"Quite sure. . ." my mind echoed. Somehow that did not seem proof enough. Cancer. I had heard of it before, everyone had. It was a word which bit the tongue like the crab for which it was named. Cancer. It was not a word which rolled off the tongue, and once in the air, it remained there, like the seeds of a ghastly plague which was feared with revulsion. Cancer maimed. Cancer killed.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I drank in the magnitude of my hospitalization and the many implications of having reared such a growth in my stomach. Although my progress appeared good and the doctors believed in their operative finesse with pride and confidence, I could not embrace the idea of my health as a steadfast quality; I possessed an elusive disquietude in the recesses of my mind which would sound an alarm and shield my heart from the brutal disappointment of having placed my dreams in an unattainable void. My voiceless apprehension would create no problem, housed as it was, in the back of my mind; remaining mute, except unto myself, it would hinder no one's happiness should the doctor's certainty and everyone's hopes materialize, least of all my own. A positive result contrary to one's innermost beliefs is a most precious one, indeed.
The days passed within the exacting boundaries of the hospital routine. Each morning I was weighed, given a shot in the thigh, and then held a thermometer firmly between my lips while the nurse took my pulse and blood pressure readings. The drain was checked and sometimes emptied, as was the canister into which my stomach contents were suctioned. Several hours later my parents would arrive after eating their breakfast. We talked a little, and then Dad would stroll casually out of the room while Mom helped me to bathe. One of the doctors made a morning visit between 8:00 and 10:00; usually Dr. W. or M. were assigned to the daily rounds, although Dr. T. did occasionally stop to examine the scar and inquire about my general health. It mattered little who stopped in; I liked them all for their various qualities.
Dr. T. was strong, yet compassionate; he understood and empathized with the concerned patients and family members, utilizing tact and well-chosen words throughout all conversation. He made the patient feel comfortable, in good hands; if he did not feel for his patients, he made a fine performance.
Dr. M. reminded me of one of my cousins, with dark hair and kind, dark eyes which were a compliment to his character. Younger than Dr. T. , he was efficient but gentle in his work, and had an easy personality which won my trust and admiration.
Dr. W. had a character quite separate from the other two, which demanded time to appreciate. W. possessed an incredible air of confidence almost akin to haughtiness, which made any failure a black eye. There was an inexplicable humor to his manner, however, which redeemed brusque behavior, for he was not too proud to, in some way, admit defeat.
A few days after my transferral to the semi-private room, I decided that it was time to remedy my poor vision and insert my contact lenses. An occasional lens wearer himself, Dr. W. proclaimed that I would never be able to wear them for the entire day after not having inserted them for over a week's time. I shrugged, saying that I was still going to try, as W. dismissed himself from the room. With an IV in one hand, and my other free, I manipulated the bottles of solution and the contacts until I succeeded in their insertion. Pleased that I had accomplished the feat, one-handed, for all practical purposes, I sat back in my bed and delighted in my ability to "see" once again. The nurses' faces were recognizable at a distance, the TV shows gained the added impact of facial expressions and the flower arrangements stood against the wall with a new clarity. I could even peer from my window and watch the pedestrians milling about in front of the hospital steps and the fluid movement of the traffic through the streets.
At night, Dr. W. stopped again. "I'm wearing my contacts," I told him with a smile. "You wore them all day?." he asked, rather awestruck. "Yeh, I did!" He was speechless, shaking his head in disbelief as he walked out of the door. When I was alone I marveled at the beauty of the city lights, which had only yesterday seemed a hazy melding of fluorescent tubing, stretching toward an unknown obscurity; the lights became sharp points of white before my eyes, mingled now and again with the red flash of a car's tail lights or the green glow of a traffic signal. I stared out the window, picturing the night in my mind, wishing I was bound northward in one of the streaming points of light. As the traffic raced by, lost, finally in the darkness, I wondered if they knew how lucky they were, OUT THERE; I really wondered if they knew. . .
With my stomach on a slow route to recovery, I had not eaten for many days, nor would I hope to eat for many more. The pancreas needed to heal as well, and the doctors would not allow food to pass through my lips until it had shown signs of improvement. I did not have a breakfast tray to look forward to each morning, so after one of the doctors stopped by, I would roll off the bed, and, escorted by my parents, walk down the halls, leaning slightly from the tightness of the incision and grasping the pole on which my IV hung suspended, still dripping a tasteless breakfast into my vein. During these strolls, my "nose hose" was detached from the suction mechanism and clipped to my gown like a hideous corsage. At first I was embarrassed by the decidedly gruesome appearance of the hose, filled as it was, with mucous and blood, but eventually I grew accustomed to the people on the floor and discovered, also, that others wore my unusual apparatus as well. Perhaps misery does not love company as much as it loves compassion and understanding. Thus I would skirt the corridors in both directions, heading "right" toward the craft room, or "left" which lead to the canteens. Usually taking a left turn out of my room, I would amble down the hall to contemplate the vast selection of cold sandwiches, snacks and candy which could be had simply through feeding one's pocket change into the coin slots. I stood wistfully before the machines, pointing out to my parents what I would choose when I could eat food again.
Although the stomach suction prevented me from feeling hunger pangs, it was the taste of food that I so horribly missed. Moreover, mealtime broke the monotony of a bland routine; it was something pleasant to do, exercising the mouth. It disturbed me to see someone jawing his food disinterestedly or poking at a meal which, in his opinion, lacked aesthetic appeal. Meal trays would often be returned sporting a delectable piece of dessert or fruit; I would peer at the specimens, sighing that I could not save the morsel from the trash heap.