Very few memories formed during the three days of school, indeed none which dealt with curriculum or activities; those I described were pinpoints of feeling, of emotion, rather than events that were special unto themselves. Such, it seems, is the manner of my existence; thoughts and feeling compose myself; events simply form the backdrop against which, while it remains intact, memories are viewed.
It was a Friday evening when Mom, Dad and I set out to Rochester again. Because Dad had already taken many days off work, he would only drive up to the clinic with us and then catch a return flight into the Moline airport on Sunday; the shop rules had been relaxed (when I had surgery) for Dad's benefit, and as grim as the circumstances were, the boss could not abide the thought of sending Dad forms to complete to satisfy the company, especially considering his flawless work record. Nevertheless, it had been over a month, and Dad could not expect to take more days without giving a formal written explanation and statement of intent as well; with Mom's vast accumulation of sick days, there was no need for my father to remain during my treatments.
The hour of our arrival was quite late, but since we had two weeks to plan the trip, we had the foresight to make reservations at a nicely furnished motel rather than leaving our luck to chance. It was a marvelous improvement from the motel of our initial excursion, having individual bathrooms (instead of one down the hall) and kitchen facilities which we would use later.
We indulged in sightseeing and shopping throughout the weekend until Dad's departure, lending to our time the best possible sense of normalcy by pursuing the activities which I found most enjoyable. It was impossible to forget the promise of Monday's treatment, however, and it seemed to me that I was followed by a haunting shadow of unrest, while before me, ticking loudly, was ever the face of a clock. Too soon Sunday came and Mom and I watched as Dad's plane taxied down the runway, turned and scorched a misty path into the blue sky. We drove back to the city, stopping to buy groceries to outfit our kitchenette, and then arranging them in the cabinets of our temporary home before seeking a restaurant for the evening meal.
The so-called "last supper," my last meals taken before all eating had to cease to comply with the demands of the morning blood test, were traditionally grand affairs. I ate whatever struck my taste bud's fancy, which in my case, was always a chicken dinner. I doted on fried chicken to such an extent, ordering it on every occasion in which we ate dinner at a restaurant, that Dad eventually blamed "chicken" as the culprit behind my development of cancer. Although the doctors assured him that my love affair with fried chicken had played no part in germinating my disease, he still "hated the stuff"; as with all unreasonable, unexplainable, occurrences the desire to find a reason is a fiery quest, which unfortunately is not extinguished by merely pointing one's finger of blame on a subject. Only acceptance can wash away the flames born of despair.
The morning was fine, with the exception of the knots in my stomach. We drove to the clinic buildings, finally parking in the Damon car ramp. From the garage, it was easy to get to the various buildings, as an elevator ran directly into the subway system of the clinic. When the doors of the elevator parted we no longer needed to pause to read the informative signs posted on the facing subway wall; we were acquainted with the network of intersecting lines and headed right, through glass doors and followed the aging, dimly lit corridor until, a block or so down, we met with the fastidious decor of the Mayo building. Still we maintained our course, past a fleet of elevators and its waiting patrons, a pharmacy and bookstore, and a corridor which sloped slightly upward leading to the Plummer Building; we covered more ground skirting a hallway which allowed a brief glimpse of sunshine through vertical windows in the wall, and plants began to appear, growing fiercely toward the light. They were scattered in artistically positioned containers, guarding the final corridor which led to the Hilton Building in a stately, yet beautifully satisfying manner. The Hilton Building itself had even more plants in the waiting room of Desk C; indeed some of which were better described as trees, noting the vigor with which they seemed to soar skyward. If only I had such luck with plants, I thought, seating myself on a fiery orange chair.
Blood tests weren't so bad, unless my vein didn't want to cooperate, in which case, they fell into my "tolerable" category; although I seldom uttered a word, pain did not thrill me and I suspected that, underneath the person labeled "a brave little girl" was a very yellow human being. I knew it would not alter a thing if I professed to being "lemon-yellow"; life coexisted with pain, and if you felt pain, well, that was life… but if you didn't, chances were, you were dead. Everything had its alternative, and considering the uncertainty riding piggyback on my shoulders, I felt that I had only one route to pursue, even if it included pain. I didn't consciously think about my future, despite the promise of a cure after the siege, it seemed more appropriate to dream and take each blow of reality as it was dealt, without thinking at all.
The blood test accomplished, we left the brightly painted, plant infested waiting room and retraced our steps to the Mayo building, at which point we milled about the elevators until finding one which was not already protesting its capacity. It was a busy place.
When we reached our floor, excusing ourselves around those who had packed themselves tightly in the elevator rather than opting for another "flight," we found an excess of space in the form of an immense waiting room. It had the snob appeal of a library; no one spoke, and few looked up from their magazines except when the nurse would stand by the front desk to read her list of names, after which, a slight transformation of the waiting room would take place as the selected patients strode up to her. Within seconds, the room again reflected studious tranquility and heads sank below the horizon of newspapers or books. In certain situations humans were so predictable. Here they were so reserved, so introverted, so unapproachable that smiles were left untaken simply because they were not seen; if one existed in such a location, he would believe that cordiality was dead, severed from the world. I looked around and wondered whether anyone would change his disinterested stare if a loud sneeze issued forth. I doubted it. And with that, my name was called.
Forming a troupe of several people the nurse escorted us to individual dressing compartments and we were issued hospital gowns. I had been instructed to undress to the waist only, since my test was a chest X-ray, and then wait in the claustrophobic booth until further notice. I finally unlatched the door and sat in the corner seat of the booth with the door agape, however, disliking my inability to see the nurse should she have happened by my door; I did not wish to be forgotten in the maze of hallways and felt more secure with a view. I had to know "what was going on"; blindness would be paranoia in its highest form for me.