I don't know what to call this

First, I must apologize. I have, at times, lied to you. I didn’t really mean to. It just seemed easier. I was supposed to be the strong one for everyone else. I was supposed to be the one that had spiritual revelations. Maybe I was lying to myself too, because right now I feel anything but fine.

You know when you feel like God is so near and He’s showing you what you need to know? You make a new resolve to get your act together and start living your life again. You feel like you have hope. You even think you’re strong enough to help out some people that are struggling. And for the most part, you were. The people who know you were fun to be around, but then there are those people who don’t know and make passing comments about the one thing that has caused you more pain than anything else ever could. You suck it up and hold it together. You’ve gotten pretty good at that. The day isn’t over yet. You have to make a choice when to address the nonstop coughing that has made rest impossible. Each hour away from work means a smaller paycheck so you head to emergency room. The receptionist doesn’t understand why your insurance is different than before and when you explain it to her, she wants to know who to list as your next of kin, but you’re not really sure what to say. It’s a busy day and you spend over an hour in the waiting room. The nurse finally ushers you into the room where you’ve been so many times before, only this time it’s different. You aren’t there to show love, and support. You’re there…alone. The nurses don’t understand why you’re crying. They don’t understand why walking to radiology is so hard. You’ve walked that hallway too many times to remember. Back in that little exam room with the same magazines that were there the last time, you wait….and wait. Three hours since you arrived, the doctor comes in and introduces himself. He doesn’t remember the countless times that you spent there waiting for test results, hoping and praying for good news. But you remember. You remember the hours that you rubbed the feet at the end of the examination table, just so he would know that you were still there. You realize that there isn’t anybody that can be there for you. There probably won’t ever be and that reality hits you like a load of bricks. They give you your instructions and send you on your way to drive home. You walk in the house and wonder where your life went and you realize that somebody took it 30-some odd miles north of here and buried it.