I’m certain Dr. William Pearson had dispensed a fair (or unfair) share of prognoses to his patients since taking the helm of his father’s practice. I still couldn’t claim to know the accuracy of these forecasts any better than I knew the number of lives he saved. He had, however, revealed a genuine compassion whenever we spoke, and the same couldn’t always be said about the senior Dr. Pearson. After I situated in the examination room to endure yet another waiting period, I gathered that my thoughts were rather conventional. I sometimes pondered the brevity of life, but it never seemed so vivid to me until I slouched in this office’s sterile chamber awaiting my appointment with fate.
Whatever the outcome, Dr. Pearson had an unattainable task of pretending that my welfare mattered as much to him as it did to me. All aspiring physicians must’ve practiced this charade repeatedly in front of a mirror while in medical school. But I simply wanted to bypass the theatrics and pretense often associated with this exercise. My anticipation lasted only a few seconds longer. Dr. Pearson emerged holding a large manila folder and a smaller file attached to a clipboard that was most likely littered with my medical history.
Since I’d known Dr. Pearson, his Tabula rasa-like countenance was always difficult to interpret. I equated it to deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics. Even upon greeting me today, he didn’t permit his eyes to focus on my face for too long. He shifted his gaze to random objects throughout the room, lending an air of apathy to his demeanor. Some people mistook this habit as an unconscious reflex associated with dishonesty, but I was convinced that this man didn’t relish imparting bad news anymore than his patients wanted to receive it.
I imagined that a substantial portion of Dr. Pearson’s increased popularity derived from the local females. By even a casual observance, his comeliness was distinctive. Upon seeing him for the first time, I thought he might’ve been a stand-in actor for one of those cheesy medical dramas or soap operas where all the doctors looked like candidates for GQ magazine. He sported a helmet of meticulously sculpted black hair that looked like a wig belonging to an Elvis Presley impersonator. In fact, he resembled the King of Rock in his heyday more than I initially remembered, right down to a chiseled jaw-line, pool water eyes, and perfectly shaped lips. All that was missing from his accouterments was a jewel-spangled jumpsuit and Martin guitar.
We were probably the same age chronologically, but few people would’ve placed him within fifteen years my junior by my current appearance. As he entered the room, Dr. Pearson instinctively moved toward a light board, where he routinely displayed X-rays, or in this case, the results of a CT scan. I elected to spare him the burden of a long-winded presentation with three-dimensional images.
“You can skip the formalities,” I assured him. “I just want to know what’s wrong with me.” I hoped Dr. Pearson appreciated my bluntness, but we both realized that I had waited far too long for an accurate diagnosis. Despite my impatience, he was reluctant to blurt out any information, which was never a good sign. Instead of appeasing my demand, he set the folder and clipboard on top of a paper sleeve covering an examining table. Had I not already taken a seat, he would’ve surely directed me to one.
“How are you feeling today, Corbin?” he asked me. I barely acknowledged his question, but the gravity in his tone weighted us both as close to the ground as possible in these seconds.
“Honestly, Dr. Pearson, I feel exactly how I look.” At this point he settled down into a chair beside me and crossed his legs, cupping one hand on his kneecap and the other on a silver pen tucked in a pocket of his white coat. I knew what was coming next, and now I just needed to make sure I handled it with whatever dignity I had left intact. “So what’s the verdict? Should I make vacation plans this summer or not?”
My bid for delicate humor failed to manufacture even the slightest curl from his lips. Comedy was definitely not on the agenda this afternoon. Rather than respond directly to my question, he decided to stall by asking one of his own. I recognized this as yet another tactic to ease into the unpleasantness of this part of his profession. “Are your headaches still getting worse?”
“Not worse, but more frequent,” I said.
“And you’re still losing consciousness whenever these headaches occur?”
“More now than ever before.”
