Here One Minute, And Gone the Next
Here One Minute, And Gone the Next
Here one minute,
And gone the next.
The wall between this world and the next is so thick,
And yet so thin.
Thin enough to crack open at any moment.
Here one minute,
And gone the next.
Life here is so full, so busy, so vibrant, so near…
And yet you’re so far away,
So gone.
Though seemingly far away,
Another real world lurks around us.
It surrounds us.
Here one minute,
And gone the next.
I’m here with the ruins still very much intact
But ruins nonetheless.
And our friends and community march onward
Like ants going about their business all around me.
I enter the scrum and go about business again,
Navigating the structure of what was
But it often feels so bizarre,
So new and unfamiliar.
Here one minute,
And gone the next.
I have a joy living again and am living
But life nonetheless feels strange some days,
Strange in breezy ways, like gusts that hit in a way to make you pause and take notice
But then move on.
Here one minute,
And gone the next.
Lord, teach us to number our days
That we may gain a heart of wisdom
Because we are
Here one minute,
And gone the next.
This was written on September 14, 2023 (day 275). I was back in the clinic and where I worked full-time since 2011. After Lindsey’s cancer spread to her brain I resigned my position in December of 2021 and have worked remotely since then. I haven’t been back into the workplace often.
Going back is complicated because it’s where she was treated, it’s where she was a patient. It’s in the same building as many of her oncology appointments and imaging studies. It’s where we received staggering news and had to first process all of this. And, it’s where I “lived” professionally, where she’d bring the boys to visit daddy at work, where she’d pop down after an OB appointment next door upstairs. It’s where I processed a lot of the trauma of her diagnosis and thought through life. It’s where I read her reports and had conversations with oncology colleagues about her situation and prognosis.
Going back to work hits me in myriad ways. It reminds me of the job I had, the responsibility and work identity. And that’s now gone, now different. It reminds me of professional loss. It reminds me of a happier time in my life, a more carefree time, an enjoyable time working with friends and building something. It reminds me of social loss, and some loss of purpose and curiosity. It reminds me of her being a patient and seeing her walk the journey. It reminds me of being a caregiver and the trauma and helplessness therein. It reminds me of her loss. Where it used to be a place I worked, I see the patients and most particularly their caregivers in a way I never before noticed. I see them in technicolor, and their presence is LOUD to me. The other noises, conversations, and interactions lose focus, blur, and mute when patients and their people walk by.
This musing was produced from the day back in the clinic. It’s weird to be back where I lived a former life, in the ruins of that, so to speak. The strangeness and bizarre nature of being back around all of it is what produced this musing.
