Of Poison Ivy & Spanish Cork

It was Friday as I recall, back in 1980 and I was still in college in New Jersey, and I was in search of my biology teaching assistant. I stopped by his lab and was told that he was over at the Medical School Research Annex.  I had never been there before, even though the building was nearby. Undaunted, I asked what room he might be in, took my pressing questions in tow and set off to find my T.A.  1

I walked from the Biology Building to the Medical School and my mind wondered. By the time I was old enough to go to college, walking had pretty much become second nature, thus leaving my higher thought process to daydream and wonder about all kinds of things.  On this particular occasion, as I walked, my thoughts went to hope.  My mother was suffering from Lupus for which there was no cure and my godfather had just passed away of pancreatic cancer.  My mind drifted back, in fact my mind went all the way back to when I was only ten years old and my uncle was battling colon cancer.  I recalled how small and frail he had become and how his arms were black and blue. He was a skeleton draped in a larger mans clothing, slipping back and forth between opiate sanity and agony.  I recalled how he told me that he was hanging on one day at a time; that his cure might be just a day away.  As a naive ten-year-old child, I got up early and looked forward to that next sunrise, because that might mean that my uncle would be well again.  In fact, Edward Copper passed away one hot summer’s evening in 1970.  He fought to the bitter end and died in incomprehensible agony.  He lost the race between cure and cancer.  Perhaps the race was only in his mind, but somehow I believed in it too.2

As I approached the building, I began to think that I was finally going to see where the great battle was being fought. Before me was the frontier of the war on disease, suffering and death.  It was a sobering thought.  With each step I took, I knew someone died somewhere from cancer, lupus, heart disease, or one of an endless list of terrible human afflictions.  And before me rose a monument to hope.  To me, a medical school research building was a special place dedicated to curing human suffering.  Beyond the doors of the impressive façade might be a group of talented and brilliant researchers putting the very finishing touches on the cure for Muscular Dystrophy or dared I even dream cancer.  So, by the time I actually reached the building several hundred people had perished. Most just slipped off into unconsciousness never to return, but Margaret Baker wasn’t going so easily, up in Ithaca New York, she was gasping for breath and trying to communicate her fevered thoughts to her 3 daughters, ages 7, 12 and 14 at her bedside, the oldest holding her hand. Her husband was broken down in tears in the hallway.  Hope had been eluding him for some time. 3

At the very moment I opened the door to the research building, miles away Margaret’s eyes rolled back, her muscles quivered her fingers clutched her daughter Joyce’s hand and the cancer sucked the last of her life from her writhing body.  She became still, and the children sat frozen in a shattered moment of confusion and horror. Uncontrollable weeping and sorrow replaced the confusion and horror by the time the door closed behind me.4

I had let myself in through a side door, as has always been my custom, so perhaps I missed the effect a grand lobby might have had on me.  But instead found myself in a maze of narrow corridors and large closed institutional oak doors, each displaying its very own black bordered gold number.  Strangely the building was pretty quiet. No hustle-bustle, no one shouting eureka, as a matter of fact, it had that semi-deserted Friday afternoon feeling common to most government buildings.  Still I retained hope that behind all of those closed doors, scores of people were working diligently and quietly on impending miracle cures.   5

Pretty much, having a ‘y’ chromosome means never having to ask for directions.  Given any random order of numbered rooms and sufficient hallways and sturdy walking shoes, there was no room too far or obscure to find.  So I began my wanderings through the deserted hallways.  The number I was looking for began with a '2' and all of the numbers about me started with a '1' therefore I concluded that I was on the wrong floor and began my search for a staircase.  By the time I located the staircase Joe Minetti in a Chicago hospital was no longer responding to the prodding and poking of the grim looking doctor at his bedside. There was tube down his throat his eyes were closed and a red light was blinking on the machine that was doing his breathing.  Another machine was whistling a shrill-pitched monotone.  A well-dressed middle age lady was waiting in the solarium, trying to light her cigarette with unsteady hands.  By the time I reached the top of the staircase, the noise in the far off hospital room had been silenced.  The machines were turned off.  And the grim looking doctor remarked to the nurse on the irony that the deceased’s wife was a smoker and her husband, who had never smoked, should be the one to die of lung cancer.  The nurse smiled quizzically in reply.  The doctor put on his somber face and started on his way to notify the widow of her new marital status.  On his way to the waiting room he passed a colleague returning from the same errand. They noded to eachother as they passed.6

