at home.  As a
final effort I confessed that I truly enjoyed being alone sometimes.
I too needed room to breathe, to feel that, even with my severe
limitations, I was yet in control of my life.  It was important that
I knew I could take care of myself if the need would arise.

Guilt may derive from actual wrong-doing on the part of the
guilt-ridden as well as the causes described above.  Whether spurred
from emotional neglect, mental abuse, infidelity, or another source,
this guilt is the only type which I feel is worthy of its keeper.  When
an individual knowingly hurts another, yet makes no attempt to correct
himself, the former deserves to feel the grasp of pain.  No apology, no
matter how magnificent, can take the place of past injustice.
Therefore, while the past is history, perhaps these regrets can best be
handled by a silent oath to behave differently on future occasions.

The refusal of friends to face my health situation always brought about
a keen sense of frustration on my behalf, modified to a certain extent
by pity.  It is impossible to attain any depth in such relationships,
since continual avoidance of reality cannot be upheld.

One such relationship, in which a friend would not acknowledge the
presence of my illness, was eventually transformed into a virtual
charade.  Conversations revolved solely around trivial matters or
reminiscent revelries.  Discussions of the present surrounded her
doings only, for the least hint of my illness would leave the
conversation stunted.  Because I never cared to dwell on my ill health,
any remark was of the passing sort, yet even these seemed too much for
her to abide.  It was as if the pre-cancerous person was the only "me"
which existed for her; my entire self was no longer acceptable.  As no
change occurred, our rendezvous became less and less frequent, and
eventually subsided altogether.  I felt uncomfortable having to hide
behind a mask of my former health for my company to be tolerable; it
was better to be alone.  Friendship must be built upon honesty if its
true potential is to be realized.

Frustrating to a lesser degree were those who could withstand a cursory
mentioning of my illness, but would then perform a mental backflip and
begin discussing another topic as if I had no problem at all.  It
seemed that their understanding of my health condition was not
congruent with the activities which they considered me capable of
negotiating.  Stifling an open-mouthed, incredulous stare, I would then
attempt to explain that I was unfit for that particular suggestion, but
perhaps we could find a mutually agreeable alternative.  I always tried
to coax one's realization of my health situation, rather than
attempting to "cram" the truth down uncooperative throats.

It is so difficult for society to abide the thought of terminal illness
and death, especially in those we love, and therefore it is often
ignored in a conscious effort to prove its nonexistence.  Though it is
natural to attempt to flee that which seeks to invade one's happiness,
running, unfortunately, shall not make the menace disappear; the young
are not the only group of people who, when faced with the illness of a
loved-one or friend, search desperately for their "running shoes."

While the voicing of feelings is very difficult, it can bring peace of
immeasurable degree to yield to their expression; after a loved one
dies, one can no longer deny that he was terminally ill, and is left to
cope not only with the disease, but with its ultimate effect.  Where
there might have been memories of a loving farewell, there is
emptiness.  Just as spoken words cannot be recalled, words which are
left unsaid are merely lifeless fragments of conversations which might
have been, and forever plague the happiness of the individual who
elected silence instead of self-expression.

The utilization of excessive denial toward the fact that a disease is
incurable can jeopardize one's time and quality of life.  Denial
alienates its victims from family and friends.  While the patient, or
conversely, his relative, continually galavants across the country in
search of a miracle drug or pretends the truth shall not come to pass,
lost days can never again be regained.  The feeling of hope afforded by
such futile excursions and mental conjurings is, I believe, less
beneficial than are the quiet and intimate interludes which might have
taken their place.  The longer one avoids the unfaltering truthfulness
of such a situation, the less time he has to enjoy his remaining days
in a "normal" fashion.

Unlike certain studies on illness and death, I cannot feel that denial
is parallel to hope, nor can I think of the need for hope as a lack of
acceptance.  As I soon discovered, self-absorption in a traumatic
illness eventually becomes monotonous, and one will naturally turn his
mind to encompass other interests.  This is perhaps more prominent with
extended illness, as the patient and his family pursue routine
activities while a "lack" of symptoms permits.  Although cancer is
definitely part of my life, it is not my whole life.  While I have
never thought a cure was likely to be discovered, I know there are many
involved  in cancer research; thus, as I live day to day, a ray of hope
shines through a door which is not completely closed.  Hope injects an
element of pleasure in lives which would otherwise be stagnant
reflections of death itself.  While there is yet a chance to survive,
and discomfort is not the primary essence of each day, one tends to
think of life; it is all we, as humans, truly know.

Luckily my family and better friends did not avoid my problem.  There
were times when we felt pressed to talk, and let go of the tears which
were usually held at bay throughout the day.  Disappointment and faded
dreams stabbed my father through the heart, and he lamented the many
sadnesses with an angry vengeance.  Mom's aching for that which could
not be often liquified into tears.  Norm, on one of our walks, would
blandly state, "No luck at all . . ."  The need to speak, and the
responsibility to listen, alternated between us, and strengthened our
relationships; the patient is not the only one in need of a tireless
ear.

I had to be able to be free to talk and joke of my illness, not hide
its existence in the corner of my mind.  It was part of my life,
becoming as natural as eating and sleeping.  Had I been forced to
conceal my feelings my life would have been one of loneliness and
despair; I would only have been what people wanted to see...
an image, not a real person.

I was alive, housing an alien growth, indeed nurturing it, so that it
may fulfill its purpose.  To try to impede its fixed intent seemed
futile; cancer desired to squeeze life from my body many years ago...
and now it truly appeared that it would succeed.  Thus, almost pleased
with the belief that my life had found its rut, from which it could not
be removed, I wanted to live in a manner conducive to good spirits.
No one, I thought, would interfere with my peace.

PAGE 225

Chapter 27
Frustrations

". . . I did not want to exist on a roller coaster, constantly grasping
an inflated balloon of hope for each successive "cure" . . ."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Frustrations

Returning to college was difficult, as it prompted numerous
explanations as to the cause of my absence.  I was honest, relating my
situation as gently as the English vocabulary allowed.  I wished no
pity, simply the same cordiality which before had greeted my entry into
the room, and happily this I did receive.  Yet more than this, I found
within many eyes a deep incredulousness, as if they were simultaneously
amazed and frightened that such a horrid disorder had pounced so near
to their own lives.  Their faces proclaimed "it cannot be!" while they
tried desperately to transform my words into a statement which they
found reasonable and within their capacity to understand.  How could
such a thing happen to someone "so young."

