Minute by Minute

Minute by Minute

By

Mark Gagnon

This was it. The day that was circled in red on my calendar. I reluctantly opened my eyes after a restless night’s sleep, knowing what awaited me. Simple denial, procrastination, appeals to higher powers, none of it worked. This was my fate, and I had to accept it.

At least my reckoning wasn’t until the afternoon, so I still had some time to enjoy life. For some inexplicable reason, I was starving.

The best way for me to start this noteworthy day is with a big breakfast. The smell of bacon wafted through the air. Pancakes with maple syrup, scrambled eggs, orange juice, and an endless cup of coffee was mine for the taking. The sumptuous meal took my mind off of what awaited me for a short time, but slowly, reality forced its way back to the front of my mind.

Time is a commodity we all take for granted, even while it slowly slips stealthily away. Similar to a tire with a slow leak, time gradually escapes unnoticed. It disguises itself as busy work, chores, and places to visit, or people we must contact. Unlike a leaky tire, time cannot be replenished. There are no time pumps where you can refill the interval that has been squandered. Once it is gone, you will never be able to replace what you have lost with additional time. The clock on the wall serves as a constant reminder of this.

Once my breakfast is over, I look around for something to busy myself with until it is time for me to meet with destiny. I make a few phone calls to understanding friends and family, read a couple of magazines, even do some of the crossword puzzles in the local newspaper. Every one of these activities is designed to waste the very thing that is so precious to me—time. The sad part is that I’m well aware of what I’m doing, but I have no other options. My fate is no longer under my control.

It is early afternoon when an attractive woman in a wrinkle free uniform emerges from a long hallway and stops directly in front of me. No matter how hard I try, it’s impossible to ignore her. She is pleasant, yet emotionally detached from the day’s events, and it’s quite clear she would rather be somewhere else. So would I!

“We’re ready for you now, Mr. Jackson. Please come with me.” Her gentle voice is designed to soothe my anxiety, but it has the opposite effect. The little voice in my head screams, Run, Run Now, but I’m aware of the futility of such an action. I stand on wobbly legs, steel my resolve, offer her a tentative smile, and reluctantly follow her lead.

We walk back down the hall she has just come from and are immediately joined by two more uniformed attendants. I wonder if I’m her first or last of the day. Attempting to lighten my mood, I ask her, “Am I your first or your last for today?”

“You are my first, but my shift just started. I’m sure there will be more.”

Her answer offers me little solace. In fact, it only raises my anxiety level. I decide to remain silent for the rest of the walk to the chamber of destiny.

 Now I hear it, faint at first but growing louder as we approach the room….

           Whir, click, silence—Whir, click, silence—Whir, click, silence.

The old analog wall clock beats out its steady cadence, bearing witness to the minutes of my life that I had just allowed to slip away without offering a hint of how many minutes remained. This constant reminder of time lost infuriates me. Why has someone seen fit to place this evil machine in plain view? I want to demand it be removed, but I know that my request would be ignored, possibly laughed at. No, I am out of options. Nothing can be changed.

The attendants who have guided me here are pleasant enough, though professionally indifferent to my situation. For them, it’s just a job. What else might I have expected? After all, I did this to myself. Had I simply taken better care, been more meticulous with my cleaning regimen, I would be out enjoying life instead of in here. They guided me to a specialized piece of furniture that isn’t quite a gurney, but not a chair, either. Once they are satisfied that my body is oriented in just the right position, I hear the click of a switch and a blinding light sparks to life, filling the room. I can still see, but the light creates halos around the various objects in my cell of solitude.

Whir, click, silence—Whir, click, silence—Whir, click, silence.

I now have time to reflect on my life and all the events that have led up to this very moment. The birthday parties of my youth, filled with laughter and cake, are first on my list of recollections. Memories of Halloween candy and trips to the ice cream shop help ease the tension, but not for long.

Whir, click, silence—Whir, click, silence—Whir, click, silence.

That infernal wall clock reminds me that more time has drained away from my ever-shrinking pool of minutes. I know what is coming. I’m just not sure I am ready for it. First will come the shot, followed by several more minutes of waiting as a foreign liquid slowly spreads from the injection sight. The vile tasting liquid will numb the cells it passes through. My mind’s eye shows me a view from the ceiling. I’m looking down on my prone body, bathed in a halo of light, mouth agape in an undignified pose. Drool slowly makes its way down my cheek to my shirt collar.

A noise from the doorway rouses me from my reverie. People enter my chamber, and I know it is about to begin.

           “Well, Mr. Jackson, let’s get started on that tooth, shall we?”