Lauren Isaacson 8th Grade
Apr. 30, 1976… Dr. Murrell's office called and said I had to get another blood test because my white cells are down. I've gotta' have one Sat., too. For awhile I was saying some unwriteable things. I was so upset.
I could never quite understand why they wanted to take more blood when my count was down. To me, that made little sense; I would have thought I should keep all of the blood cells I could.
I saw enough of hospitals to please a hypochondriac; further contact, after leaving Rochester, seemed beyond reason. I wanted only to be left alone; sometimes life seemed so unfair. I was quite familiar with needles by April, after having received countless jabs and nearly as my bruises without complaint, yet orders for additional blood tests effectively hindered my level of tolerance. Telling myself that, "blood test were no big deal after all I'd been through," would sometimes suffice to relieve my gripping tension; other instances, I could say, "By now you should be used to them," and then go merrily on my way. There were other days when no rationalization would console me.
May 4, 1976… Looked through my catalogs and dreamed…
I loved to dream over catalogs and fill out order blanks, as it took my mind from nausea and helped pass the time. Often, I would actually fill out an order blank yet never send it; catalogs were far more entertaining than magazines, for they were composed almost solely of pictures.
I was amazed that I should be the subject of jealous resentment; while I was home vomiting, or sitting hairless in front of the TV, they could run about, full of energy, eat a double-scoop ice cream cone without heaving the rest of the night away, and let their hair dry in front of the TV. I was not resentful of their life; why would they resent "how much I had"? I continued to send for things, loving to receive mail. Clippings and advertisements for free samples were hoarded and quickly posted. I sent my name to a beauty club, thinking that the make-up would be of benefit to my sallow complexion and also something to which I could look forward each month; to my dismay, I received a letter rejecting my application and refunding my money, with an explanation that I was too young to belong. My mom promptly returned the check, accompanied by a letter explaining why I wished to belong to the club. I hoped they would understand, yet their response was beyond my greatest expectations, for they made me a V.I.P. member wherein I would receive all cosmetics free of charge. I was ecstatic that I was allowed to join; their additional favor was a true gift indeed, and I quickly mailed a letter of gratitude for their uncommon generosity.
Aside from my family, I told no one of my monthly benefactor, for I feared the partially concealed jealousy which I had already seen too often. I disliked having to be secretive, yet my paranoia ran deep and I did not wish to stir further coals of bitterness within others.
May 6, 1976… I wish the magazine would come soon! I hope to get tons of pen pals.
By the middle of June letters began to arrive from all parts of the country. I was ecstatic, and diligently wrote correspondence in return. After a passage of a month or more, the letters from new pen pals dwindled in number, and I was able to establish firm postal relationships with many individuals. In all, I had received over 50 letters; and to my agitation, one phone call from a nitwit who claimed that he wanted to be a "phone pal." (NO thanks). Although I responded to all letters except one, which was from a guy desiring a full-length photo of me in a bathing suit or shorts, some never wrote again or so infrequently that I was uncertain who actually lost interest first. However, these partings did not bother me since I still wrote regularly to over 20 people and that number alone kept me running to the post office for stamps and buying paper on a grand scale.