Dr. Pearson removed the pen from his lab coat and proceeded to reach for the clipboard to presumably jot down a few notes. As he wrote hastily on a sheet of yellow paper, I wondered if he was sketching doodles as a way to subvert his own anxiety. He then took the folder containing my CT scan and placed it in the center of his lap. “Are you sure you don’t want to look at the results together?”
“I don’t need pictures to convince me,” I remarked. “Your words will suffice.”
“Well, the scan proved to be quite helpful,” he announced, but with a deliberate degree of hesitancy. “At least we’re sure what’s happening to you now.” The doctor cleared his throat and glanced down at the folder clenched between his fingertips.
“Just tell me what I’m up against.”
“It appears that you have a rather severe cerebrovascular disorder, Corbin.”
I suddenly felt as obtuse as one of my unprepared students receiving a pop vocabulary quiz. “Okay,” I said curtly, “now tell me again—this time in plain English.”
Dr. Pearson’s voice softened as he selected his words as judiciously as a neurosurgeon exploring the cerebral cortex. “It seems that you have an unusual cluster of aneurysms.” He appeared to sigh without making a sound as I processed his diagnosis. “In this case, we’ve discovered at least three abnormalities in the blood vessels surrounding the left hemisphere of your brain.”
“That doesn’t sound too optimistic,” I murmured. The doctor refrained from commenting on my own prognosis, which in itself revealed everything I needed to know. Right now he was just trying to find the gentlest way to convey my slim chance of recovery. “I’m going to assume that there’s no treatment for this condition, right?”
“In some cases there’s certain procedures to deal with aneurysms, but they’re highly risky. Under normal circumstances, we’d try to surgically clip the weakened vessel, or perform an endovascular coiling.”
“You’re talking medical jargon again, Doctor. Are these options for me or not?”
“I’m afraid the dilations in your brain are too big, Corbin. The largest is close to 35 millimeters. That’s an inoperable size. The other two aren’t much smaller.”
“So there’s absolutely nothing that you can do?”
Every patient feared asking his doctor such a question. It almost felt surreal uttering the words aloud. But I yearned to know the details just as much as Dr. Pearson needed to inform me. “I’m not even qualified for this type of surgery,” he declared without a trace of humility. “I’d have to refer you to a specialist, and I’m willing to do so. But, since I know that you’re a straight shooter, I don’t want to mislead you. I don’t think you’d be a candidate for surgery.”
“Don’t I get to make that choice?”
Dr. Pearson glanced at me as if I was infantile about my ability to control this situation. “It’s much too risky,” he said while methodically shaking his head from side to side. “The sheer size and positioning of the diseased vessels makes the likelihood of a subarachnoid hemorrhage substantially greater. In truth, you probably wouldn’t survive the operation.”
“But if I do nothing, what can I expect to come of that?”
“Unfortunately, forgoing a surgical procedure at this stage won’t correct the disease. The vessels could rupture at any time. I’m afraid it’s a fatal condition.”
“So what you’re telling me is that I’m essentially a walking time bomb. My brain could implode at any moment. Is that accurate?”
“In a figurative manner of speaking, I suppose you’re right,” said Dr. Pearson glumly.
I sometimes wondered what it would’ve felt like to stare into the face of a man who knew that I was dying. Naturally, Dr. Pe
arson couldn’t sustain eye contact with me. He hung his head sheepishly as if he had just dispensed his first death sentence. His futility in these seconds undoubtedly equaled my own.
“I wish I had better news for you, Corbin. Believe me, if I suspected that you even had a twenty percent chance of making it off the table alive, I’d recommend the surgery. But I’ve never before seen dilations quite like the ones you’ve developed. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still walking around.”
“It’s okay, Dr. Pearson,” I assured him. “I respect your honesty.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t blame you for seeking a second opinion. In fact, I’d feel better if you did.”
“That won’t be necessary. You know, I probably already suspected what you were going to tell me before I came in here. This was just confirmation. I’ll deal with it in my own way.”
