The River & the Room: My Biggest Lesson in Impermanence

A story about celebrating goodbyes and honoring hellos

“Hi. Checking in for Derek Lakin.”

The guy behind the counter swivels in his chair and glances at me through brown-framed glasses, their thick lenses making his eyes look owl-like. He pushes back from his crumb-scattered desk, revealing a stained t-shirt that’s taut against his obese frame.

With a heavy sigh, he leans forward, places both hands on his knees, and lumbers into a standing position. Light reflects off the parts of his scalp not covered by a greasy combover.

Without so much as a welcome or hello, he responds, “Credit card and ID.”

Jesus, his breath stinks. I hand over what he requests.

While he hunt-and-pecks my info into a computer that might still run on Windows 95, I glance around the lobby. A roomful of dusty, awkwardly-arranged furniture sits, un-sat-in.

This is a place of passing through, I think—no one has found respite here, however brief, in a very long time.

I hear the soft tap of my cards against the chipped Formica counter behind me. I turn my attention back to the clerk’s labored breathing and return everything to my wallet while he programs a key card.

I wonder about him: What’s his story? What brought him to this point? What struggles has he overcome? Which ones is he still battling?

“Room 115,” he says, breaking my reverie, and handing me the key card without glancing up.

Whatever struggles he’s mired in, may he find relief. For now, though, I have my own appointment with suffering.

With a weak smile and a half-hearted thank you for his non-service, I take the card, hoist my backpack onto one shoulder, walk toward the exit, and out front door.

“Fuck,” I reflexively react as the icy December wind cuts through my jacket.

Hope may die in that lobby. But at least it’s a warm death.

Turning left, the cracked pavement leads me toward my room. Snow from the storm a few days ago covers most sections of grass. Some, brown and asleep for the season, still manages to peek through, though.

I empathize with the lawn’s willfulness. But I’m exhausted, too.

The sidewalk veers left again.

100, 101, 102… A skinny middle-aged man smokes a joint in his doorway.

107, 108, 109… Someone’s TV blares the late news.

113, 114, 115… Home sweet home.

I place my key card against the reader. Its weak light flashes green, and the deadbolt, much like the front desk clerk, groans with effort. I turn the handle and lean, sharing my heaviness with the door.

The room greets me with dust-yellowed light, which has somehow managed to fight past a fabric cocoon of a lampshade. The glazed ceramic masterpiece it’s wrapped around reminds me of my grandfather’s favorite coffee mug, and the single-drawer nightstand it sits atop is standard-issue eighties chic. Queen beds, their indifference uninviting, recline on either side.

I float through the doorway, lock the solid slab of wood behind me, toss my backpack onto the farthest bed, and notice the beige water stain on the ceiling before I notice the discoloration on the comforter.

There’s a door leading into the next room. Through it, I hear a man, woman, and little girl goofing around and giggling together. May they recognize these everyday miracles, here and gone in an instant. I crack what I can manage of a smile.

I turn to my left and glance at the nook of a bathroom. Sad. Tired. In deep need of rejuvenation.

Perched atop a narrow, matching dresser behind me, there’s an older TV. I can’t decide if I want some background noise to interrupt my circular thinking, so instead, I instinctively grab my AirPods, pop them in my ears, open my meditation app, and let the ambient Eternal Stream level out my scattered thoughts. Exhausted, I pull the comforter to the foot of the bed and flop down on the sheets.

What in the hell just happened?

One minute, we were walking along the path, talking about our needs, and the next, I was standing beside the river, crying so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath. During the brief moments I could stand upright, my eyes, blurred with tears, desperately sought her assurance.

Please, please tell me this isn’t what you want.

I beg; tell me that I misunderstand you.

Tell me this will all be ok.

“I’m so sorry,” she kept responding. Her eyes told me she meant it.

“Please, I’m hurting, too.” Her body sought my embrace, but I couldn’t offer mine in return.

Drawing in a deep breath, I looked skyward. Fishbowl.

Fate conceded, I spun, walked back up the dirt trail away from the river, and sped home along the bike path. People, caught in their own movies, stared.

Upon entering, the apartment already felt foreign. I grabbed my backpack from the top shelf of our (her?) walk-in closet and stuffed inside it whatever I laid eyes on. I couldn’t even peek at the bed as I exited the room.

The hallway leading out felt impossibly long. I paused beside each of the girls’ rooms, their doors closed, trying to decide if they should remain oblivious to the ways in which their worlds were about to be upended.

I chose to let their childhoods remain intact. Just a bit longer.

Closing the front door, the apartment’s electronic lock sounded a lot like opening the motel’s. Hesitant. Strained. Resigned.

Now, here I sit, back at the river, its current flowing through my ears. The lamp beside me, its shade-choked light my sun. The rattling heater, its head plunged through the cinderblock wall, my breeze.

My nose is completely stopped up. I sit upright, wedge two pillows behind me, and lean back against the headboard. Followed by more rumination about whether to fire up the TV. I decide to turn it on but mute the sound. Its electrons buzz. A crackling fire, it is not.

To help interrupt my repetitive thoughts, I swipe open my phone and start scrolling old Instagram posts. Almost immediately, I land on one of my recent ones that reads, “’Flow,’ whispers the river. Am I listening?”

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A post shared by @pedalmind

Goddamn. The Universe sure does have one hell of a sense of irony.

Staring at the TV’s screen but not seeing it, I imagine Mom, who’s on a red-eye from Texas, nodding off in her aisle seat. I told her to wait until morning before heading to the airport, but the truth is, I’m glad she refused. Who else’s shoulder am I going to cry on tonight?

I imagine picking her up at the airport in a few hours and falling apart as soon as I see her. I imagine grabbing Taco Bell—or whatever shithole’s still open that late—on the way back to the motel. I imagine her sitting on the bed opposite mine, eyes squinted in consideration, as she’s debriefed. I imagine that once the dust has settled and she’s fast asleep, facing the deafening silence as night gives way to day.

I imagine the pain and hurt ahead. Firsts I never wanted.

Waking up. Making coffee. Cooking breakfast. Feeding the dog. Mapping out the day’s adventures. Laughing. Crying. Shopping at HomeGoods. From now on, all without her.

Until my first ketamine sessions a few weeks ago, depression defined every role in my life, including as a son, father, partner, and friend. It’s charted every path I’ve taken and acted as the very foundation of my identity. It’s made me hinge my self-worth on others’ approval—especially her’s—desperately seeking validation that some part of me, however small, remained good.

And it’s the main reason I now sit here, transitory, somewhere between the Derek that was and the one who will be. Between intention and reality. Between dark and light.

Cradled in limbo, I fall to one side and pull my knees chest-ward. My eyes, leaden, force themselves closed.

In mere hours, I will begin writing the first few sentences of my next chapter; experience my first full day as Derek 2.0.

Somewhere distant, a spark of hope illuminates a path forward.

That glass-is-half-full crap will have to wait, though.

For now, I welcome the mercifully black—if only momentary—vacuum of sleep.