Through these Eyes Part 65

Dec. 18, 1984... Thoughts on my extensive reading: Strive to attain harmony with your beliefs, for the price of discord is bled from the heart. Attempting to rationalize that which cannot be rationalized is a cruel and purposeless task that shall not be mastered; it is like digging a foundation through unyielding stone with a paper shovel.

It cannot be done.

Feb. 25, 1985... I wrote again today; if I can keep a decent momentum, I'll make progress. After supper and a bout with diarrhea, I decided to try to venture was.h.i.+ng my hair in the shower. Even a simple task becomes a worry. The shower is in the bas.e.m.e.nt, the toilets are on first and second floor; what if I should encounter another siege?

Feb. 27, 1985... I wrote more today, although it was rough going, words weren't flowing. I wish summer was not coming up again. February flew past, and my story is not half-way. I get so tired, or sick, interrupted or otherwise side-tracked. When I can write, there's no guarantee that I'll be able to get my brain jump-started. I need a new battery; perhaps I have "Writer's r.e.t.a.r.dation." . . . writer's cramps aren't sufficient!

Feb. 28, 1985... Sharon came around noon. I had one of those really sick days. Later in the afternoon I could sit outside; I wrote a poem

The Present

Do not forsake the present Holding fast to yesterday; Do not search for treasures Buried deep and long decayed...

A moment lost cannot be won For memories fade as the setting sun And n'er will be regained.

'Tis best to think of what you are And one day shall become.

Lauren Isaacson February 28, 1985

Feb. 28, 1985... I got sick at night. I hate it, but I just have to sit it out.

Mar. 2, 1985... Afternoon suns.h.i.+ne brought me outdoors. I was in a sad and reflective mood; the poem follows...

Life's Dusty Road

On life's dusty road I tread Alone, save for that inner peace Which bears me 'long when spirits fall From that which is and cannot be; For sorrow is a grain of sand Which festers in the open heart And preys upon the tender mind Which seeks the sun Beneath the clouds.

I cannot claim a smoother trail; Though faltering steps impede my way, I travel on through misty glade Past crossroads of a different hue And onward, though deep shadows loom.

Footsteps mingle with my own Yet on my path, I walk alone; The dust I bear upon my feet Attests that my road is unique.

Lauren Isaacson March 2, 1985

Mar. 4, 1985... Mom gave me a permanent today. I feel like Goldilocks!

It's fuzzy and appears to have been braided... but it's an improvement over my limp hair. The liver must have taken it's toll on my "extremities."... hair, nails; I hope my teeth don't go! It seems to be better for me to eat throughout the day whenever I feel hungry.

It is truly March; the wind's a regular terror!

Mar. 7, 1985... Tomorrow Norm would have been 34. It seems rather strange. I wrote a profound thought yesterday; "Does not the sunrise from out of the Darkness?"

I finished re-reading the 2nd of the Tolkien trilogies and began the 3rd. I love those books.

My room and "living room" are so neat. I just love having my "apt."

...it wouldn't be this way if it weren't for my Big C. I'd be making money somewhere and probably still live here, but as far as furniture goes. . . well, who knows? Maybe I'd have done this. I know I'd also have wanted to save and scrimp for a down payment on a house. Strange how a person's life can be so altered from that which one had desired.

Health means so much, yet few are thankful for it. I remember how great it was to climb in the mountains. . . now that is all I have...

memories of health long pa.s.sed. I suppose I didn't truly have health since late grade school years. Cancer had been with me for a long time to have grown so large in my stomach. But of course, cancer isn't my foremost pain. . . that comes only from the death of Norm. I used to laugh far more often, for we were always joking around. It was such fun. I'm lucky to have had such a relations.h.i.+p at all, for few do in a lifetime.

Mar. 12, 1985... Needed to sort through my clothes. So many I can no longer wear.

Mar. 13, 1985... I wrote a letter to Jon. One of the patients who journeyed to Greece called. Max (another patient) died yesterday. I tried to calligraph a card for his mother, but couldn't seem to control the pen well today. Whenever another of the group who went to Greece dies, I wonder when I'll go,too. Almost all of the ones I knew are now dead. Some cure! It had, at the time, seemed rather promising. Some have said they didn't see why we went; if they had a loved one, they'd probably be on the first plane!

Mar. 27, 1985... It was just 65 degrees; I sat outside in shorts and a light top. A balmy spring breeze is filtering through the still-barren branches of the oak trees, and despite a slight chill in the air, the sun obliterates any s.h.i.+ver which might otherwise have broken upon my skin.

Mom persists in weeding, nurturing her plants, not heeding the complaints of her aching back, while Dad rakes and resets the ground- mole trap. . . "What could be more disturbing than a mole-infested lawn?" And I sit... and observe... and listen. Across the hill, a child chants a rhyme unperfected, to the hap-hazard beat of a jump rope. The adjacent hill delivers the sound of a tree-tr.i.m.m.i.n.g crew ripping the remnants of a tree to shreds. The birds surround me with a joyful chorus, a.s.sured that soon spring shall arrive, while a fly attempts to sun itself on my knee and is foiled in its attempt. A new and unfamiliar bird joins in the chorus, while a rake sc.r.a.pes the lawn in a rhythmic pattern. An incoming plane drones toward the distant airport and is gone seconds later, only a minor disruption to the day's overall serenity.

A can drops and hits the cement; the wind chimes attest to the steady flow of the soft breeze. A child hollers a rhyme. I wish she would shut up. Ah, she has! Or so the moment portends.

April 1, 1985... (April Fool's Day) I "got" Mom by telling her that I flubbed on one of the posters I was making for the Salad Luncheon publicity. I finally finished reading "The Rosary"

a candy-sweet idealistic-love romance.

Mom has begun to clean my upstairs; it's so good of her to do it. I get so tired; I guess I have to give in, sometimes.

April 2, 1985... A good day! Wow! I wrote a lot!

April 3, 1985... Mom is doing all the typing for me; I'm so weak, I really don't feel like doing much.

April 7, 1985... I am having a good day! What a change of pace. I'm re-reading Jon's old letters. They bring back memories. Mom and Dad had a good day with the rest of the clan. She brought back a lovely lacey and beribboned egg to be used for a centerpiece. Sharon sent a tiny basket with pink flowers and a miniature rabbit for me. She is always lavis.h.i.+ng me with demonstrations of love and affection.

Scott and Brad appeared to enjoy the books.

April 11, 1985... Problems again, but not so I couldn't enjoy the day.

It was in the 60's. I wrote a poem about spring.

Spring

All that which I cannot be Is part of its Vitality...

The hov'ring bee, The blossom fair...

The youthful bird Upon the air...

A burning sun That buries snow In shallow graves From whence life grows; Embracing both new seed And breath And s.h.i.+elding each From thought of death.