One particularly agreeable friend wasted no time in asserting that I
would follow a plan consisting of health food and soon find myself
"detoxified" and on my way to full recovery.  Dubious, and rather
self-protective, I hesitantly agreed to accompany her to the local
natural food store to see if the owner knew of any promising, no-fail
treatments for cancer.  Once there I was shown a variety of self-cures,
ranging from herbal diets, to drinking carrot juice and exorbitantly
priced tea.  I failed to see how such measures could possibly help, for
if they did, would not everyone with cancer be flooding into the store,
rather than laying bedridden in a hospital ward?  I looked around at
the people.  They appeared to be ill.  Carrot juice drinkers, I
presumed!  At any rate, water infused with plain tea sounded more
appealing to me, and my friend and I sat down at one of their tables to
peruse several books on the subject of cancer.

Because I had so thoroughly resigned myself to my inevitable death, I
did not relish the thought of inquiring into cures; it was as if these
"cures" threatened my happiness and sense of emotional security, for
once acceptance has been attained it is not easy to smile upon that
which may destroy one's inner peace.  When I would try to explain this
feeling, people often thought I housed a "death wish" or that I had no
zest for life.  It was a chore to explain this was not true, but
rather, that I did not want to exist on a roller coaster, constantly
grasping an inflated balloon of hope for each successive "cure" and
then falling into the despair of disillusionment when it failed to
enact its promise.  I hoped my attitude did not injure my friend's good
intentions; ironically we were each looking out for my well-being...
she wished for my health and I for my sanity.

Scrawling several book titles and clinics on a piece of note paper
I dismissed myself from the store into the fresh autumn breeze.
I determined to check out a book on vitamin C therapy at the library
before going home, although I honestly hoped that the information
therein would prove doubtful and not merit further investigation.
Maybe I was some sort of an odd-ball, I thought, toting the book under
my arm. . .everyone wants to see me cured but me; I wanted that also,
but without the lies and shams that treatment often entailed.

After thoroughly scouring the book for details, I found my previous
assumptions to be correct.  It was not proven that vitamin C increased
one's life expectancy and, as I had also surmised, the ingestion
of large amounts could render some ill effects, ranging from mild
discomforts to more serious complications.  I was relieved to read
this, as I disliked the idea of taking massive doses of anything;
I respected moderation.

The toxic effects of vitamin C were excessive gas, nausea and diarrhea
(of which I felt I already had enough), urinary burning, irritations of
the mouth, and injury to the tooth enamel, dehydration, a depletion of
minerals in the body, and finally, a temporary increase in pain for
terminal patients and possible risk of hemorrhaging for those with
advanced cancers.  Additionally, I found it interesting that vitamin C
in massive doses could speed one's demise if he was near to death,
while bestowing more energy upon those who were not; as I had no way of
discovering in which stage I was classified, should I have been near my
death, I felt no urge to roll out the red carpet of welcome by taking
vitamin C.

So it was that one option of treatment had been thankfully discarded,
and my friend reluctantly nodded in appreciation of my rejection of
vitamin C.  I shared an affinity with normalcy and serenity in life,
yet in time I began to see the many trials which lay before me and my
goal; even simplicity is difficult to attain when love and concern are
one's barriers.

Another reaction to a dreaded diagnosis is what I would call "a feeling
of desperation" by the relatives.  Flooded by the reality that a family
member may soon die, a relative may override his usual rationality by
playing doctor and assuming what is best for the patient.  This type of
behavior is understandable; often a person who loves another will
attempt to do all that is within his capabilities to comfort the sick.
Through fulfilling his own emotional needs, the relative is then better
able to cope with the illness, for he feels he has not simply watched
his loved one fade away.

The relative's source of emotional comfort may lie in the steady
pursuit of all hopeful treatment, reading any related publications on
the disease spanning diet strategies to mega-dosages of vitamins as a
potential cure, or perhaps arranging prayer sessions to pray the
disease away.  When one boasts an array of caring friends and
relatives, the suggestions fly; it is quite a compliment and should be
viewed as such.  The patient, however, should not feel pressed by these
informative offerings, and always remember that he has the right to
decline their pursuit.

In dealing with an over-zealous relative, it is imperative that a
patient communicates his desires to the relative in a manner that will
accommodate and acknowledge the concern, yet enable him to follow his
own needs.  Everyone has a right to decide that which is best for his
emotional well-being, and to assume that an individual's needs are
identical to one's own is, indeed, a great folly and disservice to the
other.

When a person makes choices for another without first consulting him,
it is a direct violation of personal freedom; reactions to this type of
treatment vary.  A generally meek person may feel obliged to abide by
his captor's urgings, either through fear of opposition or an
indisposition to openly hurt, an act derived, supposedly, of pure
concern.  This type of person is quite vulnerable unless his relatives
are protective of his wishes and do not extend their boundaries when
decisions must be made through making personal demands.  When a plan is
devised, fully knowing both the quiet disposition of the patient and
the fact that the plan in question would prove to have a disagreeable
impact on him, the enactment of such a plan would be nothing short of
overt maliciousness.

Another reaction to this decision-making effort may be fury, with the
patient recklessly attacking the relative's "good intentions."
Although anger is justifiable in such situations wherein the patient's
desires were completely overlooked, I feel that wrath is punishment
more harsh than the over-wrought relative merits.  One might argue that
if the relative truly had the patient's well-being in mind, he would
have inquired into his wishes before enacting his own.  Though
basically true the argument cannot stand alone without also expressing
the necessity for the patient to accept the chaotic mental states
possessed by his relatives as a natural reaction to their own sorrow.
Anger demeans its subject's need to retain hope, whereas a thoughtful
explanation will yield a greater understanding of the entire situation
as faced by all those concerned.

Because I value the ability to choose the routes which I wish my life
to follow, I have similarly felt it is only fair to allow others that
freedom as well; while I may have voiced an opinion toward a subject
concerning someone other than myself, I would never feel it was
acceptable behavior for me to take any action toward the fulfillment of
that opinion.  My oldest brother was different from myself in this
regard, as the following story will demonstrate.

