Thus, Sunday School was a scene I loved to avoid, even in other churches. I felt incredibly guilty that I did not have the fortitude or spirit to deride the callousness enacted by some of the kids; since I was already miles from their friendship, I should not have worried, yet I wished to draw no attention to myself, especially that of the negative sort in their eyes. My internal suffering would then have been much worse; I opted for alienation over derision. My idea of a "religious lift" was a sojourn of solitude among the woodlands.
For my mom and dad, though, my sickness created tension in itself. Its presence, and the nausea, hairlessness, and so forth that reminded them of its presence dined voraciously on their happiness. During the day they both immersed their energies into their jobs; exertion was only a temporary relief, however, and years later I learned that my mom had sometimes let out an involuntary sob after the dismissal of the kindergarteners when her thoughts encompassed my loss of hair. I rarely saw their anguish, for it seemed that they concealed it very well. Occasionally, when it ran over, I did not know how to react; their pain caused pain for me.
May 22, 1976… Didn't do much today. I dusted and then cleaned my room (and) listened to records. (I was sorta depressed and I guess I made Mom depressed too, because I asked if it was OK to use the record player and she said "sure, that's what it's for. I always told Norm that but he'd never use it. I guess I just raised the whole bunch of you kids wrong." And then she started to cry).
"No, Mom," I thought, standing silently in the doorway. Depression weighed heavily on one's self-confidence. Luckily such feelings within Mom were transitory and soon replaced by her characteristically positive attitude; aside from her good nature she did not have time to be depressed, for she rarely had time to sit. Maybe it was just as well, since there was hardly a shortage of worries. The time and energy she could expend in worry was more productively spent mixing and baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies (and it certainly left a better taste in one's mouth).
Generally my visits to the clinic were clearly punctuated within my diary; in effect, five pages were barren of script except for a quickly scribbled sad face, each accompanied by a concise four letter word, "BLAH." The text would resume on the day following my last treatment.
Toward the end of May we drove up to Mayo Clinic for my third to last series of treatments.
May 26,1976… Woke up (DAAAA!) had X-ray and blood test. They took so much blood that I got sick to my stomach and dizzy. When I got to the "finger prick place," I was sobbing and crouching over, so they took me in a room to lay down. I cried in my little room they put me in for awhile. Then I was all right… They pricked me in that same room! Service!
I remember that day very well. It seemed that I did not feel quite right as I walked toward the waiting room for the blood test that morning, and once I was forced to talk, I realized how displaced my senses were, for I could not even answer their routine inquiries of cordiality.
"Take a seat, please; make a fist." The nurse tied a rubber strap tightly about my arm and began to search for a vein.
"Where are you from?" she asked.