The lab I was looking for was situated off a hall that was accessed through a set of double doors from the long hall through which I had been wandering.  It went only a few yards and then turned right.  The door bearing identical numerals to those on my scrap of paper was closed and locked. No light came from underneath.  So I figured having come so far, I might as well wait a few minutes to make sure I hadn't arrived before my T.A.  So I piled my textbooks on the polished linoleum tile floor and sat down on them leaning my back against the cinderblock wall. I pulled a Salem from my shirt pocket, lit up and decided that the time it would take to finish the smoke would be a reasonable time to sit and wait.  An older gentleman overall conservatively dressed entered the hallway through the double doors and took notice of me sitting on the floor. In a polite and courteous manner, he bummed a light off me and proceeded to turn the corner.  I heard him open one of the large institutional numbered doors and step through. It closed behind him.  A few seconds later the same door opened again and he reappeared with a younger man. As they were apparently heading in different directions they stopped to talk. Eagerly I listened, perhaps to fight boredom or maybe to have my waning faith rekindled. I can still recall the conversation. 7

“Did you hear Johnson got a new micro-something apparatus?” asked the younger man. “I put in for one of those last semester,” came the reply. 8

“Not fair Johnson should have one and we don’t.” 9

“Makes for a nice toy to have. I could have some serious fun with one of those. Now he’s going to be bragging for weeks.”10

“Nice to have connections. So what are you doing this weekend?” 11

“Vacation next week. Actually I’m doing a conference in Boston.  Should make for a nice trip. Taking the wife.” 12

“Anything special on the agenda?”13

“Not really, but I have family in Boston, should be a nice visit. And you?”14

“Same old, same old.”15

I heard the elder man’s cigarette butt hit the floor and his foot stomp on it. And noticed my own was down to the filter too. So I followed suit.  The men parted ways. The older man passed me again and paused for a moment to ask who I was waiting for.  I told him I was waiting for my T.A. who was supposed to be in the numbered room opposite me.  The gentleman informed me that the occupant of the particular lab of my special concern to me had left around lunch time. He had seen him go and they had wished each other a nice weekend.16

I stood up and began my trek back to the biology building. As I reached the double doors between hallways, Patty Benson of Springfield was sitting on her son Billy’s bed studying a pile of neatly wrapped boxes piled on his desk. There was a large square box with a blue bow, It was decorated in teddy bears and contained a soccer ball.  The note read to Billy form Grandpa, but mom had written it because her dad couldn’t write so small anymore.  There were several wider flatter boxes containing various articles of boy’s clothing and others containing various toys, video games and a watercolor drawing set.  Each box was clad in its own cheerful decorative paper wrapper and sporting a bright satin bow.   Patty stood up from her son’s bed carefully straitening the covers.  She paused in the doorway and turned back to make sure everything was perfect.  She took notice of every detail of the room.  Laundry put away, desk neat, bed made, Teddy resting on little pillow, birthday presents neatly stacked, toys in toy box, shoes in rack and slippers by the bed; bottles of pills arranged neatly on night table, tissue box full, everything was in good order she thought.  By the time I exited the medical school and my eyes adjusted to the outdoor light, Patty was already downstairs in the dining room. The table was set for eight.  The silverware, dishes and the platter for the Billy’s birthday cake were all neatly arranged.  Billy’s Barney mug was pretty much the only aberration from the bone china and best silverware setting.  It looked somehow out of place on Grandma Else’s lace tablecloth.  Patty remembered the day her husband Roger brought it home for him and how much Billy loved it.  It was the day they told Billy he had Leukemia.  Now it was the only mug Billy would drink from.  17