Often Todd would take issues into his own hands, apparently feeling
that his way was undoubtedly THE way.  It was virtually impossible to
illustrate another viewpoint.  Consequently when I received the
diagnosis that I had cancer once again, the dark cloud which fell over
the family receded somewhat after my resolution to forgo chemotherapy,
yet Todd, who lived some distance away from the immediate family, was
unfortunately less informed as to my generally good state of health at
the present time and proceeded to think only of my rapid demise.
Telephones, unhappily, cannot relate the entire picture of one's
health; had he been able to actually see for himself that I was not
fading away with each passing moment, I'm sure the turn of events
would have been different.  As it was, however, he decided we were not
preparing ourselves for the onslaught of my disease, and unbeknownst to
us, made an appointment for us to speak with the director of the
"family hospice" service at the local hospital.

On Thanksgiving weekend everyone came home.  I was in immensely good
spirits, as I felt so very fortunate to be out of the hospital and with
those I loved.  Moreover, I was happy with my decisions and glad to
feel physically well so soon after the exploratory surgery; I knew my
health would not decline before the holidays, and in this I found
contentment.

In the afternoon I dismissed myself from the festivities so that I
could rest.  Shortly after my disappearance, Todd and his wife found
their way upstairs to my room and asked if they could talk to me.  They
entered and we discussed my health; I was glad to answer any questions
which might have been forgotten, or otherwise left unanswered.  They
then gave me several books, two of which concerned the topic of death,
namely, "On Death and Dying," and "On Dying With Dignity."  Todd
quickly made the statement that I didn't have to read them if I didn't
want to, slightly embarrassed by the whole affair.  I wasn't offended
by the gifts, but thought them to be rather humorous.  I thanked Todd
nevertheless, acknowledging that many people have benefited from
reading those books.  I further said that although I felt in no need of
assistance with regard to my handling the disease and eventual death, I
would perhaps read the books simply to see what the doctors had to say
about their keen observances of the dying.

Before our discussion had come to a close my mother came upstairs to
join the group.  Todd tried to conceal the books he'd given to me.  I
wondered about his effort of secrecy; did he have second thoughts as to
the appropriateness of the gift, or was he concerned about Mom's
reaction?  I once again squelched a smile, noting how death is a
characteristically dismal and uncomfortable subject; we all made our
way to the main floor.

The following day everyone was gathering up their belongings for their
journey homeward.  As the day progressed and Todd had made no effort to
pack, I became suspicious.  He finally voiced the plan that he had in
store for us, that being to talk with the director at the hospice
service.  We immediately rejected the idea, saying we had no intention
of utilizing the service at the present time.  It was then that he told
us he had actually made an appointment for us, and the director would
be expecting us in a few hours.  Since we had first thought the idea
was a mere suggestion, the negative feelings of anger did not surface
until now.

Norm, sensing as I, the trouble which was bound to occur, excused
himself before making a scene.  He decided to take a walk to displace
his rage.  I firmly told everyone that I was not going; I didn't want
to start digging my grave before my demise, not to mention the fact
that I did not wish to die in the hospital if it could be avoided.  But
above all else, it was the principle of the whole affair that set off
my self-protective behavior; I would not have my decisions made for me.
My parents were also angered at the thought of their being entirely
left out of the decision to see this man, multiplied by their lack of
preparation for the discussion which was about to take place.  At last,
understanding Todd's concern, they agreed to accompany him.  As I
watched them file into the car, I wasn't quite sure if a battle had
been lost or won; perhaps in the forgetting of principle, followed by
the acceptance of the former, no one truly wins.

Letting one be free is sometimes the hardest gift to bestow upon
another person, yet it can be the one of greatest value.  Without
personal choice, freedom is but a laughable reality.

Another case which was marked by what I would consider faulty and
injurious judgment involved a couple who had been married for 52 years.
This couple was a classic example of opposing personalities living
together under one roof; she was a rational, mild-mannered lady, while
he was obnoxious in every possible sense of the word, needing to be the
constant attraction and principal authority presiding over any group or
function.  He had to have his way or he would make life truly miserable
for the unfortunate individual who attempted to voice an opinion,
carrying out his revenge with cruel indignance.

After suffering what appeared to have been a stroke, the woman was
hospitalized only to discover that a tumor had formed in her brain.  It
was evident she would not have long to live, so she decided to forgo
the torture which would accompany chemotherapy, the sole option of
treatment, and explicitly informed her husband of her wishes.  As time
passed and her condition grew worse, she eventually lost all ability to
verbally communicate; it was at this point that her husband bid the
doctors to administer chemotherapy, with the supposed hope that she
would regain some of her lost functions.  Consciously aware of the
decision which had been made by her husband on her behalf, yet
incapable of voicing her opposition as to its commencement, she was
forced to submit, for the last time, to her husband's self-centered
dominance.  He saw in her eyes that she begged to be released from the
treatment, but he played the ignorant fool and watched as she quietly
faded into the obscure limbo of unconsciousness.

All through their life together, until her quiet end, the man thought
only of securing enjoyment for himself.  When he felt his well-being
was in danger, he sought only to maintain his happiness, which had
little to do with the welfare of his dying wife.  This was apparent in
his total lack of empathy regarding her wishes, and the merciless
ignorance of her speechless plea.

It is difficult for me to believe that such selfish persons exist, for
I hope the vast majority of people will conquer their selfish
tendencies in order to facilitate the desires of their loved one, even
if it shall mean a more rapid decline in health.  It is important to
realize that only the patient suffers bodily pain; it is ultimately he
who must undergo the treatment, which could in fact, significantly
alter his overall comfort.

For these combined reasons, I feel it is fair to allow a mentally
intact individual to decide how his remaining days shall he spent; this
is why open conversation among family members is of such great
consequence.  When the illness prevents further decisions on the part
of the patient, it is then up to the family to respect his previously
stated wishes and, should further decisions need to be made beyond
those which had been specified, strive to make new options benefit the
patient's comfort.  Above all else, kindness should prevail and guide
in the solutions to any questions which might occur concerning the
patient's death.  A patient should not be made to suffer through a lack
of acceptance on the part of the family; behavior of this sort not only
uses the dying, it overtly abuses them.

PAGE 230

Chapter 28
Christmas 1981

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Christmas 1981

I had always loved Christmas, but it was special that year.  Like all
else in my life Christmas had not actually changed; the lights were no
brighter, and the first snow was just as brilliant.  However, I
realized that the holiday could easily be my last, and I wanted my
final memories to be vivid.

