Aug. 1… Saw Dr. E. and left.
One might have thought I would have elaborated further on the results of my examination. After all, it had been five years since my stomach operation, and this was my last check-up, the famous "five years and cured" judgment used by cancer experts. However, the trips had almost elevated themselves to vacation status due to the scenic drive and the chance to swim, dine out and shop, for the tests were familiar and no worse than uncomfortable. Of more consequence, though, was the fact that I did not feel the joyous relief that should have come with E.'s clean bill of health; I happily acknowledged his statement, "You would be more apt to die on the highway driving up here than to get cancer again," but refused to revel in the news. It was too good, and accepting it as the irrefutable truth was too risky.
Mom was delighted to hear of the test results, but she too, held elation in reserve. It did not seem credible that I was entirely healthy. I still grew nauseous after eating and experienced other stomach-related disorders such as food "Sticking" above my stomach and gastrointestinal disturbances. The doctor had no concern over these symptoms. My stomach was not what one could label as "normal"; it was reasonable to assume I would always encounter some problem with it. Shrugging off the nauseousness was convenient and logical.
I wondered if skepticism was my excuse to undermine happiness; I hated to think it was an emotion of my own invention, a manufactured impediment used because I did not desire to be happy. No, that could not be! Emotional reservation was self-preservation at work. . . it was security, and the rejection of the thought that health and happiness were inseparable components of living.
Summer relaxation generally came at irregular intervals, disguised as hikes, canoe trips and motorcycle rides with Norm. I did not find total disengagement from my daily cares until two thirds of the season had elapsed. A week's time was not enough by my way of thinking, but it was all I had been given; it was better to be satisfied with what I had than to waste time bemoaning that which I did not have.
This summer Norm and I decided to vacation together. Having discovered that our day trips went smoothly, we had few qualms about spending a full week exclusively in each other's company, and with high spirits, set out at 4:00 on a Sunday morning, bound for Colorado.
We were so psyched about seeing the mountains that we drove through the entire day and into the evening. When we finally decided, about 7:30, to find a motel, the choices were "limited" to "nonexistent," so we forked out $20.00 for a ram-shakle room. Thinking our chance of finding a decent restaurant would be slightly better than our luck with motels, we tried to locate the town's business loop. After discovering the two traffic signals and skirting the streets in both directions, we gave in to our hunger and raided a 7-Eleven, which would have been closed in fifteen minutes. Securing some lunch meat, milk, and a can of pork and beans, we drove back to our humble room, intending to heat the beans on a portable gas stove.
The gas stove would not light. "It had performed famously at home," Norm insisted, feeling somehow betrayed by the inanimate object sprawling before him. At least our choice of food could be eaten cold.
Norm picked up the can of beans and retrieved a can opener from a sack of utensils, clamping it on the can like a pro. The can galloped 'round and 'round, but failed to open. Outraged, Norm flew at the can with a metal punch, flailing and prying with a vengeance until a jagged opening would accommodate a spoon.
It was not what we had in mind, but it was a Sunday evening in a small town. We stayed up for awhile, blinking at a show on television. I felt reasonably content, but Norm stole glances at the traitorous stove ranging from malice to disbelief. "Man!" he kept repeating, "It worked at home." I couldn't help but smile to myself; he demanded so little of life, but on that night, even the smallest favors had been denied. "Poor Norm," I thought. He was more discouraged than I!