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*Find meaning. Distinguish melancholy from sadness. Go for a walk. It doesn’t have to be a romantic walk during which you’ll have multiple life epiphanies and discover meanings no other brain ever encountered. Don’t be afraid of spending quality time by yourself. Find meaning or don’t find meaning but 'steal' some time and give it freely and exclusively to your own self. Opt for privacy and solitude. That doesn’t make you antisocial or cause you to reject the rest of the world. But you need to breathe. And need to be.
― Albert Camus*
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*Urgent Care*</center>






<br><br>It's a different world when you're home in the afternoon and not at work. 

Who knew people actually went about living their lives? I mean. I never really gave a thought to the routines of the retired or young marrieds pushing baby carriages with other kids in tow―but they're all here―in the packed clinic, kids crying, old people shuffling and the really sick coughing up a lung.

It's an afternoon delight. I'll have to do this again sometime. Yeah, kill me first.

<br><br>"Doctor Atwood?" the receptionist calls. 

All heads look up expectantly, thinking another doctor's arrived to expedite the backup, but they grind their teeth when I get up to enter the examining room.

I wish they wouldn't use my Doctor of Literature title, especially in a medical office. 

"I'm not a medical doctor," I say by way of lame apology to a dozen sets of glaring eyes. 

<br><br>"So, what brings you in today?" a pretty nurse inquires while taking my blood pressure.

"I'm just not feeling right. I've got a whole host of bizarre symptoms. I just want to get checked out."

She tilts her head and looks at me which tells me she thinks I'm just skipping work to get a doctor's note so I can go sailing or to the beach.

"We can schedule a full physical―do an annual checkup and you can get your flu shot at the same time."

"Actually, I just had one and a Covid booster too. I've been shot for everything but stealing chickens," I laugh.

She's not amused. Probably not the type to appreciate Tennessee Williams' humour either.

"The doctor will see you in a minute," she says and leaves the room. 

*Hmm...not the type I'd take to the beach anyway*, I muse.

<br><br>An older grey-haired man enters the room. “So, Doctor Atwood, what brings you in today?"

I suppose this is a standard opener for health professionals but already it's getting old for me. Maybe I should use the word, *stale*, considering the circumstances.

"I feel kind of foolish taking up your time considering some of the really sick-looking people out there, but I haven't been feeling right."

"What symptoms are you experiencing?"

I draw a blank. The only thing I can immediately recall are the two symptoms I committed to memory.

<br><br>"Ive been feeling hyperactive and restless."

"Your blood pressure and heart rate are excellent ―your colour's good and no fever. Have you been under stress at work?"

I nod. "I have been depressed a bit lately, now that I think about it. Oh, and I was ravenously hungry and so restless I needed to go for a vigorous jog."

He’s an older man, possibly in his early sixties and smiles at me compassionately. 

"I wish I had your symptoms, except for depression, of course. I think you should consider seeing a psychologist who can counsel you about that."

<br><br>"So, you don't think anything's majorly wrong with me?" I croak.

"I can bring you back for a full annual physical and we'll do blood work and the usual tests, but I think you're probably stressed. I can give you a note for your employer and prescribe a week's rest. That might do you a world of good."

"Okay, thank you, Doctor," I sigh.

He gives me a friendly pat on the shoulder. "See Ellen at the counter and she'll give you the note and a referral to a counsellor who may be able to help. Good luck!"

I go back out to face a minefield of angry patients, frustrated by waiting and mistrustful of my 'emergency'. I'm tempted to apologize again but I know my words would fall to the ground.

I hate not knowing what's wrong with me.

<br><br> I end up at home frustrated and out of sorts. Albert, my Tabby cat, looks up from the couch where he's been sleeping and gives me hell eyes.

 *What the hell are you doing home in the afternoon?* he telegraphs to me.

I feel guilty for disturbing his sleep and bring him a few cat treats which he ignores and closes his eyes and then turns his back on me. 

"Yeah, I don't blame you," I tell him. He’s a creature of habit and nocturnal—he doesn’t like his routines being upset. I don’t either. I feel totally at loose ends. What should I do for the afternoon?

<br><br>I decide the best thing to ease my angst and boredom is to go for a jog. Fortunately, I live near a nature trail, so I change into jogging attire and set out.

I figure I’ll jog for twenty minutes and then head back. Forty minutes of exercise should drain my restless energy.

About ten minutes into the jog I spot a female jogger sitting back in the trees. She’s about thirty and looks uncomfortable and in some distress. I stop to offer help.

“Do you need assistance—did you pull a muscle?” I call out to her.

She glances around apprehensively then crawls out of the undergrowth.

<br><br>”Thanks for stopping—I’m not injured. I was hiding.”

“Hiding? Why—is someone stalking you?”

“Not stalking, but annoying. I like to jog in the afternoons but this creepy guy keeps following me and trying to hit on me. Some men figure a single woman is a soft target to harass.”

“What direction were you taking?”

She points back down the trail toward my home.

<br><br>“Tell you what, why not jog with me? I’m jogging as far as Mountain Trail cut-off.”

“That would be great. I live on Prospect Circle,” she smiles.

“That’s just a few blocks from my house,” I tell her.

Ten minutes later we arrive at the cut-off. The creep is nowhere in sight.

“I really appreciate this,” the girl says. 

She’s beautiful and strikes me as being in the hospitality business, I figure her for a flight attendant. 

<br><br>“No problem,” I say and am about to leave when she asks, “Do you jog on this trail often?”

“I’ll probably be jogging in the late afternoons around five—that’s when I’m home from work.”

“Do you mind if I join you? You’d be doing me a big favour.”

“Sure. We can meet here at five weekdays. I usually only run for about forty minutes.”

“That’ll work for me,” she smiles. “By the way, I’m Cindy.”

“I’m Callum. I live in the end unit of the townhouses right beside the trail. I guess I’ll se you tomorrow.”

<br><br>I watch as she effortlessly glides away down the earthen path toward her street.

 She’s beautiful and graceful. The day is shaping up to be better than I imagined. The way I’m feeling right now, I can’t possibly be that sick.

And I’m feeling hunger pangs again. I’m thinking of a bowl of heaping pasta and toasted garlic bread, salad and wine…

Yeah, I don’t think this is an illness but it’s a totally new set of sensations that’s even changing my lifestyle. And yes, it still scares me.

<br><br> <center>To be continued…</center>

<br><center>© 2022, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><center>[Photo](https://images.app.goo.gl/SCk9v1t7KQuCVtyr9)</center>
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