To make the most of the day, preparations were always begun directly
after Thanksgiving.  The Indian corn was packed away and the Christmas
decorations took their place, transforming the house into an
inescapable reminder of love and happiness.  Each ornament, given to me
by Mom for my own future tree, I unwrapped with care, wooden men, mice
with glasses, corn husk dolls... they added life to a sapless tree.

Cookie baking commenced following Thanksgiving also, and continued
sporadically up to the 23rd of December.  Because Mom was engaged with
her kindergarteners, I often baked the bulk of the cookies during the
season.  Dad and Norm also appreciated my endeavor, but for reasons
unrelated to Mom's.

The most fun I had was shopping for gifts.  Norm did not share my
enthusiasm in this area.  His miserly side sometimes bloated to
monstrous proportions, and since he seldom indulged in frivolous
expenditures, he saw no reason to do so for anyone else.  However, more
than having a penchant for saving money or a distaste toward giving
unneeded gifts, his aggravation could have been a result of his
agoraphobic nature; Christmas meant shopping and shopping meant stores,
and stores meant people, and all four elements meant chaos and
incredible stress for Norm.  Occasionally we would stop and browse in a
shop if he was not nervous, especially when we were on one of our
drives that skirted small towns; otherwise we avoided heavily crowded
public areas.

After Thanksgiving my brother and I drove to the Amana Colonies in
lowa, a tourist attraction in themselves.  We wandered into several
shops.  At one, a shop selling woolens, we happened upon a shearling
coat of rugged beauty and timeless appeal.

"What a coat..." Norm inspected the workmanship and overall appearance
with something akin to awe.

"I wonder if I should try it on..."

"Go ahead!"

I had never witnessed Norm so utterly engrossed by something of
material significance.  He slid the coat off its hanger and,
shouldering the bulky hide, stepped before the mirror.  Few people
could have pulled off a look like that; he resembled a veteran
mountaineer.

"It really looks good," I said.

"Yeh, not bad, huh?"  It wasn't immodest; it was true.  He replaced the
coat and, giving it a long look in parting, strolled out of the store.

"That was some coat," he raved.  Norm talked about it all the way home.

Half-way home I knew what I was going to buy him for Christmas.

The following afternoon found my dad and me on the highway, heading for
the colony so I could buy the sheepskin coat.  Clenching my purse, I
couldn't wait to relinquish the folded bills in my wallet.

"This is going to be the best Christmas!" I exclaimed.

Dad looked at me as if I had slipped into lunacy.  I hadn't expected
him to understand; he was too bitter about my recurrence of cancer.

I thought of the previous Christmas when Norm had given me the gold
watch necklace.  I had been flabbergasted, not only because of the
great expense, but because of the love expressed through its purchase.

The coat was a similar expression, plus a great deal of gratitude.  I
needed to say thanks in a way that would last.  I never stopped to
calculate the length of a lifetime, but believed the coat would survive
that long.

On Christmas Eve the gifts were opened.

"Norm, what do you think of mine?"  I baited him.

"Didn't you get my gift yet?"  I continued.

He looked about his feet for unopened packages, but found nothing. I
knew he would not; the coat was still in my closet.

"Oh!  I guess it's still upstairs!"  I raced up the steps to retrieve
the coat, then decided to put it on and wear it downstairs.

Unable to rid my voice of its smile, I presented him with the coat
hanger.

"It's all yours," I said.

Norm looked at the hanger, the coat, at me, at the coat again.

"You're kidding..."

"No!"

Tears welled up in his eyes as the truth sunk in.  Perhaps Norm best
described the way he was feeling when he said. . . "what a load!"

It was almost more than a person could handle.

We took a nighttime stroll after our celebration ended.  The air was
crisp and clear and stars blinked like thousands of tree lights.  Apart
from our conversation all was silent, befitting the midnight hush.
This was, indeed, the best Christmas.

PAGE 232

Chapter 29
Self Imposed Barriers

"I am nature, and like all aspects of nature I, too, must respect
the passing of seasons within my life."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Self Imposed Barriers

I too, was capable of erecting quite formidable barriers to my health,
happiness and general desire for peace.  The initial days of my last
semester at Black Hawk College had me floundering desperately for
sanity; I had talked myself into attempting 17 hours of credit so I
would receive a degree rather than merely transferring my hours to the
next college if, indeed, there would be a "next college."  Had I not so
enjoyed sanity, I might have allowed myself to entertain this wretched
state of turmoil; as it was, reason soon came to my rescue and I was
able to fling one enormous subject back into the sea of college
courses.  Having discarded the excess weight, I was perfectly capable
of continuing my other subjects with ease and enjoyment, and
accommodate my tendency toward perfectionistic behavior through my
attainment of an A average.

Perfectionism is a behavioral pattern which is not easily discarded,
yet when one fostering this destructive mode of thought is able to
control it, and reach the irrevocable conclusion that perfectionism is
a desperately counterproductive personality, he is able to
substantially reduce his mental anxiety.  One ruled by perfectionism
finds no happiness, and must also face the future in a similarly
uncompromising light.  Since no one is perfect an endless struggle
continues throughout one's existence.

One course which deserves mention if only for its intrinsic quality of
humor was called "biofeedback."  Of many options, a student was
required to choose a course under a certain category despite its utter
worthlessness regarding his degree.  These were often regarded with
contempt, as students felt them to be a sheer waste of time;
nevertheless the courses were an easy "A" for those who applied a
modest degree of interest and effort.

My elected class centered on controlling and tempering one's emotions
through the relaxation of individual body parts, and eventually slowing
one's involuntary functions such as heart rate and breathing.  These
various forms of relaxation were monitored by electric devices attached
to pulse points on the head and arms.

More interesting than the machine, however, was the teacher who
lectured to us.  Apparently her method of relaxation worked incredibly
well, for she would stand in front of the class and speak so calmly, so
slowly, that she nearly fell asleep mid-sentence.  As the class wore
on, those seated about the room would either begin to fidget
uncontrollably or gradually transcend earthly consciousness into a vast
ocean of dreams.  I often found my mind wandering aimlessly, far from
the room in which my body was confined, yet I fostered a benevolent
sympathy for the dreamy instructor and tried to concentrate upon the
content of her messages, though like a flower in tight bud, they took
forever to unfold.  When it was finally time to depart, and we all
dashed toward our cars, I could not help but wonder whether it was safe
for her to drive thus relaxed.

