Of the tests taken while in Moline, the stomach X-ray utilizing barium was my worst. Although the "chalk milkshake" was a displeasing effect on the taste buds of even the most starved individual (for one undergoing the X-ray must have an empty stomach), the degree to which I abhorred it was augmented by the fact that my stomach had been quite prone toward nauseousness of late. When I was told to sit in a nearby waiting room until I drank the last of the abominable shake I came fearfully close to vomiting; I hung my head and began to cry, knowing that if I did drink the liquid it would be spewed onto the floor and I would have to go through the entire process again. At the sight of my tears, a nurse quickly ran in search of my mom (who was left in an altogether different part of the hospital) and returned with her, sporting the hope that a mother could persuade more of the chalky fluid down her daughter's throat. The nurse's hope was in vain, however, so the staff quickly ushered me into the X-ray room again to complete what work they had begun. First standing against the platform, the X-rays commenced; soon I found that the platform was actually a movable examination table, to which I was securely strapped, and it began to recline toward a prone position. To my surprise, it did not stop when it leveled, but crept backward until I felt I was dangling from the ceiling and the entire world was reversed. I gawked at my hapless predicament, throughly amazed. Had my stomach been more cordial, I might have enjoyed myself. It was not unlike taking a carnival ride after consuming a greasy hotdog and an ample dose of cotton candy.
I was joyous upon returning to my room, even though the moment I arrived another nurse popped in, bearing a fluid which its creators had tried desperately to make resemble prune juice; yet prune juice this definitely was not, for no juice could taste so horrid. Despite threats that I must drink the laxative solution or the barium would transform into cement while yet in my intestines, I refused to drink the awful liquid. It was utterly repulsive to my stomach, and again I knew what the future would have in store if I forced it down.
With all the tests behind us, I could now relax throughout the rest of my stay at the hospital. The part I most enjoyed was filling out my daily menu cards, which arrived with each preceding meal; while munching on my morning toast, I could choose the items I preferred at lunch. It was enormously entertaining, and sparked my day with anticipation.
As usual, Mom strolled into my room and watched while I explored the contents on my breakfast tray; her appearance punctuated the beginning of another hospital day, and she made certain that I consumed a nourishing breakfast; without prompting I had done so, for I was delighted with the realization that I could have an egg and Rice Krispies and toast merely by so indicating that desire on the menu card. The array of choices seemed endless, no preference was greeted with questioning eyes or poorly concealed mirth as often can be the case in a restaurant.
Some time after the breakfast tray had been whisked away, Dr. M. entered, saying that the test results had been analyzed and therefore wished to speak with Mom candidly about the indications which they had revealed. They departed, accompanied by a nurse, and entered a room which Mom later described as being very long and narrow, containing only a table of similar description, and covered completely with an ample thickness of cushion. The doctor and nurse placed themselves on the opposite side of the table from Mom, and he began to relate the fact that the barium X-ray showed a sizable mass in the stomach region, and though he could not be certain, it held the possibility of being cancerous. It was a hideous impact for my unsuspecting mother, and she felt that her body had been engulfed in a searing, internal fire; she placed her arms on the cushioned table before her and bent her head as one reacting to a heavy burden that must be endured and said, "Life can be so long."
Dr. Murrell who knew quite well our family history and its motley assortment of dread diseases and dysfunctions, could empathize with my mom's sole comment of numb disappointment; the nurse, however, scanned Mom's face after each successive statement made by the doctor. Mom felt scrutinized under her persistent gaze, and it was now obvious that the cushions covering the room were so adhered for those who, after receiving bad news, literally bounced off the walls for a time until their energetic madness diminished to a state of mild panic.
Feeling that my health problem was one which had risen beyond the hospital's capacity to manage properly, Dr. Murrell thought that it would behoove us to travel to one of the larger clinics in the region; without a moment of indecision Mom expressed her preference for Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota, and the doctor gladly hastened from the room relieved by the knowledge that his subsequent phone call would at least be progress of a positive nature.
As Mom gradually regained strength, the nurse continued to remind her that it was too soon to tell whether the growth was cancerous, yet soothing words could not dispel the lecherous threat and uncertainty which she carried with her. In a further attempt to comfort, the nurse suggested that Mom first settle the hospital account at the billing office to assure that her composure was intact, and then return to my room. Mom took the nurse's advice, feeling relieved that she could delay our reunion through a valid excuse; yet as she rose and walked toward her destination, she felt as if she was under the unsteady control of a novice puppeteer who guided mockingly and without precision until she was seated once again.
By the time Mom returned to my room, my lunch tray was already poised in front of me on the portable night stand. She had somehow managed to persuade her face to don a cheerful countenance as she entered and remarked, "You can go home now." An elated smile spread across my face upon hearing those precious words, and my interest waned toward the contents of the lunch tray. I knew that I hadn't heard the entire story, however, because Mom had been absent so long; if nothing was wrong, the doctor would not have wished to discuss my health in private. Suddenly I became annoyed; I wanted to know the facts. The few facts were that I would have to go to Mayo Clinic for further tests because of an abdominal mass; though Mom said nothing about cancer, that possibility was not yet a fact, and she hadn't actually lied by withholding any related remarks. Her answers satisfied my curiosity, yet simultaneously fueled the fire of dread in my mind which had begun as a mere spark several weeks before. It seemed that my earlier fears were justified as time progressed.
With quiet resolution, I knew within myself that I must face whatever adversity would befall me head-on; I could not march backward into the darkness. Once home, my Mom led me into the living room where we seated ourselves side by side on the couch. I looked at her face, steeped with anxiety for me, yet trying desperately to feign a degree of happiness for my benefit. It was evident that she knew more details surrounding the situation than she cared to confess. "You can cry if you want to…it's all right to cry," she said. "I can't," I replied. "I've nothing yet to cry for!" She hugged me and we sat in brooding silence. Since my health was a mystery, I felt no urge to cry; and, I thought, if I knew, what difference would tears make? The problem would still exist. Tears, I felt, demanded a tangible impetus to be worth their salt; like pain or horrendous fear. As yet, I felt neither; but perhaps I would experience both soon enough.