I sit, I wait, I’m taken in. Something wrong, everything alright. Oh wait, maybe not. Analysis, new appointment next week. Halogen lights, people-watching, reading tabloids. Vague motivational posters with landscape photography. Filling out insurance forms, not listening to music for fear of not hearing when one’s name is called. Not listening to the doctor for fear of hearing what he might have to say. Self consciously trying to control oneself and not bite fingernails, still waiting. Tomorrow another specialist, another issue…

And it seems nothing is as it should be. Not mentally, not physically. My world as much in shatters as my health. This is the new reality, then, for me: the sickly smell of floor-cleaner, the bright white light that gives anyone who has to spend more than 3 minutes in its periphery a massive headache. Not knowing, waiting for the verdict of a one-man jury about to tell you how long you still have to live, whether you’re fertile, whether you have an allergy, whether you need to be operated on… And the sick mind that can’t help but think of the number of years the doctor puts on you like a “best by” date, as a prison sentence… A promise of at least that number of years to be lived in agony and misery. One can’t help but almost wish for the worst. At least then, one would have an excuse for one’s foul mood.

And I haven’t quite decided whether pity makes the suffering more bearable or indefinitely increases it. Blood is drawn, another test. Pills and the hope of no side effects. The cause, obfuscated by the symptoms. A stark pain in the chest, a sweaty forehead, breathing getting heavier, fingertips drumming on a waiting room chair that has definitely seen its share of nervous people, waiting to be relieved or aggrieved. Grave matters cannot be taken too lightly.

Maybe halogen is also the light at the end of the tunnel; it surely is the light inside the tunnel.

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