A Season in Hell Read Free Page B

mass that had been detected was not the primary cancer and that it was necessary to discover the primary site before treatment could proceed. He suspected it was in the lung, but he could not find it on my chest X-rays or CT scan.
    All of these doctors treated me like a responsible, intelligent person. None of them was able to spot the primary site of the cancer on my X-rays, which I now carried with me (Sloan-Kettering had lost my first set). Still, they made very different impressions on me. The Columbia oncologist, an extremely likable man, seemed so eager to make me better that he felt sure he could do so rather easily. He shrugged off the problem of the primary site too cheerfully to arouse my confidence. The oncologist in private practice could not get past her annoyance at our lateness (Jamie and I had been stuck in traffic for half an hour). She showed no interest in my case, or in how to find the primary site, and was completely pessimistic about my chances of survival. The S-K lung specialist, Elliot Strong, was kind and met my eyes when either of us spoke. Beyond that, he would do something that made me trust and respect him deeply.
    During the weeks when I visited doctors, I was rarely alone. Someone or several people—one or more of my children, Charlotte Sheedy, Esther Broner, Gloria Steinem, LeAnne Schreiber, Barbara Greenberg—went with me to all my doctors’ appointments, CT scans, the biopsy; one or two came to have dinner with me every night. On July 2, the coven held a meeting, our usual solstice meeting, delayed because of my trip to Holland. It felt, however, like an emergency meeting dedicated to me.
    At coven meetings we gather gradually, chat over drinks, then have a formal dinner. Candles are spread around the meeting place; the lights are low. After dinner we move to soft chairs, and then someone begins. She will describe a problem with which she needs help—finding direction toward some goal, or a personal transformation she wishes for but is not achieving. We listen intently; we try to rephrase what is said, to be sure we understand what is wanted, needed. Then we discuss the qualities necessary to reach the desired end. After that comes the magical part of the evening, as we surround the seeker and call down upon her head whatever she needs of spirit, courage, and clarity to accomplish her desire. I say this is magical because it feels enchanted: the wisher feels enveloped by goodwill and love; the givers feel empowered by a wave of largesse and love. And in truth, we have had some success in helping each other to fulfill desires and overcome difficulties.
    This evening, my friends surrounded me with their bodies and spirits as if they were electrically charged. They changed the very air, calling on all benevolent energies and spirits to surround me, heal me.
    The next day, my son, Rob, drove me to my country house. My head was not functioning properly; I felt so dazed that I feared I would have an accident if I tried to drive. The children—Jamie, Rob, and Barbara—had planned a large party that weekend. They called it a going-to-the-hospital Fourth of July party; I called it a farewell party. A host of my friends and my children’s friends attended; the kids did the planning, shopping, cooking, and cleaning up. Many people stayed overnight, and at its end I felt surrounded by love and good wishes, deeply cared about, unusual for me.
    Another week went by, and nothing happened. Edie calmly insisted that no one knew anything definite about cancer and no one could predict my future. She refused to assume either that I was doomed or that I would recover. But I was anxious: time was passing, the cancer was growing, and no one was doing anything. I believed that no one would act unless I did (shades of my childhood sense of total responsibility for our family!), that the doctors were unsure and therefore paralyzed. So I telephoned Dr. Strong, who had most impressed me medically and humanly,