Milena Moser on the arbitrariness of life: A state of emergency as everyday life

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I recently left the hospital for the first time while Victor was undergoing surgery. While this may not sound particularly revolutionary, it was an outpatient procedure, nothing delicate or even dangerous.

Still, it was a huge step for me. Until now, I had always sat like a statue in the waiting room, my eyes glued to the information screen, as if I could make a difference just by focusing on it. Or prevent it. It was an irrational decision, more like a mixture of superstition and a goddess complex.

But after nine years and countless procedures and emergencies, I… so what? Tempered? Not really. Calmly? Also no. To this day, I don’t know exactly what prompted me to leave the building, walk aimlessly down the street, hesitate for a moment in front of a bookstore, then in front of a cafe. And then I remembered that nearby was the Museum of Asian Art, which I had never visited in all the years I had been here.

I went and bought a day pass, knowing that I wouldn’t actually use it. I did not stay there long and could not accurately describe what I saw. Colorful monsters with sharp teeth, plastic flowers from floor to ceiling, menacing images of Buddhist hell and a carousel of notes with colorful tips on how to get out of it.

Whatever it was, it distracted me. This gave me other thoughts. Then the phone rang, the procedure ended and I was able to pick up Victor. Everything went well. Also without me.

If the state of emergency lasts long enough, it will become part of everyday life. The disease did not burst into our relationship out of the blue. She was there before me. And death was always nearby too. I can’t remember how many times I was told in a quiet voice and intense eyes that, unfortunately, things were not going well.

But Victor always recovered, faster and more thoroughly than could have been predicted. It’s definitely difficult, but there are some good parts. We almost never argue over small things, even if he gets annoyed that I don’t close the drawer completely and wonders why he keeps his dirty dishes in the trash instead of putting them in the car.

But these everyday troubles mean nothing more than: we are still alive. We’re still together. And also: now everything is so good for him that we live in some way normal. However, this can break at any time. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for nine years. Which, of course, is not true.

Because the truth is that it affects all of us. We can never know what will happen next. No matter how carefully we plan and how meticulously we defend ourselves. No matter how fit and healthy we are. Life, fate, whatever it is, cares little about our efforts. He has his own plans or his own arbitrariness. What do I know?

Our situation forces me to live in the present and appreciate the moment. This is also an incredible gift. “The last hour is also sixty minutes,” Victor always says. Will I spend it in a waiting room or in a museum?

Source: Blick