Hidden Stories

As I sit in the doctor's waiting room with its seemingly mismatched furniture, at least until the pattern is discerned, I gaze at my fellow waiters. Only one is younger than me although from the look on his face and his on-going mouth breathing, he feels much older, but that is only temporary whereas my age is a reality - albeit a fleeting one.

If I am fortunate, I will reach the other end of the spectrum of life that is sitting across the room with walker at her side. The soft couch on which she sits seems to be swallowing her whole although because of her diminished size and frailty, she no longer represents a full meal. The others in the room, while older than me, are sitting patiently with thoughts unknown, but their minds continue to produce just as does my imagination. We all are simply moving along our individual progression through seconds, minutes and days.

Like the furniture, the other patient patients at first seem mismatched with nothing in common, but on closer look, once again, the pattern can be discerned. We share a common story pattern - birth, life, death - and we undoubtedly share many of the same chapters in our book of life. How fascinating it would be if these personal stories were like the books in a library – available to anyone at anytime. Although there is not time in a lifetime to read all of the books, one can pick and choose those that appear interesting. Imagine if the same were true of people - everyone an open book that you could read just by asking and in doing so, have a Forest Gump experience.

Excuse me frail lady with the walker, but I would like to check you out and read the pages of your life. Tell me your stories, the ones of a birth in which your mother almost died but then went on the bear 8 more children, in which your father worked two and sometimes three jobs in order to provide food, shelter and clothing for your family, in which your parents did without so much to assure that you and the other children would be able to go to college. Tell me of how you chose to work so that your younger brother, the next on line, could go to a better school, how during the depression, your brothers and sisters and you would pass clothing - jackets, pants, dresses, shoes and even underwear, from one to another skipping the order only for your third sister (the fifty child) who, at an early age, outgrew her older siblings. Tell me of the time when a Saturday matinee was a weekly, then once a month and finally a once a year treat, of when your brother with the college education that you had gifted to him, was killed in the war and your sister who grew so quickly died from the cancerous cells that also grew just as quickly. Share with me the stories of your loves - the first who was lost during the war in the Pacific never to be seen and how you wonder to this day what became of him and of your second love who was your husband for 53 years before he was taken away to a place we all will go. Tell me of the years of happiness - your wedding, your children, your friends, your activities, your hobbies, your travels and all that makes up the fullness of your life. But tell me too of the sadness for no life is lived on one side of the emotion road. So tell me of the loss of your parents - first your father who after giving so much to his family had retired and within weeks was diagnosed with a terminable disease and was dead within weeks, and next your mother who always had been there for you and everyone, and then was alone to learn the skills that she had never acquired from driving to balancing a checking account to making reservations to living as a single old woman, proud of her life until the day she lay down in her bed where she dreamt about all who had left her in this earthly world and quietly joined them in peace. The same peace that you hope to achieve but you are not yet ready to go gently into that eternal night for although you are not afraid of death, you are not ready to stop living. Tell me that you still have so much that interests you and gives you joy - friends with which to visit, songs to sing, books to read, games to play, food to enjoy, loving children to appreciate and especially delicious grandchildren to love and cherish, and to tell your life stories for you have not written a book but your stories are hidden inside to be shared as gifts and perhaps one of your grandchildren will remember the stories and share them with your great grandchild still waiting to be created and in doing so continue your life.

But alas, the stories of my fellow patients are not available for perusal, and so, I will just have to be satisfied with my imagination . . . but that isn’t so bad, not at all.