The final, anxiety-ridden weeks before the upcoming presidential election feel like the terrifying moments between a high-speed skid on a dark, wet, slippery highway and the subsequent, inevitable crash. By the time the sounds of grinding metal and shattering glass can be heard, an eternity has passed. After silence embraces the carnage, survivors—if there are any—need a few seconds to process what has happened. And then the long, uncertain future begins. Anxiety takes a different form; time slows to an agonizing crawl. Prospects for tomorrow become cloudy. The path forward becomes precarious, unpredictable, insecure. No matter the ultimate outcome, the immediate future promises pervasive bleakness. The election, like the calamity on the road, does not immediately end. Vote counts and recounts and challenges may go on for days…weeks…or longer. Hospitalizations, rehabilitations, and funerals play out in slow motion after the crash. And we do it all to ourselves.
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I will be a passenger on the road to Little Rock this morning, thanks to the gracious generosity of a friend. She has agreed to do the driving so I do not have to determine whether I am capable of making the trip by myself. Though I probably could do it, I do not feel like trying and discovering I am wrong. I hope the ophthalmologist, who specializes in corneal issues, can quickly identify and solve my problem. The vision in my left eye is extremely blurred. Not ideal for driving, nor reading, nor watching television, nor other vision-dependent activities. We shall see.
On Monday, I will get the results of tomorrow’s PET-scan. With good fortune, the results will reveal that my chemo treatment is working as hoped and planned. So many things go right so often; but knowing the potential for “things” to go badly wrong is enough to amplify gratitude when there’s good news and magnify the disappointment when the news is bad.
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