drive from the licensing office to the optometrist. It was supposed to be a routine appointment - I was having my eyes examined before the start of my junior year of high school. I had big plans for the day. As soon as I got home from the eye doctor's, Becky and I were going to drive to the beach. It would be the first time I'd taken the car out by myself, and I was looking forward to driving without my mom or dad or my older sister.
I recall being upset that Mom had scheduled the eye appointment right after my driving test. I'd been having some problems with headaches and dizzy spells, and Dad thought I might need reading glasses. The idea of showing up at Lincoln High School wearing glasses bothered me. A lot. I was hoping Mom and Dad would agree to let me wear contact lenses. As it turned out, impaired vision was the least of my worries.
The optometrist, who was a friend of my parents, seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time staring into the corner of my eye with this horribly bright light. He asked a lot of questions about my headaches. That was almost fifteen years ago, but I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face as he talked to my mother. He was so serious, so somber...so concerned.
"I want to make Lydia an appointment at the University of Washington. Immediately."
My mother and I were both stunned. "All right," my mother said, glancing from me to Dr. Reid and back again. "Is there a problem?"
He nodded. "I don't like what I'm seeing. I think it would be best if Dr. Wilson had a look."
Well, Dr. Wilson did more than look. He drilled into my skull and removed a malignant brain tumor. I say those words glibly now, but it wasn't a quick or simple procedure. It meant weeks in the hospital and blinding, debilitating headaches. After the surgery, I went through chemotherapy, followed by a series of radiation treatments. There were days when even the dimmest of lights caused such pain it was all I could do not to scream in agony. Days when I measured each breath, struggling to hold on to life because, try as I might, I could feel it slipping away. Still, there were many mornings I woke up and wished I would die because I couldn't bear another hour of this. Without my father I'm convinced I would have.
My head was completely shaved and then, once my hair started to grow back, it fell out again. I missed my entire junior year and when I was finally able to return to high school, nothing was the same. Everyone looked at me differently. I didn't attend the Junior-Senior prom because no one asked me. Some girlfriends suggested I tag along with them, but out of false pride I refused. In retrospect it seems a trivial thing to worry about. I wish I'd gone.
The saddest part of this story is that just when I was beginning to believe I could have a normal life - just when I believed all those drugs, all that suffering had served a useful purpose - the tumor grew back.
I'll never forget the day Dr. Wilson told us the cancer had returned. But it's not the expression on his face that I remember. It's the pain in my father's eyes. He, above anyone, understood what I'd endured during the first bout of treatment. My mother doesn't deal well with illness, and Dad was the one who'd held me together emotionally. He knew there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, that would lessen this second ordeal for me. I was twenty-four at the time and still in college, trying to accumulate enough credits to graduate. I never did get that degree.
I've survived both bouts of cancer, and I'm definitely not the carefree girl I once was. I appreciate and treasure every single day because I know how precious life is. Most people assume I'm younger than thirty but they seem to find me more serious than other women my age. My experience with cancer means I don't take anything, least of all life itself, for granted. I no longer greet each day with careless acceptance. But I've learned there are compensations for my suffering. I know I'd be a completely different person if not for the cancer. My dad claimed I achieved a certain calm wisdom, and I