In A Single Moment

The doors swing open with a click and a swoosh, commanding my attention. I look up and see a young woman. She's crying. My gaze follows her, trying to find the reason for her tears and whether I should do something—comfort her, ask if she needs anything. But before I can figure out what to do, what it is she might need, she has already left through the second set of doors, disappearing from sight, with another click and a swoosh.

My eyes turn back to the doors she came through, slightly astonished by the unexpected power they hold, and in full anticipation of the next person to walk out, looking for affirmation that not everyone comes out crying. 

I’m about to be called through those doors.

"We’ll know more in an hour.” I stand there looking at her, not exactly knowing what that means. “Maybe you can go grab a cup of coffee in the meantime? There’s a small coffee corner in the main hall," she says, half asking, half directing, when she recognizes I’m not fully grasping the situation.

I am not computing why I need to wait or why I would need to come back in an hour. Don’t they just call with the results? Know more about what? But the questions flee my mind before I can ponder on them long enough for answers.  

The hospital is desolate—the earliest of COVID restrictions—leaving lonely figures sitting in stillness in the waiting areas. That is why she walked out alone. Maybe there had been someone waiting for her outside, to pick her up, to console her? Again, I felt sad for her.

I move to take a sip of my coffee, when out of nowhere, the question creeps back into my mind like a spider crawling up my back. The paper coffee cup touches my lips, but the intended sip is delayed. Don’t they just call with the results? The next question crawls along the side of my neck, to whisper in my ear, Know more about what? My hand moves back down, the intended sip suspended. With a startling undertow the next question comes crashing like a thundering tidal wave. What if something is seriously wrong? As I emerge with a slight gasp, the paper cup comes back to my lips to hover mindlessly.

The hour suddenly feels heavy, the coffee tasteless. The main corridor where I found a secluded couch carries an air of isolation. The high glass ceiling dominates over me. I feel small. Like something bigger is taking over, looming over me, from above, beyond that high glass ceiling. Every ounce of control I thought I could possibly have, is now slowly slipping through my fingers with every minute of realization that ticks away.

I look to my right, and then to my left, as if to find answers, find reassurance. More emptiness, overshadowed emptiness. The eerie impact of COVID is already unknowingly representing itself, providing a preview of an unimaginable period in time yet to come—predicting a new normal and forever-changed future on so many levels.

It is time to go back, to sit in the other waiting room, and wait for those doors to open. They have gained new meaning and have somehow transformed into tall white doors from which obscurity shines. I stare at what I now consider life-altering doors and hear my name called out.

I’m back out in what seems like ten minutes. Or was it longer? Time has eluded me. I follow the path of the one who went before me, with a second click and a swoosh. My focus is on the sliding doors of the entrance, now exit. I need to get out, just get through those doors, then.... Then what? I can’t go home, not like this. I know this, we train for this; walls will close in, thoughts will run and…. My trail of thought evaporates in a haze. I need to keep moving.

What was I going to do after this?

My thinking already starts to linger into numbness and it takes a minute to recollect—lost in the fog. A fog that seems heavier than usual.

That's right—my eyes snap back into focus—I was going to wash my car.

The drive to the car wash equally eludes me. I however recall washing my car, moreover, I remember the chant in my head: keep moving. Nothing other than those words: keep moving, as I rhythmically move in strokes, covering the car in suds with a distant stare.

Car washed. What next?

Keep moving.

I need distraction, direction. I need to keep moving. Forward. To... I don't know what. As long as it is away from... From what exactly? I need to get my mind sorted—understand what just happened, figure out what it means, what I'm supposed to do. The fog mixes in with… What? What is this?

Don’t think. Drive. Radio... Distraction. I need to keep the cascade of questions from taking over my thoughts. I need to hold off any conclusions waiting to be jumped. Loud music, to numb my brain so whatever is looming can’t get me. Can’t take over. I need to stay focused. This is too big, this is everything.

With a familiar snap, I hear the lyrics to the song on the radio, filling the car, drumming out everything else: "Even if we die young, we had a damn good run..."

Seriously? I stare at the radio in disbelief and let out a sarcastic ‘Ha!’ I can’t help but smile, feeling determination finding its way back into my body. 

I got this! I can do this!

I shift gears and step on the gas; determination now on cruise control.

Ten days later, suspicions are not only re-confirmed, they are metastasized. She is quick to speak my language, making the incomprehensible comprehensible; a cost/benefit analysis, facts, scenario's, risk-assessment, decision-making. "A couple of good years, that's what we can give you." 

And with that, I step into ‘unknown territory’...

"But you don't look sick."
The statement always balances on a spectrum of suppressed disbelief and confused offensiveness. It still amazes me. And then the way people will study my face as if they're trying to find a trace of proof. A stamp of approval. -That's right - 'dead man walking'. Right here, on my forehead!

Where to start, how to start, what to tell, what not to tell—each time is still a new assessment, depending on the person, depending on the questions, depending on their acceptance. It was tasking, to say the least. Frustrating. Exhausting. Discouraging. 

I used to look away, not wanting to read the emotions on their faces. Not wanting them to see mine. It hit too hard, gave away too much. There's no room for 'others', for other's emotions, for other's behavior. 

Not everybody needed to know. It was trial and error to decide what to share, when to share and with whom. Not everybody could handle it, fully comprehend it. It was complicated, complex, incurable, life extenuating, life threatening, chronic. This was not for everybody, to consume, trivialize, whisper, or even speculate and wager over. By a coffee machine, in line at the cafeteria, or at a birthday party, for the lack of common conversation, for the opportunity to judge.  

Not everybody needed to know everything. Their picking and prying, triggering the urge for confrontation, tempting me to throw it in their faces - 'Feed on this!', finding satisfaction in the imagined twisted facial expressions attempting to grasp the magnitude of it all. -Ha! Right back at ya!

"I know..." I would gently reply with a faint apologetic smile, hiding my thoughts, letting go. Because it was complicated, even for me. I didn't fit the expectations. I didn't fit the rhetoric. And I most definitely did not play the part. 

Those who needed to know, knew. Those who wanted to know, knew. That was all that mattered. Because this was too personal, too intimate. Overwhelming, fragile, with no roadmap, no words. This was too big, this was everything. This was a journey made alone. Life-altering, 'written' behind closed doors. Tall white doors. 

About the Author

After 2020 rewrote my life when medical challenges brought my professional career to a close, I shifted focus to a purpose-driven life. Now dedicated to personal development and reflective expression, I believe that while we don't always choose our opening lines, we always hold the pen for the chapters that follow.