Stuck in an Elevator
I never dreamed I would be stuck on an elevator, but there I was, sitting on the floor, my only companion the darkness surrounding me.
Just a few minutes before the nurses helping my wife in post-op had sent me to get my car and park it at the back entrance of the surgical clinic so that they wouldn’t have to wheel Lori across a parking lot. The only problem was that I didn’t wait for their directions. I dashed off like a knight in shining armor rescuing his sleeping damsel from a burning castle. Bolting through the first door, I paid no attention to the fact that the waiting room I jogged through was empty— no patients, no nurses, no receptionists, not even a light remained on at 5:30 p.m., but that didn’t matter to a man on a mission; that door and the second leading to the stairwell hardly broke my stride to the final glass door, the exit. It clanged shut, stopping me cold in my purpose-driven tracks. Not to be deterred, I quickly decided to retrace my steps back to post-op and obediently listen for further instructions. That wasn’t an option. The doors would open only from the side I came through, not the entry side. I was trapped on the far side of the surgical clinic. And my wife was waiting, half conscious, in post-op on the other side.
Some people have aversions to elevators. For me that elevator on the first floor of the clinic posed no threat; it looked like an opportunity, an escape route from the locked doors. So I stepped in. The elevator doors shut. Then, the power shut down, and I found myself in total darkness. I was stuck on an elevator.
People who have studied these situations have found that the sense of panic usually subsides after about 30-60 minutes. I was on the verge of hyperventilating, just thinking that I might be there that long or even longer. How would anyone know where I was? What would my wife do? I could almost hear the nurses’ conversation later that night, before going home: “Hey, whatever happened to that guy who went for his car? He just vanished. Too bad we had to call social services to get his poor, abandoned wife.”
I’m reminded now, as I reflect on how helplessly I sat on that elevator floor, of how we romp and stomp through life, dashing through doors that lock shut behind us, running the red lights, barreling down the road to success like a fast train through a ghost town at midnight, virtually unaware of the hollowness that haunts us as we hurry down the track, deafened by the roar of our own steam, racing by moments we can never retrieve— moments that are the life of life: the kids running into the bedroom with morning kisses, the baseball accidentally crashing through the picture window, the ballet recital, the romantic candlelight dinner, the quiet moments by the fireplace—and quite suddenly the doors shut, like the lid on a casket, as we sit motionless in our own elevator, pink slip in our hand, entombed in mediocrity, plateaued in an aimless career, temporarily laid off, or unavoidably reassigned. Or perhaps it’s a trapped relationship with one who doesn’t care enough to shrug his shoulders, stay, or leave. And we can’t help but ask, “Was it my fault? Was this necessary? Was it just fate?” We wait, and hope for the foreman, or plant manager, or Someone (Where did He go?) to bring us better news.
He may not arrive on our time, but He is there on time, always. Faith ultimately overcomes fear; determination overpowers doubt when faith and hope rest in the right Someone.
And then my elevator quite suddenly moved. The doors opened. Light streamed in. I laughed. An angel-nurse laughed back. “It’s a good thing I came this way, pushed the elevator button, by chance.”
By chance? Not on your life. I knew better.
Dr. David B.Whitlock’s Life Matters is published weekly. You can visit David at his website, www.davidwhitlock.org or email him at drdavid@davidwhitlock.org