Mom stationed herself near my head, over which she gazed as the doctor applied a local anesthetic to deaden the area. "You must stay very still," someone said, as the pain crept from a mild ache to a splitting level. Gritting my teeth, silent tears welled up in my eyes and fell; with muscles taut and rigid I clenched the upholstered table with a vise-like force until I was told that the brutal pain would come to an end.
The test was over. Relieved, I slid myself off the examination table to pull on and zip my pants; the wound throbbed at varying intervals above a constant, underlying ache.
"You're a very brave patient," the nurse said. I smiled knowing that I was too cowardly to undergo that type of hell again, for it was no longer a mystery what the words "Bone Marrow" on an appointment card implied.
Before exiting I asked the doctor if I had healthy bones. "Yuv' gut fine bunes, Laaren," he replied, giving me an excellent, unforgettable sample of Irish-flavored English. He seemed to be a very amiable man, and, now that I was turning to leave, I was better able to appreciate his undeniably good looks. For my part, I was sorry that he was not an X-ray technician.
Whether walking or sitting, I experienced twinges of pain, a constant reminder of my last test of the day; but that did not hinder my fascination for gift shops, and I eagerly plunged out of the confines of the clinic walls to the beautiful July morning. We were famished, as none of us had eaten due to the fact that I was instructed to have an empty stomach for many of my tests. Since the next few hours belonged exclusively to us, we decided to eat and then mill about the stores until it was time for my mid-afternoon consultation with the doctor in charge of my case.
When our afternoon of leisure had come to a close, we made our way to the Mayo building and took the elevator to the designated floor. By now we were quite used to waiting, and after registering my name at the front desk, seated ourselves in the expansive lobby.
The test results would have been scrutinized and second opinions heard. We now awaited the doctor, and, in certain respects, the future; each of us sat in silence, nurturing one's own worries, until my name was announced. The three of us rose in haphazard unison, glad to have a reason for shifting our position, and were guided down a hallway to a private room. Again we awaited the doctors arrival, yet felt more inclined to engage in conversation now that we were removed from the stifling quiet of the lobby.
Finally I heard footsteps outside the door. The feet paused, while a faintly audible rustling of papers issued beneath the closed door. Silence again. Then suddenly, as if uncertainty had been washed away, the door knob turned and a doctor burst into the room, extending his hand to my father and offering a friendly "hello!" to us. We all stood; I smiled. I had no fear of doctors; the fear stemmed from that which they knew, and I the patient, as yet, did not.
We seated ourselves once again, and the doctor began questioning me about the way in which I felt, physically. To nearly all of the disconcerting questions, I replied in a positive fashion, which to my parents was a "good sign" and indicated that my health problem "couldn't be that serious if everything seemed so promising." Then the doctor asked the color of my bowel movements. I started to laugh. "Brown." "But what color brown?" he persisted. I laughed some more; turning my face to the floor, I noticed that the tiles ranged in color from yellow to the deepest brown, and wondered if the staff had requested that particular tile for the express purpose of color clarification. I smiled, and selected a nice, warm brown. "That looks about right." Then he inquired whether my stools had ever been black.
My eyes flew open. "BLACK?!!" I lost control…to me this was a horrendous joke. He had his answer, and quickly scribbled "no" on his note paper.