In addition to discovering new methods of relaxation, I desired to hear
other opinions which dealt with emotions and the control thereof;
I fought a battle with depression a year earlier, and won; thus my
interest stemmed from former conflicts which, resolved, inhabited my
memory only, yet stood as steadfast reminders to listen to my mind's
plea for rest.

The assignments in the class were not in the least rigorous and usually
consisted of merely reading books of the "self-help" variety.  With the
exception of one book, those which I read were generally "compatible"
with readers, meaning that they took all stands in general but none in
particular.  The book with which I had extreme difficulty was based
upon the premise "If it feels good, do it," for which I have little
regard.

1982:  "I have decided that, although Dr. D's speech within the book
denies it, he is also an insecure person; or perhaps he is simply vain.
My reason for so stating this was due to my observance that Dr. D's
cover photo is purposely cut in such a manner that his unquestionably
bald head is concealed from the general public.  Baldness is certainly
not uncommon in our society, nor is it something which should be looked
upon in shame.  After all, you are what you are... body and mind
are a unit!

Moreover, if his photo was so ingeniously cut for the purpose of
vanity, he needed not "grace" us with his countenance on both the front
and back covers of his book.

I further noted that his title and choice of attire coincide in such a
manner that one is led to believe the book is of a different content.
To more clearly explain myself, "erroneous" is much too easily confused
with "erogenous" especially when teamed with D's low-cut knit shirt
revealing a sparsity of chest hairs!

An individual seeking guidance toward finding his own beliefs and
personality is quite vulnerable; suggestions made by self-assured,
confident people will create a vivid color in his mind.  Therefore, it
is important that one who is easily persuaded guards against such
flagrant and opinionated views of personal conduct, lest he be drawn
into a mode of behavior which is worth less than he merits.

I do not believe that a person housing a low self-image should be told
to feel free to exercise his wishes as long as they please only him;
while no one respects a person who compromises all of his beliefs to
please or "be liked" by others, one who succumbs to his every whim
despite the ill consequences toward others also gains nothing.  It is
beneficial for the uncertain individual to ingest each successive
suggestion, and choose which is his desired path toward improvement.

Reading self-improvement books was often a disappointment as I found
the content to be disagreeable in ethical terms or some startling and
conclusive evidence which I had already concluded on my own.  I also
pitied the individual who needed to read such books before realizing
that he fostered depression or another debilitating emotion; yet hoped
that once his repressed emotions were brought to the fore, he would
find the altruistic guidance needed to become an emotionally balanced
individual, rather than a monster begotten of the misguided advocates
of selfishness.  If everyone abided by the "philosophies" stated in the
latter books, the world could not be a tolerable place to exist;
lacking concern for one's fellow man, society would fall into disarray
and collapse altogether.

Mon. Mar. 15 1982... On this 15th night of March, the heavens once
again proclaim that spring indeed will come.  Beneath the shroud of
haze one is able to catch fleeting glimpses of lightning, followed by
the inevitable and distant roar of thunder.  Each day possesses a unique
beauty; I am happy that I did not miss this event.  Perhaps the steady
beat of rain upon the roof-top will lull me to sleep a sound, contented
sleep. . . the thunder again claps the listening ear while lightning
sears the gray sky to the realization that a new season is close at
hand.  I sleep... with peace of mind and body... and rejoice in nature's
splendor and complexity which man cannot begin to understand.  Is not
mystery the food which keeps one alive?

It is spring once again.  Here I sit feeling at once happy and sad
toward the coming of another season.  A balmy and gentle breeze now
whispers through the budding trees, taking the place of winter's harsh,
relentless chill.  With each rain, with every ray of sunlight, the
grass hurries to be lush and green.  Nothing can hold back the passage
of time. . . of the seasons.

I am flooded with an almost uncontrollable urge to cry. . . to loosen
all my burdens upon this strong and vital earth.  Yet one cannot
unleash from himself that which is his part in nature's unceasing life
cycle.  I am as essential, or nonessential, as every living organism;
it must follow then, that I make no demands which cannot possibly be
fulfilled.  I am nature, and like all aspects of nature I, too, must
respect the passing of seasons within my life.

Things change rapidly; still others remain relatively the same; across
the ravine, the graveyard stands as a solid marker of the past, and a
constant reminder that no one leaves the earth alive.

Forget it.  I cannot write.  It seems that one's inner thoughts happen
to be the most difficult to express.  Writing used to be easier.  But
then, perhaps, the more one (experiences) the harder it is to write it
down.  The nearer one is to death, the less words can express one's
true feelings.  Words would not do justice to my feelings.  Perhaps I
am only passing off my inability to write... but I think not.  However,
I shall try again...  Am I at the end of the road?  Have I nothing left
to say?

Spring soon descended on the earth, and though I tried to envelope
myself in its many splendors, I felt them spinning dizzily away, with
summer following close behind like a shadow which remains hidden due to
the dimness of the sun.  The forthcoming season was recognized as one
of rest and relaxation, but viewing the month which lay before me
brought no inner comfort, for my time had already been reserved by the
desires of others, gazing apprehensively at the calendar, months were
swallowed by demands which I felt I could not impede, so concerned were
those who wished to "see me," the rarity which would soon disappear
from the face of the earth.  "How shall I withstand the whirlwind?"
I asked myself.  "When am I to live?"

For one who is essentially a loner, not only wanting, but needing, time
alone, enjoyment of life decreases as social activities increase.
Initially, I plunged bravely into summer, hoping that if I met its
demands head-on, I could more easily manipulate my necessity for quiet
interludes; I further supposed that significant hints would prove
sufficient impetus under which to situate free time.  Alas, I was
wrong, and to my dismay, found myself on the edge of thorough emotional
duress.  Rather than risking a relationship due to a brash, beseeching
plea for peace on my behalf, I allowed myself to rend internally,
leaving a tattered remnant of myself at the summer's end.  There is
only one respite to that assertion, that was time spent with Norm on
the week-ends or on the trip to Colorado...

It is a rather strange sensation one encounters when he fosters dreams
and desires and yet, simultaneously, knows that those dreams are that
which, in all probability, will never materialize; and while one deeply
feels the disappointment of this unattainable goal, he also accepts the
situation blandly as a matter of course.

