Finally my name was called and I popped my head inquiringly out of the door, hoping that I could attach a face to the voice I'd heard. A technician in a blue jumpsuit was waiting in the intersecting hallway, and I followed him to a bench where I sat until they were ready to take my X-ray. It seemed such a dismal place; there were so many doors, and so few lights.
A door whipped open. "Lauren Isaacson?" I stood up and filed after the woman who led me into a dreary room that somehow reminded me of a bomb shelter. "Put your chin against the bar, here, shoulders forward, and take a deep breath." at which point she ran behind a heavy wall and peered out at me, continuing, "hold it now… hold it" Click! Rumble! "Keep holding…" The machine silenced, rendering its five photographs of my lung onto the X-ray plate. "Breathe…." The woman was so businesslike; I wondered how often she repeated those words… I wondered if she said them in her sleep.
"You can go get dressed, but don't leave the dressing room." "Okay," I answered. I stepped reluctantly from the armored room, unsure which direction the room was, and throwing caution to the wind ambled to the left, and then to the right, and amazingly, I found my room. What if the door won't unlock? I thought, appraising the space beneath the door and floor; I did not have the best luck with locks, and remembered many a time when, on a vacation, I could not succeed in entering the motel room after scouting for a can of pop. Mom or Dad would always let me in from their side of the door, while I was still fumbling with the key. The door opened easily and I signed with relief; from the inside I latched the door, still wary of the lock and key, and proceeded to dress. Several minutes passed, then a click from the loud speaker broke the silence. "Lauren Isaacson… you are free to go." In other words, it was breakfast time and I galloped from my booth like a horse from the starting gate of a race.
Hungry though I was, when I seriously began to attack my plate, nervousness uttered a complaint which I was eventually obliged to acknowledge; it was just as well; my stomach was not adjusting to the idea that it had to get back to work, and strongly repulsed a large meal. Even my small breakfast conjured rebellion and I sat on the edge of my chair, sweating and quite nauseated, while Mom finished her plate of food. I tried not to watch her eat; the sight of food, the smell of food… it was everywhere when I felt sick. Leaving the restaurant I found the fresh air to be a measurable improvement; at last, when my nausea subsided, the visions of food danced from my mind and haunted me no more.
It was beautiful outside; autumn was reaching its peak of glory in Rochester and Mom and I poked about the streets, waiting for our early afternoon appointment at the Curie Pavilion. There was a slight chill in the air, despite the ample sunshine and our light coats provided the warmth we needed as we kicked through the leaves. It was always cooler than in Moline, it seemed; fall had not quite arrived at home. I was glad; I didn't want to miss the color of the oaks, the acorns and the busy squirrels around our woods either; I wanted to take it in, to wrap its vision in my memory so that it could never be erased… autumn at home… would have to wait another five days.
Mom watched me with feigned happiness; she looked at my hair, a flowing, healthy mass of gold which cascaded about my shoulders, and felt sickened that it would soon be replaced by a wig. She knew that my hair was my foremost joy in the spectrum of physical traits and would be a difficult loss. Hair is vanity, to be sure, yet that observation counts little to the individual who must bear his bald reality with courage. Appearance does not make the person, but to say that it does not matter is a falsity.
I had remembered to take my camera, a small instamatic, which was an early summer purchase and my latest, greatest hobby. At various intervals Mom would snatch it from my hand and position me in front of a glorious tree or upon a rock, capturing the moment with a click and a smile. Later we would look at the photos and the smiles, yet remember the trauma of our thoughts; the deceptive faces in the photos did not fool our eyes, though they painted appeal in the visual world. The hair, the glow, the newly gained energy… all would be changed by the time the pictures were developed; we would be seeing the past and, I felt, by that time, the past would prove a better reality than the present.
It was time to go back to the clinic. Curie Pavilion, a cylindrical building from the perspective of an outsider, was located near the Damon parking ramp, and across the street from the Mayo building. Actually, from the street view, Curie was only a glassed in elevator. We entered the curious building and pushed the elevator button; we had no choice of destinations; the only way to go was "down." Once below ground, we emerged from the elevator and plunged through a set of heavy glass doors into a waiting room. A bust of Madame Curie was observing her flock of patients from one side of the room. We strode up to the desk, relinquished our appointment card and took a seat. The people were quiet and grim; it was sometimes difficult to discern the patient from the relative in the unhappy place; worry pervaded the atmosphere. I wondered what sort of fate I had accepted for myself; I wondered what joy could possibly exist for these people, what hardships they had endured, what expectations they possessed.
"Lauren Isaacson?…" We approached the desk; I smiled to break the tension, to soften the blow. We followed the nurse into a room and were told that the doctor would be around shortly. Everything was white or polished chrome. Sterile. Antiseptic. Professional.
I was seated on the examining table, swinging my legs, when Dr. E. strolled in the room. "Hello, Lorn" he drawled, "Mrs. Isaacson…" nodding to my mom. He spoke with us for a brief period, asking about my health and referring to his clipboard of papers to tell of my "good" blood test results. Everything seemed to be in order. "Well… we'll get a nurse in here to get your IV started, and then I'll see you again tomorrow morning." "All right," I said.