Hell is not other people. It's waiting for test results.

I’m sorry to contradict your favorite college English professor, but Sartre was wrong. 

Hell is NOT other people.  It’s waiting for test results.

You can trust me on this. I’ve had a lot of practice. 

Two years ago, my husband was diagnosed with bladder cancer.  He had none of the risk factors, and he was only 40 at the time, so it really came out of left field.  We still don’t know why this happened to him.  For almost a year, he had surgery every three months so his doctor could take biopsies.  Every time, we waited a full week for the results. 

So much goes through your mind while you wait.  You imagine the worst possible scenarios and the best possible scenarios.  You are afraid to let your guard down, because the last time you did that you heard the words, “There are cancer cells in his urine.”  Your mind wanders to the dark side, and you suddenly pull it back, afraid that your negative thoughts are spinning out into the Universe and altering the test results somehow.

You get mad.  Angry, even.  You wonder why this happened to you.  What you did to “deserve” this.  Then, almost immediately, you remind yourself that you don’t really believe the world works like that.  There is no “plan.”  It’s the only way you can reconcile when good things happen to bad people.  Otherwise, nothing makes sense.

You try to distract yourself, with varying degrees of success.  You make mistakes in your cross stitch because you’re not fully present.  You watch TV, but suddenly realize you have no idea what’s going on.  You haven’t been paying attention.  You lose yourself in a book, but when you come up for air, the fear descends upon you, stronger than ever.

When the alarm goes off in the morning, your thoughts are blissfully untainted.  Dreams linger.  But within seconds you remember what is actually happening.  And it physically hurts.

Some days it feels like the weight of worry will crush you.  Gravity seems stronger when you try to get out of bed or off the couch.  Taking a deep breath becomes a luxury.  You get lightheaded trying to fill your lungs completely.  Every tenth time you succeed, but mostly your chest is tight from the stress.  Your breathing is shallow.

Finally, it’s time to go to the doctor’s office.  The ugly wallpaper on the waiting room walls seem to close in on you.  The chairs are uncomfortable, the magazines boring.  Chatter emanates from the TV, which is always set on a channel you hate.  It’s just noise, and you wish it would stop.

The door opens.  Your heart lurches into your throat, and your fingers start tingling.  The name called is not familiar.  The door closes.  This happens several times, until finally they call his name.

The nurse takes his blood pressure, and you honestly don’t give a fuck what that number is.  It doesn’t matter.  Not right now.  All that matters is those biopsies.

The nurse leaves, and there is more waiting.  It is even less comfortable now.  The room is hard and sterile.  The lights are harsh.  There are no boring magazines.

At last the doctor comes in.  He is smiling.  You haven’t felt this relieved since the last time you were here, three months ago. 

Your sense of humor returns.  Gravity releases you.  You may float into the clouds.  Your lungs fill completely – every time – and you exhale deeply.  Life can begin again.  For another three months, anyway.

Today I’m not worried as a caregiver.  I’m worried as a patient.  The radiologist found “something” on my mammogram.  They cannot tell if it is solid or fluid-filled.  I need to go back for an ultrasound.  I cannot get in for four days.  And so I wait.

I tell myself it is silly to worry.  It won’t make one bit of difference either way.  My therapist once told me if you worry and it doesn’t happen, you’ve wasted your time.  If you worry and it does happen, you’ve lived through it twice.

I resign to put it out of my thoughts.  And I am successful.  For three minutes.  And then it comes back again.  And again.  And again. 

Then the wishes start popping into my mind.

I wish my therapist had not died in a horrific car crash last summer. 

I wish my insurance would pay for an ultrasound every year, so they can see what they’re looking at more clearly the first damn time. 

I wish I hadn’t made an appointment for the day before my anniversary and a holiday weekend.

I wish I was wired not to think this way.

I wish that, for once, I could not have something on my mind.

As I reach out to my special circle of friends and family, I know now more than ever that Hell is absolutely NOT other people.  I need to hear all of their many and varied voices, reassuring me that they are thinking about me and they are there for me to pour out my heart if I need to and that I am going to be OK.  I send texts and post messages and make phone calls.  I need them.  Every single one of them.

No.  Hell is most definitely not other people. 

It is waiting for tests.  And test results.