Toward the mountains I felt just this emotion. . . desire and inability
mottled with the acceptance that had already developed within my mind.
Coupled with the internal disappointment of the "now" was the
realization of that which I was capable of mastering the former year.

Despite these physical limitations, however, I am still able to
thoroughly enjoy the mere sensations of the mountains by way of my
eyes, ears, and touch.  Here I can still derive a satisfaction... a
feeling of solitude... which no other type of atmosphere can fulfill.

It is my opinion that only a brash fool could not love this atmosphere.
...this is no place for hate... it is for life, emotion, and death
and for the celebration thereof.

Sept. 2, 1982:

Here I sit, casually observing the transformation of summer into the
cloak of early fall.  It is slightly unbelievable that summer is now
slipping away as smoothly as the wind shuffles my hair.  I enjoyed the
summer, but the time has elapsed from one day to the next until the
days themselves are lost in a hazy dream.  Had I only the chance, I
would rearrange time to include the serenity which I now possess.  I
feel that my early summer was washed away in a blur of nervous, albeit
necessary, activities; I remained uncharacteristically surrounded by
petty occupations to retain a shred of sanity. . . so reved up was my
emotional stability that I neglected, unconsciously, to step out of the
race.  I felt cheated. . . having so little time and yet so much I
desired to accomplish.

PAGE 236

Chapter 30
Autumn at Augustana

"School was not a "given" in my life. . . I had no other alternative
but to uphold a charade of normalcy. . .that gave my parents the right
to hope. . . "

CHAPTER THIRTY

Autumn At Augustana

With summer drawing to a close, my friends slowly drifted their
separate ways as the fall semester of 1982 beckoned and bid them to
cast away the carefree mood of days gone by.  I, too, readied myself
for the new semester with apprehension; the purpose of continuing
school in my state of health eluded me, yet I felt too weak to contest
the arrangement.  Drained from months of activity which depleted my
energy and abused my emotional stability, I knew also that I had
developed further symptoms of liver malfunction during the summer.
Even the mildest days, with temperatures reaching no higher than 70
degrees, would cause my body to overheat; if I did not remedy the
situation by chewing ice or removing myself from the location, I would
sweat profusely, and eventually obtain a relentless headache and
nausea.  This symptom was altogether annoying and seemed to me a huge
inconvenience, as I could not sit comfortably in an atmosphere which
most people heartily enjoyed.  In addition, I would tire easily and
found it increasingly more difficult to perform the least taxing of
functions such as rapidly ascending multiple flights of steps, without
reaching my destination quite breathless, my heart pounding at an
alarming rate.

Knowing these effects would not subside, I dreaded the coming months.
September and school seemed to fit together like pieces in a jigsaw.
I could not help but wonder where, in the world, I would possibly find
a niche.

I initially enrolled in four classes at Augustana, feeling obliged to
retain full-time status if I intended to obtain an education within a
reasonable period of time.  From the outset, I elected to study German
as well as two other "staples," those being a Geography course and a
course in English literature.  I still entertained the romantic notion
of traveling to Germany one day, utilizing with fluency and grace my
haphazard rendezvous with the native language.  After two weeks in the
class, however, I deemed it too much of an emotional strain to attempt
a new tongue under the pressure of the teacher who radiated the
likeness and temperament of Adolph Hitler.  Quickly moved to a
decision, I dropped the course to add another in English which tackled
the various plays of Shakespeare.  This, I thought, would be more apt
to lie within my realm of understanding.

The first class of the day was Early English Literature, which was
taught on the lower floor of "Old Main," a stately edifice which, to
me, seemed to possess the ability to gather and retain heat within its
confines.  Each morning I would mount the cement steps which led to Old
Main, hoping that "this time" some windows would be open to allow cool
air to cleanse the room of its persistent stuffiness.  Sometimes before
class, one window would be breathing fresh air into the room, exhaling
through the open doorway the stale air which otherwise choked the room.
Upon the teacher's arrival, however, the door would automatically
close to "keep noise to a minimum," and I cringed with dismay as the
circulating air stopped dead in its tracks.

As the instructor spoke of the early legends of the Norsemen and the
icy gales in which men battled, even my wistful images of the frozen
climate could not impede my body's growing internal heat.  I would
begin to feel as if an oven had been opened in front of my face,
followed by an unrestrained flow of sweat.  I fought to retain my sense
of humor and enjoy the class, but as my hair began to plaster itself
closely to my scalp from the heat, concentration gradually lessened
until I could think of nothing else but fleeing from the classroom to
the fresh air outside.  At the end of the hour, I dashed through the
door to the nearest restroom in an attempt to restore, to a reasonable
degree, my appearance.  On many days, I actually looked as if I'd just
been swimming and had not allowed my hair to dry.

Depending on the amount of time I had to spend between classes, I was
sometimes able to sit outside and let the breeze dry my hair and cool
my body.  A shortage of time or inclement weather forced me to simply
walk to my following class, where the cooler room eventually afforded a
more comfortable situation for me, allowing me to slowly dry off.

Throughout the hours between my second and third classes, I would
purchase and eat lunch and then situate myself in the least obtrusive
spot I could find to study or write.  On several occasions, I was able
to visit with an old friend, with whom I'd initially become acquainted
at church, and who, I might add, was virtually the only person I felt
comfortable addressing.  When she appeared, time passed rapidly and
easily.  She also dispelled some of my fears about the campus (among
these, the library) by ushering me through the quiet corridors of the
rather intimidating building.

To my friend I also expressed my feeling that the school had a more
impenetrable barrier than any other I had experienced, giving one the
impression that the circles of friends which existed could not afford
any new members. Repeatedly, I had offered triflings of conversation to
classmates, only to be answered with blunted replies or silence.  Since
the bulk of the students were not daily commuters, she had experienced
the same treatment her first semester and therefore concluded that the
best way to feel a part of Augie was to reside in one of the
dormatories until she had developed several friends and
acquaintances, and then return home to live.

