The room was silent except for a steady beat of the monitor, scribbles like cracks in pavement frantically drawn on the black screen.  He lay motionless on the narrow hospital bed in excruciating pain.  There was a feeding tube, like the hole on an inflatable toy, on his chest.  He was completely deflated…emaciated, his legs like twigs outlined by a light blue blanket.  A large cross necklace rested on his bony chest and murmuring heart.  His name was Timothy, and he was barely twenty years old.

He hadn’t eaten in three days due to intense nausea and vomiting, and he hadn’t taken his normally high dosage of morphine.  Cancer had metastasized throughout his body.  I listened in shock as he listed affected body parts: legs, bones, brain, lungs…

He couldn’t turn over in bed while the nurse drew blood for numerous tests, so we shifted his body position by slowly pulling a sheet under him.  The nurse tied a tourniquet over his elbow and palpated with her fingers, searching for a vein.  Needle in place, I watched his dark blood fill vial after vial as his face twisted in pain.  He was so fragile and weak, struggling to make it through.  His wife held his hand in hers and his brother carefully massaged his feet at the end of the bed.

As a Clinical Internship student ambling into the hospital that day, my only fear had been of dropped needles.  I hadn’t expected this.  My vision blurred as I backed into the corner of the room, placing my hands on top of the counter to support myself.  His suffering, moaning, and soft, slow syllables affected me more than any amount of gushing blood or odorous fumes.  My eyes rolled over his chart and tried to focus on reading his name, avoiding those deep, tired skeleton eyes.  I couldn’t breathe, move, or speak.  And I couldn’t save him.

When my hour of service was over, my feet dragged on the smooth, polished floor and I changed out of my scrubs slowly, meticulously folding them.  I felt misplaced as I walked outside into the hot sun.  I desperately wanted to turn around and run to his side, as if I belonged there, as if an invisible strong connection had been drawn.  I imagined myself lurching into a U-turn, tires squealing as I pressed hard on the gas, flying down pavement back to Room 2.  Just to see his face.  Just to make sure he was alright…

I promised myself I would ask for him, look for him, find him the next day, but I knew this was impossible.  There were confidentiality rules, and I wasn’t even a real employee.  I shouldn’t have even remembered his name… I thought about checking the obituaries, but I couldn’t even bring myself to pick up a newspaper.

I don’t know why I felt such a rush of compassion, or why my thoughts were so muddled afterwards, but Timothy had become part of my daily considerations.  After thirty minutes, a stranger gave me someone to pray for, newfound initiative to offer help and ask as many questions as possible at work, and meaning in truly pursuing my education.  Most of all, though, he simply sent me a message universal yet ignored nonetheless: life is imperfect.  It’s short, chaotic, and unpredictable.  And you never know who you’ll meet, or the effect they’ll leave.

That day, I trudged into my room and slipped under the shelter of heavy blankets and sheets.  I closed my eyes, imagining the sound of ocean waves crashing into the shore and pulling back, lulling with the tide’s tow.  Dad had always told me to think of the waves, crashing over and over, their steadiness, when I was anxious as a child.  I missed childhood.  I replayed memories in the back of my head, flashes of who I used to be.  I admired that little girl Laura Lei, constantly delving into imaginary worlds, running endlessly under the apple trees’ umbrage.  Picking dandelions for a glass vase sure to be dropped on the floor in a mess later.  Singing old Beatles’ songs at the top of my lungs, head outside the car window…

I jerked up, tired of this daydreaming, and strolled outside, nearly running by the time I reached the gate.  I slipped off my sandals and strode with a determined air into the wide field, breathing fully.

Tall grasses swayed in the wind, and pollen floated up into the air from daisies and Queen Anne’s Lace dotting the fields.  I closed my eyes and breathed in their scent as I walked forward, tucking a few flowers behind my ear, their stems mingling with flaxen locks flowing down my back.

I abruptly raised my arms in the air and ran in tight circles as my body began to spin like a dropped coin.  My arms flailed as I slipped off all regrets and obligations, as I watched the complicated world turn into thin, unidentifiable lines, bending and stretching around my center.  Quickly, uneasiness dissipated, replaced with a stronger sense of calm and happiness.  As I spun, I wished I could spend hours out there, cheeks warmed by the sun’s fingers spreading down above me, wind forming around me, my hair tousled loose in the air.  All that mattered was that gravity’s strong arms were holding me down to earth.  If I fell, I’d get back up again.  I was alive and free, and death, responsibility, despair, misery… none of it existed.  I was no longer lonely or worried, if only for this short while.

The whole universe seemed to join me, constantly spinning and shaping paths, allowing them to weave in and out like stitches in a colorful, stretching quilt.  We were all together and separate, hearts beating freely.

~

Spinning is my form of meditation.  It’s a simple idea—circular motion pivoting around one point, but it has so much personal value.  My life is spent spinning, like a planet on a twisting, changing path.  Although often I fear giving in to chaos in the world around me, losing control is sometimes the only way to enjoy life, and to accept shortcomings and surprises.  The realization that some things are out of my control, some things are meant to be surprising or unplanned, releases me.  Sometimes I actually learn a few things, even finding a friend, new perspective, or unadorned bliss.  Meeting Timothy could have left me depressed and discouraged, but instead, he inspired me and I chose to move on, living in the light that he’d somehow revealed to me.

As my inner child spins on and on, she reminds me of many aspects of life.  It is not simply a conveyor belt—straight, narrow, and at full speed towards an anticipated finish.  It is okay to be undecided, unsure, and scared of the future’s hidden, blurred lines that I cannot yet read.  Life is unpredictable, just like the path I will take as I flow into the unknown.  As I let go of what I cannot control, I realize that I may fall.  I may fail, but accepting this allows me to take risks necessary to moving on in life, to paving my own path farther.  Risks, even as simple as falling in an empty field or gaining an unneeded headache, aren’t always so bad.

My past self wouldn’t have gotten so caught up.  She would have known that she’d figure it out, as always, and that things would happen and time would pass and she’d be up and down, but overall, fine.  She’d spin on and on and on and on and if she fell, she’d always get up and keep going.

Photo by Las – initially