The doctors used words like “viral load” and “T-cell count.” I heard them, but all I could see was the unraveling of my life – a slow-motion apocalypse just as devastating as the one in that Stephen King book. Twenty-five years old, and my world was crumbling faster than the cabinets I used to build.
I was no stranger to sweat and sawdust. From the sanding room to the install truck with Danny, I had worked my way up in Kenny’s shop. Furniture, retirement plans, the whole damn American dream seemed within reach. Then, boom. Not Captain Trips, but a virus with a different name. Yet, the outcome felt the same: a countdown clock ticking somewhere in the back of my mind.
The cushioned chairs in the doctor’s office may as well have been electric. “Thirty-six months, and those are optimistic,” he had said. Optimistic. I choked on the word like it was a splinter in my throat.
Kenny had meant well, trying to talk me into staying at the shop. Health insurance, stability, all that crap that suddenly seemed irrelevant. In the blink of an eye, I went from cabinetmaker to walking time bomb.
My handful of belongings felt heavier than a load of cherry lumber. Mom was gone. My half-sisters had their own families to “protect.” Only Susie, my oldest, took pity. I retreated to her house like a wounded animal, barely registering her kids or the concerned looks she tossed my way.
Most days I hid in my room like some kind of modern-day leper. My escape was this worn-out paperback, “The Stand.” A world on the brink, good versus evil, all of it so much bigger and yet, eerily familiar. Each night, Susie would slip in, asking not about my viral load or if I’d made any calls, but about where I was in the book.
Sometimes, in the quiet of the afternoon while everyone was out, I’d venture from my room. A broom was my weapon against the lingering smell of bleach, the clatter of dishes my feeble attempt at repayment for Susi’s kindness.
I guess, deep down, some part of me – a stubborn, sawdust-covered part – refused to just roll over and wait for the end. Because that was the difference between me and some virus… a virus didn’t know about hope, didn’t have a dog-eared copy of Stephen King whispering about survival.