I knew, of course, that the next best way to meet people was to join
organizations, and as the old saying goes, "get involved!"  My mom used
to suggest that I sit down with a group at lunch, introduce myself, and
start talking.  I suppose there are those who would have success with
this type of salesmanship, yet I could never barge through closed doors
into a conversation of which I had no knowledge.  This would seem more
an invasion of privacy than an extension of friendship.  My general
health was also an inhibitive factor; apart from my appearance, I was
tired and weak, and did not desire to explain my situation to others
for fear of adverse reactions.  Fatigued from attending school and
studying my lessons, I felt I could ask no more of myself; I extended
my friendship and smile to those who would accept them, but attended no
extracurricular functions, desiring instead to use up any reserve
energy in doing those things at home which I most enjoyed. It helped to
understand the general flavor of Augie as being intrinsically different
from my former school; I did not react to its indifference as a
personal affliction, nor did I seek out various social groups to forge
a place for myself in the hearts of others.

Through my weary and knowing eyes, I observed the turmoil of which I
was not a part, feeling worlds away from the carefree and jubilant
frolic which bespoke the presence of health.  I felt suspended in time,
as if all else moved about me, each following his desired route, while
I stood rooted before a dead end.  Never before had I encountered such
desolate helplessness, yet I did not wish to change places with anyone
... even with cancer quietly closing in.  Though health could have
endured some improvement, with my mind, my values, I was content.
While certain individuals under my gaze possessed what seemed to be
genuine character, I saw also those who chatted constantly about petty
concerns and displayed no depth or true emotion; their lives were a
farce.  If this was the trade-off for being part of the social
whirlwind, I was content, as always, to watch unobserved from my
stationary corner...

The Observer

I am the satellite,
The worldly observer
Of a spinning mass of confusion.
I am equidistant
Between humanity
And the heavens,
Between star-strewn galaxies
And streets besmeared
With innovations....
I see and compute
And attempt to make sense
Of this confused world....
Though the heavens
Are complex,
I believe they are not
Half so much as are
The roads of human life.

September 10, 1982
Lauren Isaacson

Negative Aspects

In my world
Time passes slowly,
Allowing moments to reflect upon the aspects of life
I coldly rejected:

I see meaningless lives,
Bereft of all worry,
Flaunt worthless smiles,
And empty laughter.
Pessimists carry frowns
Behind trudging feet
Upon leashes......
Forever dragging their burden
Of discontent to the world.
Souls haunted by loneliness
Hang their heads in despair,
Their eyes searching desperately
For the shred of compassion
Which will never come,
Until loneliness surrounds
And follows their every step,
Heralding irreversible regression:
Chronically depressed
Cling to sadness
As their sole purpose in life,
While their troubled minds
Create wistful images of suicide.

September 12-15, 1982

Lauren Isaacson

Masks

One may choose
Countless masks
To portray his image
Unto the world,
And yet it seems
That ultimately
Masks are shattered;
Revealing that which
Resides within.
It is wise to discern
Between one's mask
And self
Before life exposes
Untainted features to humanity,
The one body
Which is utterly ruthless
In its judgment.

September 15, 1982
Lauren Isaacson

Perhaps my most enjoyable hours were spent outside on a hill
overlooking the campus.  On the hill, I felt serene; every other place
on campus I felt my life slipping away, as if I was carrying death
within me.  Here I would sit in idle reflection and muse on the autumn
leaves falling lazily to the ground.  The squirrels, with their crazy
antics, were desperately hoarding all the acorns they found, burying
and reburying until I'm sure even they didn't know where the acorns
were.  And I mustn't forget the restless breeze, ever blowing and
hinting of winter.  I shared a bond with autumn that was, at once,
beautiful and sad.  In life nothing truly ends, although there are
countless births and as many deaths.  With or without my own existence,
life itself would go on, virtually heedless of one heartbeat lost to
forever.  In this reflective and tranquil mood I would transfer my
thoughts to paper to better clarify for myself and for others the way
in which I viewed my existence.

The War Within

Daily, it seems, I feel the alien
Presence that resides within,
Slowly pressing life from my
Faculties in a bland attempt
To reign in full over my ravaged body.
Neither do I madly oppose nor readily
Submit to my ruthless attack,
But attempt to retain a shred
Of normalcy in my existence.
Life takes what it will, and
Being a product of two lives,
I am subject to be called
To nonexistence, as is all creation.
Nature permits no flattery...
No favoritism...hence the
Ultimate equality of mammals,
Whether man or beast, in death.

September 27, 1982
Lauren Isaacson

The third and last class of the day was geography, dealing with the
conflicts of urban life and the planning of cities.  It was what I
would call a "crash course," as it was a full quarter of work condensed
into a mere four weeks' time.  The first test, being somewhat of a
midterm exam and covering a great deal of the text and lecture
material, was given after about two weeks; I need not say, perhaps,
that I found the class to be quite exhilarating.  Indeed, it kept me on
my toes, if I may borrow a well used phrase, and taxed my eyes as well.
My efforts proved worthwhile, however, and I scored highly on the
initial exam.  A final exam and a project were the only remaining
obligations of the class, leaving two English courses as my sole
exertions for the rest of the quarter.  It wasn't a bargain, but then
nothing could be had without making an allowance of some consequence.

After attending my class, I would gratefully return home, exhausted,
and lie down for several hours.  I generally did no homework on days I
went to school, saving my energy for days off and weekends.  School
coincided with drudgery, for I was no longer deriving any pleasure from
life.  If I was not in school or studying diligently, I was thoroughly
fatigued and unable to pursue diversions of my liking.  It seemed to me
that I was nearly committing suicide through the over-exertion of my
failing body, playing the role of a normal person when I was unfit for
the rigorous portrayal.

As the days passed, I began to see the utter ridiculousness of my
situation.  I felt  lifeless after school, and began to wonder why I
maintained the effort; I had no foreseeable future in which I could
utilize the knowledge obtained in college, and my time and energy thus
spent gradually took on the guise of futility.  It was after two
occasions of pathetically wetting my nightgown (due to the fact that my
exhausted body did not heed the brain's warning of distress) that I
decided to accept defeat.  The demeaning situation described above
occurred only during sleep after school days, which, consequently,
were the days that caused the bulk of my exhaustion.

School was not a "given" in my life; it was a factor over which I had
control.  Initially, I felt I had no other alternative but to uphold a
charade of normalcy, for that gave my parents the right to hope and
feel, perhaps, that life for our family was somewhat akin to the
societal norm.  Although I had experienced deep tremors of anxiety
toward the thought of attending school during the summer months, I too,
deemed it best to carry on; I could not abide the image of myself as
an unproductive, and therefore, devalued member of the family.  Also
within me was the question of whether I could manage the demanding
pressures of school, and the need to somehow prove to myself that
I could, both mentally and physically, pass the test.  Though my
assignments were well accepted, my physical performance was far below
average; my will was strong, but my body could not keep up.  The
decision to drop all of my classes spelled defeat, for I disliked to
quit, but even more it meant relief and the freedom to entertain my
desires in a comfortable atmosphere without overly taxing myself.