If I was being earnest, I hadn’t yet determined precisely what my next move might’ve been or even where I’d focus my thoughts once departing this office. Dr. Pearson must’ve detected the puzzlement in my expression as I stood up from the chair and paced over to the nearest window. I glanced through the slats of a vertical blind, watching another line of storm clouds clot the sky. “Looks like we’re due for some more rain,” I remarked, hoping to frame my thoughts on something other than my inescapable doom.
“I didn’t notice anyone in the waiting room with you,” Dr. Pearson returned, ignoring my impromptu weather forecast. “Did you come here by yourself?” After I nodded my head in the affirmative, he forwarded a trite suggestion. “Maybe you should call your wife and have her pick you up. It’s probably not a good idea that you’re driving anyway.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted. “It’s not my style to trouble people.”
“This is your wife we’re talking about. I’m sure she wouldn’t be bothered, especially in light of these circumstances. You can’t handle this by yourself. She’s going to need to help you get around in the coming weeks.”
“Really,” I said, barely withholding a saccharine chuckle. “Do you think I’ll even be around that long?” My question, of course, was intentionally sarcastic, but apparently Dr. Pearson skipped the seminar on subtle shots of cynicism.
“It’s hard to say how much time you have,” he replied while tucking his pen back into his coat’s pocket. “If your headaches continue to worsen and the black outs become increasingly regular and sporadic…well, I think we both know that isn’t very encouraging.”
“But if you were a betting man, how much time would you say I really have?” I expected this inquiry to cause the doctor some distress. I presumed most people presented this question to him after the phase of denial diminished. “There’s no point in holding back anything from me now,” I goaded him.
“Would it make any difference if I told you a week, a month, or a year?”
“It might cut down on my Book-of-the-Month purchases,” I jested.
“Look, I don’t like to play guessing games when estimating someone’s lifespan.”
“I’m not asking for guesswork, Doctor. I’m asking for your professional opinion.”
“There’s not a physician in this world who can be a hundred percent accurate all the time. Because of the fallible nature of science, curatives, and other unknowable factors, I’d rather not speculate.”
“Other unknowable factors?” I repeated. “And what might those be?”
“Well, for one: your willpower, Corbin. There’s no failsafe technique to measure someone’s desire to live. That alone sometimes prolongs life.”
I appreciated the doctor’s diplomatic approach. After all, it wasn’t painless work wielding the Grim Reaper’s sickle on a daily basis. I continued to circle the room’s interior, tracing my fingertips along a cart of medical apparatuses, looking at a wall calendar displaying an array of antique clocks, before angling back behind my chair to face Dr. Pearson again. I must’ve seemed like I was searching for an answer that neither of us had the privilege to divulge.
“So what’s next, Doctor?”
“My advice is for you to go home and relax,” he suggested mechanically. “Don’t do anything too strenuous, nothing that’ll get your blood pumping too quickly.”
“I’ll be sure to cancel my cage fighting exhibition,” I smirked. By now, Dr. Pearson must’ve recognized how I deflected emotional pain with humor. In this instance, I managed to coax a tiny grin from the man’s taut mouth. But his mirth was merely a prelude to a contentious topic.
“I’d really feel more comfortable if you left here with your wife,” he reiterated. “I’ll have my receptionist call her if you’re not feeling up to it.”
Dr. Pearson must’ve secretly perceived me as a potentially reckless pilot ready to unleash myself into the flux of routine. I understood his concern. I couldn’t assure him that I wouldn’t pass out while driving and swerve into oncoming traffic, or simply do so without falling unconscious—thereby taking a proactive role in my own demise.
“I know a diagnosis like this isn’t easy to accept,” he continued, dealing the sympathy card with a magician’s legerdemain. “You can stay in this office for as long as you like, maybe even lie down for a bit to gather your sensibilities.”
