I knew the trip to Rochester would be no pleasure excursion, but I maintained high spirits despite the purpose behind the journey. It was a beautiful drive, and I dearly loved to travel; besides, what better reason could one have for dining in restaurants?
Because of our late evening arrival into the city and the fact that my appointments were scheduled for the latter portion of the week, nearly all of the motels posted "no vacancy" signs, and we found ourselves humbly situated in one of the older, run-down hotels in which the bathroom was located "down the hall." I was not overjoyed at the prospect of week-ending in the hotel, but I had little choice in the matter. The depressing mood of the place was over-shadowed in part, however, by the many attractions of the surrounding area; we learned of parks, shopping malls, movie houses, etc. from the local residents, and planned to do as much as I wished after and between my various tests.
Rochester was a quiet city; it was geared for the convenience of its many guests, of which the majority were patients or the family members of the former. There was an entire network of underground corridors which connected several primary clinical buildings, hotels, hospitals and various businesses. With cleanliness an obvious objective, the maintenance crews made perpetual rounds through the marble columns and artistically tiled floors. Excepting few, the employees and staff were friendly and approachable; even the doctors radiated character rather than the cold indifference sometimes prevalent in large or impersonal institutions.
My first appointments were to report to "desk C," which was located underground. The entire lobby was decorated with colorful seats and healthy plants, as well as people whose faces revealed moods of many different hues. At varying intervals, a nurse would step in front of a brightly painted door, grasp a microphone and bid those persons whose names she announced to come to the "blue section" or the "red" or "orange," as the color near which she stood indicated. When my name was called I heaved a nervous sigh, walked to the appropriate door, and was dispatched to a smaller waiting room in which those already seated appeared glum and apprehensive. The place reeked of alcohol. Again I waited until my name was called, watching as each "victim" reappeared from behind the curtain which housed the inevitable needles and syringes, sporting a bandage in the crick of his arm.
"Lauren Isaacson."…I swallowed hard and stood up. "Oh…I was expecting a boy." I smiled as pleasantly as I was able, and reminded myself that this was the person who would extract my blood, the needle wielder. "Most people just call me 'Laurie'," I replied. I was seated and told to make a fist as the nurse applied a tourniquet above my elbow. She prattled on, simultaneously producing a needle attached to the largest vial I had ever seen; it must have been five inches long and the diameter of a 25 cent piece. "Where are you from, Lauren?…You'll feel a stick…" "Moline, Illinois," eyeing the vial as it plunged into my vein. "Have you had your blood drawn before?" "Yeh…a few days ago…" The vial filled and an assistant handed her another of the same size. "Uh…how much are you gonna take, anyway?" I asked, feeling strangely self-protective… "Just a little more…you have many tests scheduled…" She popped out the second vial and handed it to her assistant, replacing it with yet another, though shorter and about the diameter of a dime. It filled more slowly, almost unwillingly, perhaps. Eventually the nurse decided that she had drawn enough and whisked the needle from my vein, binding my arm securely with the gauze. "You can go to the green door now, Lauren." I smiled and departed, happy that I had one test behind me.
The green door housed another form of blood test in which one "merely" had his finger pricked. I said "merely" because, in my opinion, the prick hurt much more than did the former blood test, because one's finger tips contain so many sensitive nerve endings. After having my finger stabbed, its bright red blood squeezed onto multiple slides and in miniscule vials, I was free to take my leave. As I returned to my parents in the lobby, I found the nearest trash receptacle and disposed of my reeking, alcohol-doused bandages; I disliked the odor for its strangely lingering overtones. It was amazing to me that the nurses could draw blood hour after hour; I would detest such a job; yet it was comforting that there were those who could aid humanity in such ways. Walking to my next appointment, I wondered casually whether they ever felt like mosquitoes!
Holding the various appointment cards I noted that, of the remaining tests, all were X-rays except a suspicious card which read "Bone Marrow." Marrow, I knew was located inside the bone, and dreadful thoughts danced nervously about my brain. When we finally reached the desk behind which lurked the mysterious and disconcerting test, we found ourselves amid stately decor, closely resembling the impeccably correct taste of an Old English library. Hues of rich burgundies and browns, accented by marble floors and columns, marched down shadowed, slightly ominous hallways and beneath closed hardwood doors. It seemed appropriate to whisper, as even footsteps echoed through the corridors.
I was very ill at ease. My name was called and I hesitantly strode forward, accompanied by my mother, who was actually beckoned to follow.
"The doctor's real good-looking," the nurse said confidentially. I didn't really care; I was far too nervous to be impressed, for I knew the test would be painful if they wanted my mom to come; generally speaking, parents took up too much space if they became shadows. Moreover, parents can actually impede the efforts of the doctors and nurses through outright intervention, or, due to their presence, transform even an adolescent back into a child.
The nurse was correct in her analysis of the doctor's appearance. He was a young man of Irish descent who spoke with a delightful brogue. I was cordially greeted and then instructed to lay on my stomach; the section from which he would extract the marrow and a small sampling of the bone was located somewhere on my back, to one side and slightly above the buttocks. I disliked the process before it commenced since I was unable to see what the doctor was going to do; it helped if I was aware of an imminent jab, rather than being taken by surprise. In this I had no choice, however, and the process began.