There is a place that everyone visits at some stage in their life, but almost no one goes there of their own free will.
For me, this happened six weeks ago.
There I was, happily enjoying my life surrounded by all the supposed fruits of the Western ideal: An existentially satisfying vocation with a half-decent pay packet, a loving family, financial stability, and good health save for the hernia I acquired trying to lift something that was way too heavy, back in my mid-thirties. (I really should get that fixed one day).
Sure, my wife had been mildly unwell for some time, but we never could have imagined what was to come. When the doctor sat down with us, I could tell that he didn’t have good news. His demeanor was grave and serious, and there was a palpable tension hanging in the air.
“The cancer,” he said, “Is quite advanced. It’s what we call a Stage 4 cancer, which means it has spread from where it has started to other parts of your body.”
My wife listened intently — stoically even — but I zoned out at that point. I had visited “Dr Google” enough times over the past few days to understand just how serious my wife’s diagnosis was. And at that very moment, everything that had seemed certain came crashing down.
Hopes.
Dreams.
Plans.
Any sense of control.
All gone in one fell swoop.
I have spent the days since simultaneously grieving over what feels like a lost future while trying to be hopeful and optimistic for those around me who depend on me for strength. It’s lonely.
I can’t but my finger on it, exactly but I know that I can’t go back to the way things were before, but I don’t know the way forward either. I feel utterly lost and hopeless — like I am stuck in an in-between space.
What do you call that space between what was and what will be? You know the space I’m talking about, right? It’s a place that everyone visits at some stage in their life, but almost no one goes there of their own free will.