I attempted to exude a distinct placidness, but my ruse obviously wasn’t going to win me any academy awards. Dr. Pearson had observed too many anguished faces to misinterpret my unsettled state of mind. “Just appease me and call your wife,” he repeated. “I don’t want you to be alone while driving home.”
“Oh, don’t fret about such nonsense,” I countered. “I’m never really alone.” The doctor seemed troubled by the abstruse inflection in my voice. Naturally, he couldn’t resist investigating my motives further.
“I’m getting an odd feeling that you’re holding something inside. Do you have anything else to tell me?”
“Nothing pertinent springs to mind.”
Dr. Pearson removed his gleaming pen from his coat again, this time also clutching a prescription pad from a counter close to where he sat. “I’m going to prescribe you something that’ll help with your anxiety,” he said while scribbling his signature on a sheet of Rx paper. “It’s a mild sedative, nothing too potent.”
“Just what I needed,” I groaned, “More mind-altering substances.”
He tore the slip of paper from the pad and dangled it in front of me as if I was a junkie in need of a fix, but I didn’t make a motion for it. “Trust me, it’ll help lessen your anxiousness,” he insisted. “Go ahead and take it.”
“No thanks, Doctor. I’d rather stay clear-headed for whatever time I have left.”
“You don’t have to prove you’re a hero to me. None of us are that brave when facing a medical crisis. At least this medicine will help you sleep at night.”
“Please,” I tittered with purposeful amusement. “The last thing I want to do is fall asleep. Haven’t I told you how many times I’ve passed out today already?”
“Not specifically.”
“I don’t plan on taking any more drugs,” I said firmly. “But I do have another question to ask you before I leave.”
“Okay. Go ahead.”
“I’m not sure how many patients you’ve treated with aneurysms in the past, but is it normal for a person in my condition to experience dreams when he passes out?” Predictably, Dr. Pearson stalled before forwarding a response; the mark of a competent physician required him to pensively deliberate each question asked of him whether he knew the answer to it or not.
“Well, it’s never wise to speak in absolutes,” he offered, “but studies have shown that brain activity is still present even when a patient is comatose. Providing that your brain is still functioning, dreaming will occur reflexively.”
“But would it be likely to remember the dreams in detail?”
“Less than likely,” he replied. “Is that what’s happening to you?”
I nodded my chin and smeared a layer of perspiration from my forehead. “The odd thing is, Dr. P
earson, I remember more minutiae about my dreams today than any of the others I’ve ever had before. It’s almost impossible to describe to you how vivid these images are. Honestly, it’s like there’s no clear boundary between reality and fantasy for me right now.”
The doctor hesitated on cue, this time even scratching his index finger against the side of his temple to emphasize his contemplation. “I wish I had a concrete answer for you, Corbin. However, I will go on record and say that the human brain is very a complex organ. Two people may experience the exact same condition, yet their symptoms will often be entirely dissimilar. Now, if it’s the content of your subconscious thoughts that’s worrying you, I’m afraid we’re straying toward a discipline that I’m not qualified to comment upon.”
“So I’d be better off seeing a shrink in this regard?”
“Why don’t we just take one step at a time, okay? At the moment, all I want you to do is call your wife, tell her to come and pick you up, and then go home and take it easy.”
Since Dr. Pearson had nothing worthwhile for me to mull over, it seemed like an appropriate moment for me take my leave from him. When I started toward the room’s door, however, I felt the doctor’s hand fasten around my wrist.
“I don’t think you’re quite ready to go yet,” he insisted. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
I lowered my eyes methodically and stared at his fingers clasped around my arm; this was my nonverbal clue for him to relinquish his grip. “You’ve told me everything I needed to know,” I remarked. “There’s not too much left for us to talk about.”
“Corbin, I’ve been in this situation numerous times before with patients. You need to let me help you.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be okay. Besides, you’ve already told me that there’s nothing you can do to change my fate.”
