Emily Kerlin studied creative writing while attending Antioch College. Her poem “Outpatient Procedure” appears in the Fall 2019 Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine..

“There was only a moment.”

In just an instant, Dr. Annie Gordon’s life became an Etch-a-Sketch drawing in the hands of a toddler in Kim Drew Wright’s short story, “A Mother’s Life,” Spring 2015 Intima. Her meticulous plans, her expensive car and clothes, even the certainty of her existence—all vanished in a flash. A new reality arrived to swiftly and permanently take their place.

In my poem “Outpatient Procedure,” my then-fiancé also confronted that moment. Instead of a traffic accident, he arrived by way of an operating table in the radiologist’s clinic. He wasn’t preparing for a wedding, but he was preparing for a move. His belongings were boxed and stacked to the ceiling in the dining room, bound for his new home in Oregon.I had already quit my job to join him.

The last unchecked box was a small procedure (see? It didn’t even merit the word surgery) whereby they would slip a wire-mesh stent into one of his liver veins. It was routine. Just like a mother of the bride driving to the tailor to have the hem altered on her dress. We’d all be home for dinner. It’s better not to imagine that nearly every single thing we do over the course of a day has the potential to upend life as we know it. A falling tree? An exploding cell phone? An aneurysm? All statistical anomalies. And yet, we all know these stories. We know people. We have all had our share of close calls. Dr. Gordon and my fiancé had a moment. A sudden confrontation with a new future’s ugly face. Likely there was an urge to kick and cry and spit in that future’s terrible eyes. But then, there was another moment. A gathering of strength. A deep breath. The surge of the glowing filament that has burned inside since birth. It sometimes stays with us, even amidst glass shards and hemorrhage. That fight—that gritty will to fight for our lives—revs up in our chest. We start to think about the face of this future. Yes. We could learn to love that chin. We could learn to look into those eyes.

Emily Kerlin studied creative writing while attending Antioch College. She has been teaching the difference between “chicken” and “kitchen” to English Language Learners in public schools for the last 10 years. She lives in Urbana, Illinois with her husband, four teenagers, and a geriatric brown dog.