My parents looked upon my action with more regret and pain, for it
brought the issue of my ill health to the forefront.  Now it could no
longer be concealed behind a wall of books or hours spent out of the
house, for I was home all day, every day.  My mom persisted in her
assertion that "if only you'd taken just one class. . ." it could have
added excitement and social interaction to my life.  Had I enjoyed
school as do habitual students, I might have followed her suggestion,
yet I found my free time to be an immense improvement and would forgo
none of it to sit in a stuffy classroom.  One need not attend a college
to expand his intellectual horizons, and I had no intention of falling
into illiteracy; I merely wanted to do what I wanted, when I  wanted.

Having scored highly on my first geography exam and completed the
English assignments successfully gave me the confidence that I so
needed, and further led me to believe that I would have otherwise been
a capable student; while I suffered a physical defeat, I had not failed.

With no obligations to fulfill, my life was rejuvenated with a
simplicity which could best be described as wonderful.  I truly reveled
in the autumn splendor and my spirit possessed a vitality which had
nearly been smothered by a mere four weeks' toil and stress.  My
general health improved markedly as I was no longer plunging all of my
energies into school's demands.  I now could heed my body's warning to
rest as needed, and thereby enjoy more fully the other areas in which
my interest thrived.  The thought that time was rapidly slipping by
gave way, once again, to the essence of quality which had, for a while,
escaped my grasp.

PAGE 243

Chapter 31
Depression

"It is essential to realize that no matter what type of adversity one
may have to face, the ultimate self is the inner self."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Depression

When a person is told he has a terminal illness, depression is a very
natural reaction.  Not only does the individual have to face a disease
which shall bring about weakness and failure of one's bodily functions,
but also he is obliged to acknowledge that the culmination of his life
waits on his very doorstep.

For myself, it was not the fear of death which brought about various
intervals of depression, but rather the realization that my dreams for
the future and the reality thereof would not coincide.  Occasionally,
as time passed, I would also become disheartened by the way in which
the cancer was transforming my body in a visual sense.  I had always
taken pride in maintaining my figure for my health and appearance, and
now I was helpless against the shape I was quickly becoming as the
cancer grew.  I was also aware of its effect internally, and exercise
gradually tapered off into nonexistence.  I found my lungs unable to
fully inflate, and my heart beat would hover around 100 beats per
minute with only mild exercise; fear would soar when I would, without
warning, desperately need a bathroom.

I did not hate my life, yet when I was afflicted with nausea for hours
in a day or forced to miss an anticipated outing because of diarrhea
and the need of a bathroom in close vicinity, my spirits could plummet
and make me wish that death was close at hand.  While those things I
most valued I still possessed, the magnitude of my physical condition
would surface when I would once again be harshly reminded that
"normalcy" was no longer credible, as if that state of being was a rug
which was being swept out from under my feet.

In addition to feeling inconvenienced by cancer, I also experienced a
sense of worthlessness, although of a different sense than that which
I felt upon my initial bout at age 13.  When I was younger, I placed
a great deal of importance upon physical attributes; consequently the
post-treatment loss of all my hair, necessitating the purchase of a
wig, resulted in the questioning of my parents affection.  I could not
understand how anyone could possibly care about a bald, rather
skeletal, daughter.

My later loss of self-worth centered more on my inability to perform
certain household chores, attend school or maintain employment.  I was
incapable of strenuous tasks and the fluctuations in my health were
such that a steady job would be unthinkable.  Since I no longer felt
that I acted the part of a "good citizen," guilt quickly crept into my
mind.  I was living under the wing of my parents as I watched friends
initiate themselves into the mainstream of societal expectations;
theirs were blooming lives, while I seemed stranded in a murky,
stagnant pool, simply taking up space.  I was eventually able to
resolve this self-inadequacy through interaction with my family and
friends who, I observed, did not think less of me as a person simply
because I did not conform to the standard ideal of accomplishment;
those with whom I had close association knew and accepted my
weaknesses, and sought my companionship despite any inconveniences they
might have had to endure because of my presence.  Moreover, and
possibly of foremost importance, was the fact that I finally accepted
my limitations and no longer attempted to prove to myself that I could
still do something for which my body was unfit; I admitted that
self-restriction, or at least careful government of my activities,
would allow me greater flexibility and opportunity in the long run of
affairs.

It would be a lie to say that, having aged six years, I no longer fell
subject to self-devaluation through a loss of physical attributes.  As
my waistline disappeared and my stomach began to protrude (for lack of
anywhere else to go), I grew increasingly more self-conscious of my
figure.  Even at the outset, I considered my midsection enormous, and
purchased oversized shirts to conceal what I believed to be a horrible
deformity.  As the liver continued to expand, for which I had been
mentally prepared, I began outgrowing clothes, especially pants (due to
the waistline) shortly after they were purchased.  Soon I was giving
pants to my mother who wore a size 12; winter coats which did not
button were also handed to Mom who accepted the gifts as graciously as
the occasion permitted.  The waist which had measured 24 inches grew to
32; the stomach protruded far beyond my bosom, a ghastly 37 inches in
diameter.  People began to ask innocently, "when is it due?"  I could
not deny it, it followed me everywhere. . . glaring at me through each
piece of clothing.  It bid me "good morning" and packed me to bed at
night.

Perhaps one of my most distressing fears was the idea of encountering a
school mate who was not aware of my health situation, and either be
labeled as "pregnant" or "stout."  Pregnancy out of wedlock was
completely unacceptable to me; while the lack of control which would
accompany mere weight gain was also a speck in my eye; I revolted
against both assumptions with similar distaste and simply hoped to
avoid familiar faces.  If such a meeting did occur, I would generally
explain my current state of affairs, although I also disliked
blackening one's day with news which was generally categorized as
traumatic and distressing.  When a person inquired into how I'd been
spending my time, I would have to subdue my urge to devalue myself due
to the impressive answers I failed to relate.  As a whole, reunions
were rather a blemish in my day.

As I came to identify myself not with my "deformity" or my
accomplishments, but instead with my personal character, I felt more