97.3 Degrees

97.3°…that’s what was taped to my chest as I entered the clinic. When I got my cardiologist office, I became a birth date. Then in the exam room, I became a name on a chart. But after my echocardiogram, I became a follow-up appointment. At some point life often loses its meaning. Like the moment when your kids are grown and gone. Or some life changing incident that scrambles the course of your existence. 

I don’t mean to be so melodramatic, but my life often likes to remind me that I’m not indestructible. That the pains I wish to ignore are based on real problems. I used to think my life as finite, but that was only a fool’s dream. So I do my best to live my life fully. But I find myself bound to the harness of duty. But don’t call me a cad or worse yet, a saint. For even Christ was given a moment of relief from his cross. 
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I had dreams, I had purpose. Even as life slowly changed those dreams, I felt drive and passion. Now I just feel tried wishing for a soft pillow to lay my head. But even pillows these days are in short supply. Dragged away by time and obligations all their own. So I sit in the sterile mist of another waiting room. Feeling forgotten, feeling abandoned, feeling alone. I have so few tricks left in my bag to cheer myself on. Torn between companionship and reflection, and a desire to just be left alone.