The Diagnosis

A Thursday Night Sometime Before Christmas

Rockin’ around the Christmas tree. At the Christmas party hop…

I'm by myself in the front passenger seat of my mom's SUV, holding the paper with the doctor's diagnosis. It says "Epilepsy." It all started

with just one seizure, but now it feels like I'm stuck with this for life.

The rain outside is freezing, making the windows fog up. It's really chilly.

Rockin’ around the Christmas tree. Let the Christmas spirit ring. Later we’ll have some pumpkin pie. And we’ll do some caroling…

While my mom is inside scheduling a physical appointment, time keeps ticking, making us all aware of our natural aging process. A few wrinkles show up, the eyes start to droop, muscles lose their strength, and eventually, our cells decide to stop reproducing. It's frustrating, those stubborn cells.

Voices singing, let’s be jolly. Deck the halls with boughs of holly…

The envelope in my hands has a weight to it, and I don't really want to lift it. I already knew I had epilepsy, but now it's officially confirmed. No more driving for me. I'll have to rely on the bus for the rest of my life. It's not necessarily a bad thing, though. It's better for the environment.

Everyone dancin’ merrily. In the new old-fashioned way…

This is not what I anticipated. I was hoping to return home and enjoy the holidays without any reminders of the real world. I didn't think the clinic would be open, and I certainly didn't expect to get an appointment so quickly. I guess I'm lucky in an unexpected way.

Rockin’ around the Christmas tree. Have a happy holiday. Everyone dancin’ merrily. In the new old-fashioned way…

Right on cue, my mother opens the door, and a blast of cold air hits my skin. She starts talking about her appointment, expressing her reluctance to do a colonoscopy. I nod and tell her I understand, but at the moment, my mind is occupied with something else.

The car roars to life as she reverses out of the parking spot, and we exit the family doctor's parking lot. It takes a few minutes as the road is busy. Making a left turn, we head towards the center of town, going over a bump on the railroad tracks. We come to a stop at a traffic light, with three cars ahead of us.

The snow-rain is falling, creating a beautiful scene as it coats the pavement with its wetness, leaving behind a thin slush. I witness a young man slipping on the pavement, landing on his back. Ouch.

He fell right in front of the Presbyterian Church, the one with the nativity scene displayed out front, the same one they set up every year. I notice that the baby Jesus in the scene is starting to fade; the poor little guy. His mother and father, the Virgin Mary and Joseph, gaze down at his fading face, and they appear sad. The entire nativity scene reflects this melancholy atmosphere. One would expect the birth of Christ to be a joyous occasion, but here, everyone seems somber.

We go through the traffic intersection and enter the main part of town. We drive past the cannabis shop, the Indian convenience store selling nuts and candies, and then the dollar store where the food always seems to be expired and stale. As we pass the theater, they're showing Christmas Vacation...again. My father really loves that movie.

Tonight, it feels like the entire world is bustling with activity. The town has noticeably expanded since my childhood. Back then, the streets were quiet in the evening, and the train passed through town much less frequently. Nowadays, the streets are lively and noisy throughout the day.

I gaze at the papers in my hands, and the diagnosis I read is the one I feared most. It's a type of progressive epilepsy. It's disheartening to know it will shorten my lifespan, but dwelling on that seems futile. The doctor's words echo, "Medicine will improve, and it'll help you live longer."

Life can be so unjust. It's a precarious balance, like having one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. The unfairness stirs anger within me, but I grapple with the question of whom to blame. Is it God? Mother Nature?

In this world, I recognize that my journey can only persist for so long. It's the harsh reality we all navigate.

My mother signals with her blinker, announcing her intention to turn left into the grocery store parking lot. Our purpose here is to fetch something, although I'm not exactly sure what it is. It's something my father has a hankering for – a selection of assorted nuts.

"We'll be in and out," she assures me. We step out of her car and tread on the icy slush, making our way to the supermarket entrance. Despite the "Super" in its title, it's far from a superb place to be. Rows upon rows of consumerism dominate the space—a consumerism that plays a role in health issues on opposite ends of the spectrum: obesity and impoverishment.

Food has transformed into an industrial product rather than remaining primarily an agricultural one. It's an unfortunate shift, and I find myself pondering whether it might have contributed to my epilepsy. Holding onto this thought provides me with someone or something to blame.

