Half Past Ten

Half Past Ten

By

Jerry Janiec

The last New Year’s Eve I felt energized for the start of a new year seems lost to memory. Every January brings faultless thoughts of fresh beginnings—a chance to move forward, leaving the past firmly behind. But New Year’s Eve was twenty days ago, and all the promises and resolutions have already dissolved. The good feelings, undoubtedly fueled by friendly companions like drink and smoke, have long vanished into a pool of too soon forgotten yesterdays.

Doctor Smith’s office, once a place of routine yearly visits, now felt disturbingly familiar. I’d always liked him - kind and direct. But it's hard to appreciate someone who consistently delivers bad news. And why would today be any different? His handshake was normal: firm and warm. His voice, usually steady, offered only a subdued hello. He silently opened my folder, and I watched as his eyes scanned and darted through the numerous test results and biopsy findings.

Two possibilities stood before me: benign or malignant. And now, the answer loomed. Good news, bad news, or complicated news were all plausible outcomes. Based on my track record of healthy-as-a-horse yearly physicals, I was prepared only for the good. I was young, strong, and unready for bad or complicated news. My fears held sway.

As long as Dr. Smith delayed his verdict, I remained myself; healthy, unafraid, and intact. Whether it was the biopsy's judgment, the pathologist’s interpretation, or some imagined, vengeful decree of fate, it mattered not which. I tensed for a solidly hard blow. I was grateful for Dr. Smith’s deliberate pace. I was thankful for the not knowing. I still had time. Time to consider my future. Time to worry about it. Time to linger in the quiet, motionless moment where I still had all the time in the world.

* * * * *

At some point, long after I am gone, my missing parts will be pulled down from the shelf. Somewhere in the imagined afterlife, I will feel the sensation of falling. I will hear the sound of glass settling on a granite surface. I will sense unfamiliar eyes, strangers’ eyes, observing me unemotionally, without a thought given to the man who once inhabited these tissues. I will have been distilled down to the contents of this glass jar.

Perhaps an anatomy student, a future doctor, surgeon, or even a scientist dreaming of a Nobel Prize will seek answers from me. They will carefully remove a piece from what remains and begin a microscopic study. They will scribble down the beginnings of a ten-page research paper that will undoubtedly earn praise. Meanwhile, back on the shelf, the remainder of me will watch from my home in the jar.

I will want to help, believe me, I will. Please don’t think less of me if I cannot help you today. Please return after you have grown wise enough, you will finally hear the knowledge I speak. You will hear me. Listen closely, and you will learn. I am the cure you seek. You will be rewarded. I will help, you will find, and the world will finally understand the meaning of living in a glass jar on a shelf. Alone no longer, I will live again, and the world will celebrate and heal.

But right now, you’re lifting me from the shelf with the delicacy reserved for an infant. So carefully—if you drop me, I will die. I am alone now, just a fragment of my formerly whole self. I long for the rest of me. Afraid and lonely, I endure your tests and analyses. In the past, medical procedures were performed on me without my awareness. But now, I see. I am watching. I want all the documentation created in my name, under my specimen number, to speak for me. I want to be proud of this new version of me. I need the old me to shine.

My body was cut open, radiated, and stitched back together before anyone noticed my fragility. I was them, and they were me, except for one tragic protein that transformed health into illness. Do not look too closely at me; I am a possible universal failure. I awakened from the lifesaving and altering procedure with nothing more than the promise of another day with possibilities of good or ill. Same as always. All the bad had been removed, everything that needed to go was gone, and only the niceness remained. I was allowed to start over as myself.

It was a valiant effort, and everyone gave their best—including me—but ultimately, it was a failure. A failure on my part, for a shadow of fear survived in a dark corner of the prostate bed, beneath layers of blankets and knowledge. It grew and grew in silent determination, eventually ruling the day. Now here I am. What’s left of me?

The missing pieces haunt me. Where are they? I am confined to this glass jar, on a shelf in a storage facility labeled as specimen #72—tied to prostate cancer—waiting to assist in the discovery of a cure.

I hold the answer. My cancerous parts contain the specific enzyme, protein, or speck of an atom that rarely belongs in a human body. And it will be this part of me that undoubtedly cures cancer.

Long after I am dead, the parts of me preserved in formaldehyde will look out upon the world with pride, knowing I had finally done some good. I will be widely recognized for the great person I was always meant to be.

* * * * *

“Excuse me, Jimmy. Are you listening?”

The good doctor’s words had been pouring over the room, but I analyzed them, deliberately pushing them aside. I was more intent on finishing my internal chronicle. Up to this point, his words had been nothing more than a prologue, a building up to a foregone conclusion. It would be a coup d'etat, and I was on the verge of falling. He looked sincere, a mask of sadness and seriousness was etched on his face; the moment had arrived.

“Yes, Doctor Smith. I hear you.”

“Jimmy, there’s only one way to say this, and I’m so sorry.” Dr. Smith cleared his throat, a nervous gesture, and shifted in his chair. He started to lean forward, seemed to reconsider, then straightened up, his posture was perfect enough to please any chiropractor.

So, the good doctor is sorry. Why? Was it somehow his fault? His simple “I’m sorry” felt like a complete sentence, conveying everything I instinctively knew; this was bad.

“The diagnosis is cancer. Once again, I’m deeply sorry for this devastating news.”

He looked as if I was telling him that he had cancer. He began turning over some pages in the report which lay on his lap.

“I have the pathologist’s report here. I’ll make sure you receive copies of everything.”

Somewhere in the distance, a sound echoed in my mind – the “Rebel Yell.” A battle was coming. Was it a mix of bravery, fear, and the essence of me? Was it purely terror driving me to mentally cover my ears and chant, desperate to block out any more words? Dr. Smith continued to speak, but his voice was a muffled drone, unable to penetrate the blood-brain barrier in my skull. I needed to think and to gather information.

“Cancer appears to be the diagnosis. What’s the path forward from here?”

“One potential treatment option is surgery, possibly followed by radiation to eliminate any remaining cancer cells. However, please understand that this is preliminary. Other doctors and specialists will take over from this point, and they will be best equipped to answer your specific questions.”

“What time is it, Doctor?”

He glanced at his watch, a reflexive response to the unexpected question. His eyes flicked from his wrist to my face and back again. “Just half past ten,” he replied.

I etched that moment into my memory. This was the precise time when my life shifted from hopeful anticipation to uncertain hesitation. It marked the beginning of a race, either a slow, agonizing crawl or a swift, terrifying sprint toward an unknown finish line.

What a seemingly absurd question, the kind people dismiss as irrelevant. What time is it? Yet, I was already feeling the crushing weight of time. I needed to act, to charge swiftly into the next stage in this unwanted battle. I craved answers, and I needed them immediately. Time, in that instant, became more precious than ever before.

“When can we start?”

THE END