The premise for this story came to me recently as I waited to see my doctor.
I had an appointment, just a routine yearly examination and nothing more, at a doctor's office which was a 20- or 30-minute drive away. I now find that I have quite unexplainably become a poor judge of travel time and, as I drove, it seemed that the minutes on the clock in my car didn't move quickly enough.
I really didn't want to spend more time than necessary in the office's waiting room. After all, that's where all the sick people hang out, so I pulled onto the parking lot of a Lowe's Store. I walked along several aisles, and I suppose it may have been the look on my face or my demeanor but, apparently, a cordial young lady wearing a blue smock believed I needed help.
"Can I help you," the voice of the female employee asked.
I may have looked surprised, or maybe she just thought I was entering the preliminary stages of senility.
"Is there something I can help you find?"
After the passage of a few uncomfortable and awkward seconds, I answered both of her questions.
"No thanks, I have an appointment here in town, and I'm a little early. I'm just killing time."
I was certain that I had spoken those words thousands of times before but, at that precise moment in time, they struck a chord. Their meaning had somehow been changed.
"Was I just killing time until I left this place and you good folks behind?"
It appears I have spent far too many hours, and yes days, just killing time. Waiting for one thing or another has far too often been the rule in my life, and the saddest thing of all is the admission that I have accepted those ill-spent moments. There is so truly little time in our lives to find meaningful moments that the opportunities to experience those beautiful and memorable times should not be squandered, and squander them I regretfully have.
I know that I am such a small and insignificant morsel in the banquet of life, but I am so afraid. No, I am not afraid to leave this life behind. No, I am not afraid to go to a place that I know nothing about. I am afraid that I will leave my life behind having learned and known so very little. I am fearful of the thoughts which keep me awake each dark night, those thoughts that speak to me of my ignorance about everything around me. These thoughts of ignorance which torment me so cruelly each night try to reinforce the belief that for all my life, I have just been killing time, nothing more.
It has been some years now, but I recall spending a few months just killing time. My ill wife and I sat quietly in the small conference room at the cancer treatment center. Her physician, an authority in the treatment of cancer entered the room with a nurse. The two spoke some sort of cordial greeting but, as I now recall, there were no smiles; I honestly wasn't listening at first as I was much more interested in the words to follow.
The doctor then described the extensive treatments Robin had received and identified the small number of successes and the seemingly unending list of failures. He then got more to the point. The doctor expressed his regrets but had to give my wife and I the news we didn't want to hear. He said there were no more treatment options available and all hope for her survival was lost.
I remember the sadness that came over me and wondered why hope was such an incredibly easy thing to lose.
Robin and I left for home without much conversation. Honestly, I didn't know what to say. We spent the next few weeks together talking and reminiscing about the life we had together. Looking back on those painful weeks, I wish I had expressed my feelings better, but that chance has passed and there is no resurrecting it. I now feel as though those few weeks were spent waiting for the darkest day of my life to arrive. Those weeks were spent just killing time.
Try as I may, I can't seem to imagine even the slightest possibility that a momentous moment might find its way into my far too dreary world. I guess I'm waiting for a miracle of purpose to find its way into my life; either that or the beginning of a journey to the beautiful sparkling stars. I suppose whichever comes first will be given to me by the grace of fate. In the meantime, I'm just killing time.
Now, and as I separate myself from your good company, I will tell you of my future plans. I will just be killing time or, if I were to express myself more frankly, "time will be killing me." Anyway, as my never-to-be-forgotten son, David, often said; "It is what it is" and try as I may, there's no way to change that.
The thought of wishing I had someone to kill the remaining time with has crossed my mind, but I suppose that's a wish that must be made by two people: me and someone special.
When I was young, there were three words I hated to hear my mother speak, "go to bed." Those words signaled the sad ending to another day. I sometimes lay in bed with eyes wide open just waiting for morning and another day of potential fun and adventure.
Now I look forward to the idea of going to bed as it marks the end of the day. I sometimes find sleep hard to find as I think about yet another day; a day that certainly can't bring with it anything good, and a day when I'll just be killing time.
As I reflect on these past several years, I suppose I have devoted far more time writing about my life than truly living it. I fear that I have little or nothing left within me to contribute to the world I see around me.
I sometimes think about a time when I am gone. I hear some folks say that they'll miss life, but I wonder. When I was nothing and before my mother birthed me and held me in her loving arms, was I unhappy? If I was sad, I surely don't recall it. Maybe I've just become numb.
I write these words neither asking for nor seeking sympathy. I have merely expressed my opinion regarding the remaining years of my existence, and I find that I have neither the means nor inclination to alter that view.
I fall asleep each night accepting the interpretation for what it is and wait for yet another morning made just for me.
Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel. Stan's connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. The opinions expressed are those of the author.