There comes a time when your body betrays you.
You begin to lose awareness of your surroundings. The warm sunlight, the cooling breeze gently swaying the tops of trees–such things suddenly catch your attention as if they had been mere apparitions before. Your brain seeks an explanation for what’s happening. But the answers you receive do not satisfy you.
Your chest feels congested. It’s as if cardboards have been stuffed into the cavity beneath your ribs. You experience difficulty rising up after spending too long sitting cross-legged on the floor. Dark clots in your spit bring unfamiliar fears. It dawns on you that it’s possible that none of the futures you had dreamed of for yourself or your family may materialize.
Is this how mortality is supposed to feel?
You decide not to inform your loved ones about what’s going on. A fear (perhaps it’s childish) warns you that telling them would permit the nameless to congeal into something real. What chance would you stand against something frightening once it becomes real?
So you pray that whatever it is goes away and maybe tomorrow or three days or a week from today, your head would stop hurting. Maybe your chest would feel spacious and free once again. Maybe your breathing would no longer be labored.
You find daily gratefulness in previously unrecognized victories: thinking clearly, walking steadily, breathing comfortably and being able to just function without fear.
On the appointed day, in the sterile hallway, you wonder how you survived your nights of solitary torment. Finally, your name is called and you stand up to go inside, knowing you are about to find out if your fears come true or it’s nothing after all.
photo from unsplash.com by Bertrand Zuchuat