“At least let your wife drive you home. That’s all I’m asking.”
I must’ve twitched maliciously before I glared at the doctor. Then, in a moment where my civility weakened, I uttered, “Please stop asking me to seek my wife’s help. Did it ever occur to you that if she really gave two shits about me, she’d already be here?”
Dr. Pearson’s complexion became as colorless as his lab coat as he pondered my words. “I’m sorry. I just assumed she didn’t know you were coming to see me today.”
“Oh, she knew. In fact, I intentionally had her remind me of my appointment earlier today.” At this point all Dr. Pearson managed to do was nod his head compliantly while standing up from his chair. “I was hoping that things between you and your wife would’ve improved since the last time we spoke. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, Corbin, okay?”
I then opened the door to the examining room without further protest from the doctor, but I dallied as another unrelated thought popped into my mind. “Well, since you offered,” I said, grinningly. “If you don’t mind, I do have one last question for you.”
“Sure.”
“I know I’m not being terribly original, but I bet a lot of patients come in here and tell you that you could pass for Elvis’s double.”
My statement caused a bit of blush to resurface in Dr. Pearson’s cheeks as he admitted, “Actually, I do hear that quite a bit. I’m not so sure how valid it is, though.”
“You needn’t be so coy with me, Doctor. Just tell me what’s your all-time favorite song by the King?”
“Geez, you’re putting me on the spot. To tell you the truth, I haven’t listened to a song by Elvis in years.”
“You’re being modest again,” I countered. “Come on, let me have it.”
“Okay,” Dr. Pearson conceded with a chuckle. “If I had to pick one, I suppose it’d be the song played at my twentieth wedding anniversary a few years ago. My wife, Karen, is an Elvis aficionado, by the way. Anyway, I think it’s called ‘The Wonder of You’.”
“Ah, that’s a tear-jerker. And a poignant ditty for a wedding anniversary, I might add.”
“Karen thought so, too.” When Dr. Pearson referenced his wife, a gleam filtered into eyes that reminded me of two newly minted nickels. I once had that same look of fresh love and would’ve consciously done anything to reacquaint myself with this feeling. The doctor now felt comfortable with my inquiry. “As long as we’re on the topic, do you have a favorite Elvis song?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I replied wryly. “Mine is entitled ‘Suspicious Minds,’ and, for obvious reasons, it also reminds me of my wife.”
Dr. Pearson had nothing to forward to curtail my overt cynicism. Perhaps my jadedness was acerbic enough to wilt the flowery poetry of even Lord Byron himself. I then excused myself from the doctor’s company without any further commentary. When I returned to the receptionist’s desk, she didn’t bother asking me if I wanted to schedule another appointment. After all, it would’ve seemed like a superfluous gesture at this irrevocable stage of my illness. Still, something that couldn’t be overlooked was my co-payment, and this obligation stalled me long enough so that I was able to glance into the waiting room where I earlier meet Benjamin Hunchler. I reconnoitered the entire area, and then realized that the old man was no longer in the office. From there, my attention fixated on the receptionist.
“Where did that old guy go?” I asked her plainly, but perhaps more abruptly than she was accustomed. She stared at me with a deadpan visage, not even flicking so much as an eyelid to acknowledge my concern. I repeated myself, but her lips tightened as if they’d been hermetically sealed. “Didn’t you see that fellow in the waiting room with me a few minutes ago?”
“Mr. Cobbs,” she finally stated, “there’s nobody in the waiting room.”
“Well, I can see that now.” After another reconnaissance of the entire office, I became more inflexible. “But he was in there ten minutes ago. You must’ve seen me talking to him.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, which indicated a heightened level of perplexity. “His name is Benjamin Hunchler. You couldn’t have missed him leaving.”
My insistence didn’t produce any clarity in the woman’s expression. If anything, she appeared intimidated by my assertion. I watched her eyes scan across a computer screen, before she cross-referenced the name I mentioned with a list of scheduled appointments on her desktop.
