As it happened, within minutes I could wait no more and ran headlong for the bathroom, emptying what little remained in my stomach from breakfast into the toilet's wide jowls; it was a small offering, yet peering at it wrenched my stomach's deepest confines and I vomited again and again, flushing the awful stuff from view.
Relaxing as best I could, I exhaled and sunk back on my haunches, then slowly shifted until my legs were crossed. Resting one elbow on my knee, I cupped my hand under my chin and listed to the right. Mom stood outside the bathroom door, worried and helpless. "Can I help you?" she asked cautiously. "No" I said into the palm of my hand, not wanting to move, knowing the surges within had just begun. She brought me a glass half-filled with 7-Up, which I accepted gratefully. The putrid taste in my mouth was masked after bathing it in soda, yet my stomach did not allow it to be digested, and I quickly relinquished my meager sampling to the stool. Water affected my stomach in the same way; nothing was accepted.
Soon I was retching violently and my stomach, long since devoid of all possible contents, began hurling its digestive acids up my throat, followed by bile, bitter and green, which burned like fire. It seemed to me that I would turn my stomach inside-out or vomit my intestines if the battle did not end. I felt poisoned, as if every living cell was fighting to live and dispose of the vicious drugs which were entrapped in my veins.
Until 9:00 p.m. my stomach raged, while I bleated and hacked loudly, uncontrollably, wracked by the seething nausea of my body's turbid rebellion. Then as if the effects of the drugs had ceased warring against me, I was able to safely withdraw from the bathroom and fall into the enveloping softness of the couch. I felt exhausted, and extremely wretched and demeaned; such futility, such utter vulnerability, I had never before experienced. To think that this abuse was welcomed seemed an incredible madness, especially with the voice echoing, "It's for your own good!" in the back of my mind.
I was able to eat a hard-boiled egg before going to bed, which Mom gladly prepared. Her face was drawn into symmetrical lines of pure sympathy which she could not conceal, and was distraught because of her inability to alleviate my misery; although she could not share the physical burden with me, I felt that she bore emotional pain beyond that which I took upon my brow. She wanted always to do "more," yet her presence alone was, for me, more than enough.
The following morning I ate no breakfast, considering it would be an imminent folly so soon before my treatment was administered. Instead I got dressed and flipped on the set to stare at it blankly while Mom crunched delicately through her bowl of corn flakes. The toaster coughed up a piece of toast. She rose to fetch it from the machine, buttering it as the scent assailed my nostrils. "I wish you could eat something, honey," Mom said, reluctantly biting into the buttered slice. "Yeh…" I dreamed idly for a second, then replied, "I better not though." I didn't want to make a public spectacle of myself should the anti-nausea shot not take effect.
Our motel had a courtesy car service which we decided to use; by notifying the main desk in advance, the service was almost always available when we needed it, free of charge. The motel had both a car and a van, although generally the van toted us to the clinic and back again; thus, hastening to the lobby, we caught the van as other passengers hoisted themselves into their seats. The van droned into motion, taking us past residential streets and avenues until the clinic buildings grew above the trees with an air of infinite superiority. Pulling in front of the Mayo building, the driver coasted slowly forward, awaiting the closest parking place, and finally plunged toward the curb as a taxi drove away; then, braking quickly, he opened his door the moment the van stopped and dashed to unclasp the sliding door. We stood, each clumsily jumping to the curb as the driver supportingly grasped our arm. The door rolled shut with a bang. "See you later," the driver remarked as he swung himself into his seat. We entered the gray marble building and wove our way through the mass of people to the elevators. After watching and waiting several minutes, we finally found an elevator which could be persuaded to take us down to the subway level; in a building with nearly 20 floors, most people, it seemed, desired to travel up from the main lobby.
The traffic dwindled as we approached Curie. A long subway tunnel connected it to the mainstream of clinic activity, yet Curie itself was singularly remote from all else, as if, being the nucleus of cancer treatment and related disorders, it was purposely kept at a safe distance. Following the dim corridor to its end we met with a set of glass doors and admitted ourselves into the waiting room. I sat down, drained of energy; the room had not changed, yet I had. I no longer wore the smile of agitated insecurity and ignorance of the previous day. My smiles were only for people whose eyes met my own in a chance union. While Madame Curie looked over her patients, the receiving body of radiation or chemotherapy, she seemed to me a menace of happiness though carved of stone, for upon her death, she bequeathed no true wealth… her offering bore a great price for its recipients. Indeed, some "beneficiaries" paid with their lives upon receipt of Curie's great gift. "But it's for your own good," the voice echoed, pushing madness aside. If I did not believe the voice, I heeded it; perhaps it formed my sole resolve to continue, and to endure.
Once inside a private room, my anti-nausea shot was administered, followed by the injection of therapeutic drugs. Dr. E. appeared only momentarily, yet Mom followed him out of the room to question him beyond earshot. I later learned that, tormented of heart, Mom had asked the oncologist if he thought she should quit her job to stay home and care for me. "By no means!" he answered directly. "Quitting your job of teaching might make Lauren think that you have given up hope. You must continue your lives as normally as possible." She nodded with renewed understanding and re-entered my room. The IV had nearly run its course, and the nurse stood by, ready to remove the needle as soon as the solution had emptied into my veins.
"Is it okay if I take one of those?" I asked, pointing to the white canisters aligned neatly on top of the counter. "Sure," the nurse replied, handing one to my Mom. My stomach was already plotting its rebellion, and I wanted some security should an impulse overthrow my will before we returned to our motel. As long as I did not involve myself in conversation, and inhaled only short breaths of air, perhaps my qualms would subside. "There… all done," the nurse proclaimed, wrapping my hand in gauze. "Bye," I said grabbing the bandaged hand tightly; "See you tomorrow."