On Station
What you’re waiting for is still being built.
The delay is love, not punishment.
The trip home from the hospital was uneventful. This time, she felt ready to go. In May, she complained they sent her home too soon—and I think they did. But now, I can already tell: she’s stronger. The infection’s still there, but we’re back on oral antibiotics, and there’s a new determination to get her blood sugar under control.
Friends brought lunch. A modest, thoughtful meal. But they included a box of donuts. The neighbors are enjoying them.
I’m still shocked by how casually people eat—especially when they’re sick. We haven’t always been saints with our food choices either, but since crossing the mid-century mark, we’ve become more conscious of what we put in our mouths.
The friends who brought the donuts are chronically ill; their full-time job is visiting doctors. And here we are, barely hanging on, and even we rarely eat anything that sweet anymore.
Although, I’ll admit—there was a time not long ago. During the pandemic, I’d sneak down to the local QT for a Diet Coke and a cinnamon roll. God, that was a treat. Probably also why my blood pressure refuses to budge, even with the new meds.
Tomorrow I get a CT scan of my heart. Exciting stuff. I’m hoping it comes back clean, like last week’s labs did—nothing out of range. Still, the uncertainty gnaws at me. Instead of making me feel relieved, the clean results make me panic. If nothing’s wrong on paper, what’s causing the hypertension?
Is heart surgery in my future?
My wife says no. I’m active—30 minutes on the treadmill daily at 120 bpm, 20 push-ups, 100 crunches, leg lifts. No chest pain. No shortness of breath. She thinks it’s not a physical defect, maybe just genetics. I don’t know. Between the CT, an echocardiogram, and a consult with a cardiologist, I should know in about a week.
Maybe it’s chronic worry. Maybe all of this—every spike in pressure, every pang of fear—is childhood trauma hardwired into my body chemistry. A constant, invisible drip of stress hormones that no amount of treadmill time can fully flush out.
If I were a comic book character, this would be my origin story: Heartburn Man, forged in cortisol, fueled by unresolved dread. Hero or villain? Depends on the day.
What’s weird is how health stuff has suddenly become the backdrop to everything. We had three and a half decades of living for the experience—full speed ahead. And now? Now, we’re living for balance. Stability. Blood sugar logs and follow-up visits. We’re on the other side of life.
Still, it’s not all grim. I have a lead on a job. Editing and graphics for a local TV station. It probably doesn’t pay well, but it’s something. After the last ten years of high-pressure freelance work, “low stress” sounds like a promotion. I could shoot and edit video in my sleep.
My friend—the one selling his mulch business—just had his deal fall through. I’m sad for him. I know how badly he wanted out. I won’t lie: I was a little jealous. Funny how human minds work.
I’m also reading a new book—one I never thought I’d pick up. It’s intriguing. Not sure I like it yet, but I’m giving it a chance. If I stick with it, I’ll tell you about it.
For now, I’ll leave you with a poem. Something I wrote last year, recently revised. We’re still in the thick of things, but today—today we came home.
And that’s something.
I am waiting for the train.
Many have run today—
but none were mine.
They race the tracks
in the wrong direction.
So I wait,
patiently.
Watch and wait,
and busy myself with
mundane things
to pass the time.
I make friends
who come
and go.
I miss them—
sometimes with sadness,
or frustration,
but often
with a quiet grin.
I thought it would come at noon.
Then again at two.
Now it's six,
and all I know is this:
My line is running today.
But the conductor
has a wicked sense of humor,
and midnight
is still hours away.
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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