Today I had a heart attack,
To be fair,
My doctor thought I had one.
I had been feeling chest pains,
Like an elephant was stampeding on me,
Pushing my lungs out trough my back,
For about two days,
And my colleague at work had to send me home,
Pressing me to take care of myself.
So, I had to get a doctor’s note,
And she sent me to the hospital,
Where they examined me for three hours,
And found nothing.
They send me home,
And the message that I had to come back,
If it didn’t change over the next few days.
But it got me thinking,
Lying in that hospital bed,
Waiting for the results,
In total agony because of the pain,
Not only from my chest,
But also of the depressing environment that I was in.
Help wasn’t coming,
The results got me nothing,
I had to help myself,
Figure it out for myself.
We are so focused on the results,
Where we’ll be in years,
How far we’ll be on the social ladder,
What we will achieve.
But what if we get nothing?
What if the results are:
“We can’t find anything”?
What was the struggle worth then?
Why did we get poked,
If they can’t find anything?
And does it really matter,
Does it matter if that doctor confirms,
That you are in pain,
Which you already knew,
That’s why you came to the hospital in the first place, right?
What if it’s the same with life,
Do we really need conformation,
That we are talented,
Do we really need someone to tell us,
That we are a doctor,
Or a writer?
Or can we just decide that for ourselves?