The Waiting Room

Where am I?  I awake from a deep sleep, confused.  But as my dream memories melt away, the room around me begins to take shape.  The sunlight, stabbing my eyes at first, relaxes into a glorious gold.  I find myself perched on a plush easy chair with just the right amount of support.  Light blue carpeting surrounds me with the stillness of a lake.  Beautiful landscape paintings deck the beige walls.  My surroundings are easy on the eye and as comfortable as they could possibly be.  There is no doubt that I am still in the Waiting Room.      

As always, I am not alone.  People of all ages, gender, color, and nationalities populate the easy chairs and sofas in every direction.  Some of them chat with a smile to their neighbors.  Others sit quietly, keeping to themselves, heads nodded in contemplation.  Some look a bit frightened.   

I can't seem to remember when I first entered the Waiting Room.  Perhaps long ago, when I injured my knee playing touch football during graduate school.  Or maybe as I lay in a hospital bed after my appendix ruptured.  Or maybe just this morning when I awoke with yet another of a long series of aches and pains that torment my body.  None of these guesses gives me any hint of when I first arrived.    

The room has only two doors:  an entry behind me and a second doorway across the room.  Behind that second doorway, I see only darkness.  Sometimes that doorway seems far away approaching infinity.  At other times, it feels like it is looming over me.  And, near or far, I can feel a mysterious breeze issuing from its depths. 

Every once in a while, someone rises from their seat and walks across the room to enter that second doorway.  I have never seen anyone return.  

Most of the people here are friendly enough, and I like to join in the chat.  But inevitably, sooner or later, I find myself alone with my thoughts.  When I do I often lose myself in musings on my past life.  I dwell on confusing questions:  did I make the right choices, was I kind enough, did I fulfill my purpose, what was my purpose anyway, etc.  But one new set of thoughts focuses on my plans for the near future and, in particular, how I will manage the health issues that continue to plague me.

I've been through a lot.  Perhaps no more than most people, but a lot nonetheless.  There was the appendicitis I cited about.  There was my knee injury, the beginning of the end of  my participation in athletics. The mitral valve in my heart has given itself up to a porcine replacement.  Years of struggle with urinary retention and frequency, diagnosed as a chronically irritable bladder, eventually took away my love of wine and Peet's sumptuous Cortados.  Prostate cancer followed, with its 27 radiation treatments.  The radiation later led to the trashing of a blood vessel in my colon.  These issues and more have led me to a place where I find myself seeing 15 or 16 doctors over the course of a year.  And more promising to come.  

During my musings, two quotes come to my mind.  Dylan Thomas says:  “Do not go gently into that good night.  Rage, rage against the dying of the light!”  And a similar quote:  “The certainty of defeat is no reason not to fight.”  It seems to me that the only reason for raging – for fighting – is to live longer.    

But why should I want to live longer?  After all, it's not a goal of this octogenarian to reach the age of 90!

So why fight for a longer life? 

So I can be here for those who love me?  My survivors will have to deal with my death sooner or later.  

So I can minister to my loved ones for as long as possible?  I am beginning to see that “ministering” can mean just being present.  Well, I have a tough time “being present” while I am raging.  

So why not give up the fight and just “be”?  

Am I being selfish?

Is there not a time to back off from the rage, to rest from the fight, and to accept, even embrace, my destiny?   And if so, how do I know when to start making that transition?    

I have no answers now, but still I seek them out.  I feel a sense of urgency in my search as the dark doorway daily makes its presence felt.  And yet I know that when the time comes, whether I have some answers, partial answers, or no answers, I will overcome my fear, leave the Waiting Room behind, and walk through that doorway.  And when I do, I will find what I have been looking for:  “the peace that passes understanding”.