Four minutes and half a life
Written in response to: "Set your story during a total eclipse — either natural, or man-made."
Everyone was speaking about it. It was the day when celestial bodies would meet, the light would disappear, and magic would happen: the total eclipse was about to happen, and no one would shut up about it. It would only last four minutes, but I had heard about it for weeks. No matter what channel I set on the television, someone spoke about it: science lovers, adventure junkies, romance seekers, first timers, experienced people... everybody wanted to be there, feel it, be able to say "I was there," but I didn't. I couldn't care less because a) I lived far away from the places where I could see it, b) I was not about to move a single finger to experience it, and c) I had something much worse to do at that time.
I know people choose the better things when given options, but sometimes, we don't choose; we simply have instructions to follow. So, by the time thousands of people would be wearing weird glasses and cheering to the sky, I would be wearing an odd gown, some lousy headphones, and looking at the walls of a white tube. While so many people would be outdoors, I would feel my heart jumping and my veins pumping, laying in a cold chamber. People would be cheering outside. Inside, all I could hear would be the deafening "Pam- Pam- Pam- Pam..." Why do those machines do that? If Science has progressed so much, why has no one invented a noise-canceling thing to attach to that machine... and, if it indeed exists, why did my hospital not adopt the latest technology? Once inside, I wished I were not claustrophobic but deaf—although I don't think I have fear of tiny spaces. What I feared then was what that small space would do to my life.
The days before the test, I tried to keep my cool around the family. Nothing good comes from a stressed mother. I worked, did my chores around the house, helped the older kids with their homework, and played with the smaller one. Whenever I felt the nerves were catching up with me, I read, gamed, and cooked. I baked as well. I baked a lot. The worst part of baking was that, although I usually don't eat the cakes, cookies, and pastries I bake, this time, I did. At a certain point, I stopped myself from licking the baking trays, which was not a good sign. The stress was eating me, and I was eating whatever was before me.
So, I tried to behave as usual, but it didn't go according to plan because the usual chaos at home does not tolerate good intentions. I tried to cook and eat healthy, but that did not work because I became a very hungry hippo. No matter how healthy you cook, eating five portions is not healthy anymore. Then, I started to think... to think a lot. My mind was not only worried about work and family, shopping lists, bills, and the wall I realized I had to paint since the dogs confused it with a chewing toy... No. I started to have dark thoughts about my life, and believe me: that was not good either. I began to think about my father.
"I will never turn fifty." That's what my father used to say whenever someone accused him of enjoying an excessive lifestyle. He had a good and whole life, and I am sure he heard those comments many times, but he did not seem to care, laughed back at them, and kept doing whatever he wanted. I don't think he ever feared failing anyone but himself, which is an excellent way to care less about what people think about us and focus on what makes us happy. It is a way of life, but only for some. I have a pathological fear of deceiving others. A few years ago, someone asked me if I had ever had suicidal thoughts, and the only thing I could think about was who would do the laundry if I was missing. I know it is ridiculous, but the amount of laundry at home is of an industrial- scale... still, it is absurd. I never thought about ending my life, but I fantasized about how it would be to be surrounded by nothing but a beautiful void...
I entered a white tube to scan my insides at forty-five, the same age my father was when he was diagnosed with his first cancer. As predicted by that man-- who I'm not sure if he was wise or just "lucky"-- he never turned fifty. He died at forty-nine, surrounded by party friends and a few "I-told-you-so" relatives, with a life full of stories and memories that could fill three lives of regular humans walking the Earth.
I would not like to follow his steps, though, because I never did before. When I was younger, I was not rebellious or adventurous. I did not travel the world as he did. I spent half my life in offices working for other people. I was not entrepreneurial. I did not risk (and lose) it all to re-invent myself and become a modern Phoenix. Compared to him, I am boring, and I have only lived half of what I should—only half a life.
I laid down on my belly, closed my eyes, and held the panic button with my left hand. One of the nurses put me some earplugs and headphones with music.
"Don't move," they told me. "It will only take fifteen or twenty minutes," they said.
My toes were weirdly curved, and my arms were extended as if I were in a bank robbery. Still, considering the circumstances, I behaved very well. I did not move even if my nose was itching. I did not move even when the "Pam, Pam, Pam, Pam" reminded me of EDM (Electric Dance Music), and I pictured my younger son dancing in the middle of the living room. The thing I tried not to think of was my children, but there I was, remembering how Leo jumped across the room. I behaved well and did not think of all the terrible events that could come after that medical appointment. I was nervous, but I did not cry. I was tired, but I smiled at the nurses because that's how I was taught to be: always nice...
The noise ended. The test ended. One of the nurses came to pick me up. She helped me leave the white cocoon, the earplugs, and the headphones behind.
"Someone will call you," they told me. I smiled again.
I picked up my clothes and got dressed. I left the room and met my husband, who happily showed me the eclipse news on his phone...
"It's cool," I said, looking at the ring on the screen.
"Twenty more years for the next one," he replied.
I smiled because I always do, but what I thought was about punching the phone... That was yesterday. Tomorrow someone will call me.
