I’m lying on a narrow bed, staring up at a fluorescent light set into a speckled ceiling tile.
Pink ankle socks peek out from under a blanket so thin it barely qualifies. A paper gown, tied loosely at the neck.
The curtain is closed by one of those industrial paper clips, but not quite. There’s a gap at the edge. Enough to remind me I’m not alone.
These rooms are lined up in a row. Identical. I’m somewhere in the middle of them.
Just a curtain between each of us. Thin fabric standing in for walls.
Here I wait. A routine screening. One that requires a pretty uncomfortable 24 hour prep. Clear liquids only. A special cocktail from the pharmacy to help you ‘flush’ your system. If you know…you know.
Caught up in my discomfort and the voice in my head complaining about the sleepless night and the wicked headache I’m sporting.
Next door.
What brings you here?
A lady with a British accent responds.
I don’t know. My doctor said I needed it.
You have a lot of tattoos.
Yeah, 9-10. I can’t remember.
Are you allergic to anything?
No.
Do you smoke?
Yes.
How many per day?
Round about 10.
Who’s picking you up today?
My husband.
Do they even know I’m here?
My turn.
Routine screening. I’m at the ‘that’ age.
Any symptoms? Nope. Just here to check it off the list. Not a smoker.
Brandon, my husband.
The gentleman next to me.
Sounds like he’s in his 20s, but I never did see him.
Here because he’s lost 30 lbs in the last 3 months.
He has no appetite. A condition. Inflammation that started in the lungs.
And is now in the brain stem.
His vocal chords are frozen and his esophagus doesn’t work.
Steroids worked for a time.
On the whole he’s down 60 lbs in 2 years He’s 5’7 and 117 pounds.
My heart sank. His brother is picking him up.
Minutes before I left for this appointment, I was standing in my bathroom, pairing a new smart scale.
Watching numbers sync to an app. Body fat. Muscle mass. Progress.
Thinking about how to optimize it all.
I’d spent the morning annoyed. Head pounding. Running on no sleep. Thinking mostly about coffee and how ridiculous this whole prep felt.
Now I’m here.
Staring at the ceiling.
Heart aching for this stranger.
How different things can be. How random. Why him?
Me with my smart scale. Him with an esophagus that doesn’t work.
Three feet away.
A man I’ll never meet. And somehow, I care deeply about what happens to him.
Three feet away, it’s impossible not to care.
Distance changes everything.
I wonder how much of the world we’d see differently if we got that close more often.
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