“We don’t even have a Benjamin Hunchler as a patient on record here,” she affirmed.
“That’s impossible,” I muttered. I maneuvered back into the area where I’d conversed with the codger. A slight odor of cherry tobacco and stale sweat lingered on the chair he sat upon, but certainly not with enough pungency for the receptionist to distinguish. I pressed my hand on the cushion’s nylon fabric, checking for body warmth; the material was noticeably cool. “I swear he was sitting right in this chair,” I hollered across the office to the receptionist. “I spoke to him as surely as I’m speaking to you right now.”
The woman refrained from reiterating her account, but her gaze softened considerably as I stepped into the waiting room’s forefront. She most likely concluded that my disease had somehow hindered my ability to discriminate reality from mirages. I might’ve accepted this explanation as a possibility, but I hadn’t blacked out since entering the doctor’s office. As I lurched back toward the receptionist’s windowed enclosure, my mannerisms belied the determination I still harbored on this matter.
“Maybe you turned around for a minute and didn’t see him walk out,” I persisted.
She shook her head emphatically before stating, “Mr. Cobbs, you were the only patient I scheduled to see the doctor for the remainder of this afternoon.”
“That can’t be accurate. Check your records. Your files must be wrong.”
“They’re never wrong.”
“But I saw you watching us. You were looking straight at me when I was sitting next to him. Why don’t you remember?”
“I only saw you, Mr. Cobbs.”
By now, I was hunched over the counter’s ledge, brushing my fingertips through the top of my thinning hair. My obvious a
gitation caused the receptionist to scoot back into her seat. “Maybe I really am going bonkers,” I muttered. “How is it possible that I imagined talking to someone who was never even in this office?”
My rhetorical debate failed to inspire the receptionist to comment again. I still refused to believe that the incident under scrutiny was a byproduct of my sickness, but before I gathered the stamina to argue my point further, Dr. Pearson appeared from the adjacent room. His emergence spawned a sigh of relief from his suddenly distraught receptionist. She promptly retreated into the backroom, while Dr. Pearson assumed the duty of assuaging my discontent whether I welcomed it or not. Based on his placidness, I assumed he already overheard the gist of my dispute.
“Is everything okay, Corbin?”
“No,” I uttered. “I’m not sure what’s going on.” I proceeded to explain to him what I told his receptionist. Of course, he nodded his head discerningly as I spoke, pretending to process what he had no intention of entertaining as factual. At least he offered a palpable theory to support his disbelief.
“Weren’t we just having a discussion about your dreams? This is a prime example of where your hallucinations are becoming more problematic.”
“This wasn’t a dream,” I avowed. “That old guy was sitting in your waiting room, Doctor. I saw him as clearly as I see you right now. My mind hasn’t betrayed me completely.”
“Very well,” said Dr. Pearson, perhaps in an attempt to pacify me. “Supposing that you actually did talk to an older gentleman a few minutes ago, did he happen to mention his name?”
“Of course. He used to be a foreman at the labeling plant where my father worked. His name is Benjamin Hunchler.”
Dr. Pearson furrowed his brow as if he swallowed a phial of his own bitter medicine. He adjusted the collar on his shirt, and I then noticed his face turning a bit pasty. “What did you say his name was again?” he asked, incredulously.
“Hunchler. He goes by the name of Benji.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Why would I make up something like that?”
“Good question,” Dr. Pearson answered, apparently baffled by my response. I watched him pace out into the waiting room, scanning the area as tenaciously as I had permitted my own eyes to do a few moments ago. He then stared at me with a dumbfounded expression. “Tell me something, Corbin, have you ever spoken to this man before you came into my office today?”
“No. I didn’t even know who he was until he told me. Is he a patient of yours or not?”