I felt strangely disappointed as I left the building.  Perhaps I had expected too much from modern medical science.  So what if there was no second or third shift of dedicated researchers and no weekend crew.  As I began to cross the large lawn towards the interconnecting series of parking lots, Patty was inspecting the decorations in the living room. Abundant ‘Happy Birthday’ streamers of various colors hung form the light fixtures, walls, ceiling and doorframes. And a huge blue foil banner read “Welcome Home Billy!”  Patty looked around and thought to herself, all that was missing was the cake. “Oh God the cake!” She hadn’t had time to pick up the cake from the bakery with having to rush to the hospital that morning.  How could she have forgotten about the cake? ‘Bad mommy; bad, bad mommy!’ she chided herself.  Billy was comming home for his birthday party. What kind of a mother would forget the cake for her only son’s fifth birthday party?  She started feeling panicky, She thought how disappointed Billy would have been, if there were no birthday cake.  She strained to regain her composure.  She thought Roger would be home soon, and there were so many things left to do before Roger got back from the funeral home. The decorations suddenly seemed so inappropriate. So much to do, Patty thought, people would be coming over. “So much to do,” she said out loud and began to take down the Blue foil banner that read ‘Welcome Home Billy’ Tears were dripping all over it as she tried to fold it neatly and slip it back into the package with her trembling hands.  By the time Patty collapsed on the floor awash in a sea of cheerful happy birthday streamers, I had reached the Biology building and had made my way back to my TA’s lab.  It was already after 4:00 PM but I was happy to find Pete there, stuffing thick folders of paper into his backpack.  After the customary greetings, I asked him the burning question I had about the upcomming midterm exam. He responded that it didn’t matter because the material I didn’t understand wouldn’t be on the test anyway. 18

I told my T.A., Pete, that I had tried to find him over at the Medical School. He replied that his friend the researcher there, was letting him use the medical lab equipment for his thesis research.  Pete told me that the labs over at the medical school had amazing equipment that no one ever uses.  He seemed pleased with himself that they let him use the equipment for his important research. 19

By now I was clutching at straws. My mom was in the hospital at the time. The doctor had told us her time was limited.  So, innocently and hopefully, I asked the young doctorial candidate what his research was on. 20

“I’m trying to prove that the North American Poison Ivy Plant is related to the Spanish Cork tree.” Pete responded seemingly gratified that someone had taken an interest. 21

I suppose I couldn’t suppress my disappointment “Why?” I asked.  “Why is that important? Is there a shortage of Spanish cork?”22

My T.A., somewhat taken aback, had not anticipated that line of questioning. He paused in confused reflection and began talking about cellular similarities.  I couldn’t wrap my mind around the rest of his reply.  In fact my mind was pretty much focused on the bazaar images associated with corking wine bottles with poison ivy.  When he finished, I may have made some comment about what kind of research I thought needed to be done, or maybe I only thought about it, but no confrontational scene ensued. I thanked Pete for his time and for telling me about his research and left.23

I didn’t live far from the Biology department and began my walk home to my college apartment. I felt strangely desperate and at odds with the universe.  People I loved were suffering others I didn't know were dieing all around me, each and every minute.  I lit another cigarette, I thought for a moment, I could be next.  It came to me that if a jumbo jet were crashing every minute someone would be doing something about it. Rescuers wouldn’t be punching out early. Firemen wouldn’t leave the flames to burn themselves out until Monday. And air traffic controllers wouldn’t clock out leaving aircraft aimed strait at mountains.  Perhaps, I thought, things were different for medical researchers; maybe they were clueless and really didn't have anything to research or maybe they thought if they actually cured something they might put themselves out of work and they might be too clever to do that.  Even as I walked and wondered, Annie Gorman in L.A. faced another challenge; before her, lying there on a metal table was a grotesques mass of bones and skin.  She looked at her makeup kit and wondered where to start to paint a face on the cancer-ravaged skeleton. She had absolutely no clue what the hairless bloated 19 year old girl looked like to those who might remember her before the disease reduced her to only 67 pounds.  Back to basics she thought.  'The lips should be pink and the eyebrows should go just about there….'24

My mind was drawn into sharp focus as I approached my apartment.  There was a tiny brown Lopso Opso dog standing in the middle of the street blocking and barking at a huge red and white campus bus.  Traffic was backing up in both directions.  Suddenly I remembered that the big-chested redhead, that crashed my birthday party the prior week and actually never left, told me she had a Lopso Opso.  Her car was in the parking lot.  I ran between the stopped cars and trough the jeers and horn blasts of the motorists and bus occupants I scooped up the furry 'rodent'.  Oh yeah, at least my life was back to normal.25

Twenty years on, my mom lives only in my memories now and new diseases still take more lives that new cures save.  For the most part all of the age-old maladies remain. Life remains normal and unfortunately so does suffering and premature death. 26