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I sat in the hospital waiting room and when my name was called, I followed the nurse into a small, painted-white box room. I thought the room had seen better days; the plaster was peeling off the walls, the floor tiles were faded, and a musty smell of old paper was emanating from cardboard files stacked in the corner.

The young nurse, who appeared to be the same age as I, shuffled uncomfortably in her seat adjacent to Dr. Stephens' beanstalk yet steadfast figure. I sat opposite them.

Dr. Stephens started with, "So the tests are back and I'm afraid you have…" I digested the most petrifying words I thought I would ever hear in my lifetime, and after that moment it was all, "blah, blah, blah." I had shifted to nowhere-land.

Like orchestral instruments tuning up before a concert, I heard the whistling of a flute as my wheezy breaths labored in and out. The deep, rhythmic pounding of my heart against my chest resembled the ominous sounding thumps of a base drum, whilst the throbbing, engorged vein at my left temple felt like a xylophone mallet was being repeatedly hammered.

I didn’t even flinch at the hot, wet sensation that had burst from my eyes and traveled down my cheeks like a channel of flowing, steaming lava.

I zoomed back into the room with a whoosh. My expression was quiescent until I nodded in agreement at the arrangements for D-day.

Jan M. – March 2019