We Are Not Our Bodies: A Mystical Experience Reveals the Truth

Sunset in Redondo Beach. Photo property of Blake Lane.

Broken. Autopilot. Sleepwalker. Language falls short when it describes experiences that belong on the news happening to someone else. Or maybe in a horror movie. But not to you.

The doctor was sending us home. None of the antibiotics they had been pumping through an IV into his veins for the last three days were shrinking the terrible lumps protruding from my 7-year-old son’s neck.

He is happy to go home, excited they are letting him go. His sisters help him pack, all three giggling with relief that this thing is over.

I try unsuccessfully to murder the association his enthusiasm is making with the innumerable times I’ve had to bring a dog to the vet to be put to sleep. They are so happy to go for a ride. They have no idea. But you do.

The nurse already set up our appointment with the pediatric oncologist. He has three days at home before testing starts. We haven’t told him yet. I don’t want to. I don’t want any of it. Every organ in my body is pulling against this reality, so tight I have to force the air into my lungs so I won’t faint.

We drive home, passing people on the street, in other cars. They have no idea. They are honking at the old lady taking too long to turn. They are yelling into the air at whatever voice is irritating them from their ear buds. Some are laughing. Others are singing to their music. I can’t imagine myself ever honking at anyone ever again. Or laughing.

The morning after we brought my son home from the hospital I woke early before the sun. My face was swollen from crying and the nausea gnawing at my empty stomach picked up where it had left off the night before. I went to my computer and stared at the screen.

I battled the temptation to turn to Google for answers. Whatever my health concern, search results would reveal it was likely cancer. My sense of humor was buried along with everything else, so Google’s diagnosis would be a dangerous addition to my dark mood.