I had remembered to take my camera, a small instamatic, which was an early summer purchase and my latest, greatest hobby. At various intervals Mom would snatch it from my hand and position me in front of a glorious tree or upon a rock, capturing the moment with a click and a smile. Later we would look at the photos and the smiles, yet remember the trauma of our thoughts; the deceptive faces in the photos did not fool our eyes, though they painted appeal in the visual world. The hair, the glow, the newly gained energy... all would be changed by the time the pictures were developed; we would be seeing the past and, I felt, by that time, the past would prove a better reality than the present. It was time to go back to the clinic. Curie Pavilion, a cylindrical building from the perspective of an outsider, was located near the Damon parking ramp, and across the street from the Mayo building. Actually, from the street view, Curie was only a glassed in elevator. We entered the curious building and pushed the elevator button; we had no choice of destinations; the only way to go was "down." Once below ground, we emerged from the elevator and plunged through a set of heavy glass doors into a waiting room. A bust of Madame Curie was observing her flock of patients from one side of the room. We strode up to the desk, relinquished our appointment card and took a seat. The people were quiet and grim; it was sometimes difficult to discern the patient from the relative in the unhappy place; worry pervaded the atmosphere. I wondered what sort of fate I had accepted for myself; I wondered what joy could possibly exist for these people, what hardships they had endured, what expectations they possessed. "Lauren Isaacson?..." We approached the desk; I smiled to break the tension, to soften the blow. We followed the nurse into a room and were told that the doctor would be around shortly. Everything was white or polished chrome. Sterile. Antiseptic. Professional. I was seated on the examining table, swinging my legs, when Dr. E. strolled in the room. "Hello, Lorn" he drawled, "Mrs. Isaacson..." nodding to my mom. He spoke with us for a brief period, asking about my health and referring to his clipboard of papers to tell of my "good" blood test results. Everything seemed to be in order. "Well... we'll get a nurse in here to get your IV started, and then I'll see you again tomorrow morning." "All right," I said. As he had promised, a nurse came in, shutting the door behind her, and produced a syringe. "This is a shot to help keep your nausea down a bit," she said, motioning for me to unclasp my pants and bend over. What a mosquito bite, I thought, pulling up my pants.