Dr. Pearson used the sleeve of his lab coat to dab a layer of perspiration from his forehead. When he opened his mouth again his voice was almost as jittery as my own. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but you couldn’t have talked to that particular gentleman.”
“Then you do know him, Doctor, don’t you?”
“I…I did know him,” he returned. “I…I mean, Benjamin Hunchler was a patient of mine.”
“Was?”
The doctor shook his head pensively before revealing, “He died of throat cancer five years ago.”
“Five years ago? Then how is it possible that he was just in here?”
“It’s not.”
Dr. Pearson’s confession silenced me as if my tongue had twisted into a knot. Neither of us offered a cogent syllable for several seconds. I recalled noticing the scars on Benji’s neck, and the bloody phlegm he spat into a handkerchief. Every other detail suddenly became fuzzy in my mind as I slumped my shoulders like a man no longer capable of meting out fiction from fact. My next statement must’ve sounded incredibly despondent. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
“You’re obviously undergoing an extreme level of distress right now,” he offered. “As I told you before, you can’t go through this ordeal on your own. I think your way of coping with this illness has somehow intensified these manifestations in your mind.”
“That’s a logical response,” I said. “But we’re not talking about what’s logical anymore. If we were, you’d be able to tell me why I just met a patient of yours who died five years ago.”
“You’re right. I don’t have that answer, Corbin.”
In order to sever the tension hovering between us, I randomly sang a line out of tune from my favorite song by Elvis. “We can’t go on together with suspicious minds…can we, Doctor Pearson?” The King of Rock’s doppelganger smirked at my gesture, but it wasn’t a genuine show of mirth on his behalf.
“I’ll need some more time to think about your symptoms,” he declared.
“I suppose not all things can be explained after all.” As the doctor processed my words without a rebuttal, I suspected that our discourse had no further direction to go. I required nothing else from this physician. When I motioned for the exit this time, he didn’t attempt to dissuade me. I imagined that many of his present and former patients shuffled from the premises with a similar sense of pointlessness after receiving such a grim prognosis. Certainly, Benjamin Hunchler had worn a pathway through this threshold more times than he cared to recount.
Within a few minutes I was situated behind the wheel of my Volkswagen, but the sensation of uneasiness accompanying my footsteps to the car gradually transformed into a humble tolerance. Besides, whether I wished to accept my fate or not was secondary to the circumstance. I was dying at a rapid pace, and most likely didn’t have enough time or mental acuity to accomplish my dreams. I gathered that it was quite commonplace for a man to agonize his shortcomings in moments where he pondered his own mortality. I was no different in this capacity.
With my hands latched white-knuckled on the steering wheel, I surveyed the contents of my vehicle, hoping to rediscover the lone object that delivered me to tranquil plateaus throughout my lifetime. A new black leather-bound journal still remained on the passenger’s seat. I had stuck one fountain pen in the book’s spine, but not a drop of ink yet flowed from this utensil to its intended target. My procrastination almost seemed unforgivable to me now. Instead of writing prose or poetry in moments of woe, as I had done so habitually as a boy, I had created excuses to avoid what I cherished as much as the air I breathed. I wondered how many other writers suffered in silence. Giving myself permission to fail was my first mistake. I had forecast my own futility as an artist and a man, and it pained me beyond words to consider that I hadn’t time to rectify this egregious assault upon my sensibilities.
If there was still a place where I allotted myself the freedom to explore, it existed in the confines of my imagination. In this instance, the unfettered byways of youth caused me to shiver with an unquenchable yearning. Who among us didn’t wish to be eternally young and vibrant in spirit? Had we all been afforded a chance to revisit our most innocent years, few would’ve retreated from the journey. Wouldn’t it have been grand to do so on the mere premise that we’d correct the travesties of our past? It was only in the spellbound solitude of my episodes that I rediscovered the essence of my existence. For the first time today, I succumbed to my unconsciousness without a flicker of reservation.
Chapter 58
3:22 P.M.
The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs Page 58