As we walk by a table near the entrance seeking charity, no one stops. Who needs charity anyway? I glance at the sign that reads, "Veterans need your support!" I suppose veterans do. My mom gently tugs at my jacket sleeve, signaling her desire to enter the store. I pull out a dollar from my jacket, a fortunate dollar, and contribute it to the coin box adorned with images of veterans and symbols. The elderly man behind the table offers a faint smile. "Thank you, young man!"

"Of course," I mutter as I walk away. Glancing back, I see the old man returning to his weary stance. How many people with means pass by him? Will anyone acknowledge the humble?

"Hurry up, hon, we've got to get home and make dinner!" My mother calls, prompting me to quicken my pace. We speed past the whole foods section and beyond the pharmacy and drug aisles, where all the essentials are stocked. Need medication? Visit pharmacy Wonka and stock up.

We stroll past the clothing section, where piles of post-modern t-shirts and jeans are diminishing. It is, after all, the Holiday season. The question lingers: Why bother with love when you can purchase happiness?

Humph!

As my attention is drawn to the clothing, I inadvertently collide with someone who isn't my mother – a woman donning a black jacket. She turns around, revealing her face. It's Phoebe Wallace, and she's wearing makeup?

"Phoebe," I manage to utter. "I...uh."

"Hey, Paul. Fancy meeting you here."

Her expressive brown eyes, a feature that always captivated me, draw me in once again. Arched eyebrows convey a hint of suggestion, sparkling with mischief, just as they did in the past. Her subtle smile carries a knowing quality, and her lips, neither too thin nor too thick, complete the picture.

"Oh, Paul. Speechless? That's definitely not something I'm used to with you," Phoebe remarks, placing her hands on her waist. My mother hurries over and greets her. "Oh, hi, Mrs. Dowey. How are you?"

"Oh, I am well, Phoebe. How is your mother?" my mother inquires, showing no sign of displeasure at seeing her. We parted ways on seemingly neutral terms, or at least that's what my mother was led to believe.

"Oh, you know, she's my mom! Grumpy and stressed, per usual. I don't live at home anymore," Phoebe explains with a wide smile, as if portraying her words as joyful. "Moved into a little apartment...um..." Her gaze shifts toward me, and her expression turns into the familiar awkward one I remember so well. "I got engaged. To the cook that works in the pizzeria I deliver food for."

"The cook?" my mother asks, while I remain silent.

"Yes, Allen. He went to school with...us," Phoebe manages a weak smile before continuing, "We plan to marry in the next two years. Um..."

"Well, that's nice to hear, hon," my mother says weakly, exchanging a glance with me that holds a tinge of sadness.

"Yes, very nice to hear," I echo. What good news will I hear again today? The diagnosis, the engagement of my ex. How nice, God, how nice!

Phoebe manages another feeble smile but avoids meeting my eyes. A wave of emotions hits me as memories from the past flood my mind. These haunting recollections— a perfect day on the beach, a dinner party at her grandparents' house, the nightly ritual of watching sitcoms for an hour—they make me want to vomit, cry, or just run away. I can’t do any of those here in the supermarket.

"Well, we have to go. Dinner won't be made on its own," I say, my voice weak, and my eyes dart around the store, avoiding her gaze. I pass by my ex. She still wears that cheap perfume that oddly smells nice—or maybe it's the scent of the hand cream she uses.

Walking down the store, I find my thoughts dwelling on the past, deliberately ignoring the future, and stubbornly refusing to accept my diagnosis. Living a life in denial becomes an appealing option. After all, who doesn't lie to themselves?

Outside, the winter evening casts long shadows on the pavement as I exit the supermarket, leaving behind the specter of my past. The cold air hits my face, awakening a sense of urgency and acceptance.

In the distance, I spot my mother, waiting by the car. As I approach, she senses the weight on my shoulders. Wordlessly, she wraps her arms around me, offering solace in the midst of life's disarray.

The engine hums to life as we drive away, leaving the fluorescent-lit aisles and echoes of the past behind. The road ahead is uncertain, but in the warmth of the car, surrounded by the humdrum of the mundane, there's a glimmer of hope—a reminder that life, in all its complexities, continues. As it always does.