For the first time in my life I was thinking about myself. As much as I wanted to hear good news about my mother’s condition, just as much I was wishing for her end. I shuddered at my horrific thoughts, loathing myself. Even so, I was aware that, as long as she were alive, I would not be able to set off on my own path. It did not come into consideration to leave her alone and sick, because she would hardly survive without support. I would have to be with her. There was no compromise — either I would live or she would, either I would wither beside her because I would not leave, or she would wither alone if I left. I had to choose between my mother and my life’s path. Is it fair for a man to fall apart so that he could be beside a person for whom there is no longer any hope? At first glance it seems that everyone has brave words when the question of self-sacrifice is raised, but in essence most people live exclusively for themselves and their own survival. So even the healthy keep away from the sick, so that they would not get infected as well. People even keep away from the poor, as if poverty too were contagious. Who could judge me then for my thoughts? All that was left for me was to gather my last strength and step into the Emergency Department building. The decision was in the hands of a higher power; it was up to it to determine whose path would continue and whose would end here.

Entering the building, I immediately saw the admissions desk. I approached and asked about my mother; I explained the situation and that she had most likely just recently been brought in. The younger lady at the desk immediately began searching, by first and last name, trying to find information about my mother. Soon she found it; she carefully informed me that my mother was currently in the operating room, because of which of course it was not possible for me to see her. She added that Dr. Jakovljević was the attending physician, but that unfortunately she did not have more information at that moment.

I lowered my gaze thoughtfully, thanked her, and went back toward the doors. Outside I sat on a bench, set my bag beside me, crossed my arms, and for a while looked lost up at the sky. I sat like that for a long time, thinking and waiting for time to pass. At one moment I decided to take the book out of my bag and read a little, so that I might distract my thoughts. However, my thoughts were not clear enough for me to read anything; I was looking through the book more than I was looking at its pages. At the moment when I was putting the book back into my bag, a man in a white coat approached me, wearing a badge with a name — Dr. Aleksandar Ivanov.

“Is it free?” he asked briefly, in a cordial voice.

Just as briefly I answered:

“Of course.”

He sat down on the bench beside me.

“I noticed you’re reading the Bible, which reminded me of my younger days when I used to read it all the time,” he said thoughtfully.

Then my question followed:

“Why don’t you read it anymore?”

He paused for a moment, looking up at the sky, and then again, in a calm voice, replied:

“While I was reading, I was thinking much more about life than I was living it. However, when I began to live, I realized that life itself is a much greater teacher than any book in the world.”

A man cannot gain wisdom if he does not go out among people and face all the challenges of life. However, the more we go toward the realization of our life goals, the more strongly certain evil thoughts pull us away, because the heart fears suffering through loss. Still, on every step that leads us toward the realization of some higher goal, we will have to leave something behind.

“So you mean it is pointless to read it?” I asked curiously.

The doctor thought briefly, so that he would carefully choose his words.

“I wouldn’t say it is pointless, but I will explain it to you in a different way. Life is like one long road that leads uphill, on which we walk until death blocks it for us. On that road many beautiful things can await us, but also many ugly ones. The awkward thing is only that no one knows when death will appear in front of us. That is why we must be fast, because the faster we learn, the more bravely we go forward, stepping over everything that happens to us, the more beautiful experiences we will have — and in the end, through wise decisions, we will finally arrive at happiness. The farther you get on your road, the uphill climb will become steeper, and each next step will become heavier. However, many wisdoms were discovered before us, so we do not have to devise them again. Someone has already walked those steps. Leaving us their written thoughts and words, they are like horses that stand beside our road, and that we can mount and travel some distance on, without having to tire our legs.”

Everything we think today, someone has thought before us. And surely many have gone through the same pain, as I went through that day. Moreover, surely many have gone through far greater pain. I understood what he meant. It is a true gift to receive the right words at the right moment; they act like medicine for the soul. Somehow they reminded me of the priest’s words. From his surname I could conclude that he was not from here. What had brought him here, I wondered.

“I understood what you wanted to tell me, thank you for that. Still, I would like to ask you something. Your surname seems as if it isn’t from here, so I’m interested where you come from?”

He answered politely:

“You’re welcome; advice costs nothing, and we can give it to anyone, whatever he does with it. You’re right — I am not from here. I was born in Russia. I grew up there, studied there, and finally met at university a beautiful young woman, after whom I came to this small place.”

I wanted to learn more about his path and his leaving because of love, so I asked him:

“It is a big thing to leave your birthplace, your surroundings, your family, and everything familiar. Still, I believe you are happy now beside your wife. Does something still pull you toward your home?”

He looked at me sadly and replied in a quiet voice:

“I was very happy beside her; I loved her more than myself. Unfortunately, she is no longer here. We spent many beautiful moments, exchanged a lot of tenderness and love, but God had different plans for us. For a long time we lived without children, because she could not become pregnant. About a year ago she finally became pregnant. The pregnancy was normal; we were supposed to get a son. However, during childbirth there were complications. Both of them passed to the other world, according to God’s will.”

He lowered his head and fell silent.

It truly was a sad story. He had come from far away, gotten used to a new culture, learned a new language, and decided to live far from his parents — all because of love — only to end up without anything. I almost forgot my own grief. How harsh life can be, how truly mysterious God’s ways are. And while he was talking about his love, I remembered Danica. I did not say goodbye to her. We did not kiss or hug; I simply forgot about her. It is strange how quickly we forget those we love when fate leads us down another path. While the abandoned person doesn’t even know why, perhaps she suffers in uncertainty while thoughts torment her and she wonders why she was abandoned. What is Danica thinking about now, I thought. Did she perhaps hear from someone what happened to my mother? She will surely find out, but until she finds out, what is she thinking? Perhaps she suffers, or she will just as quickly forget me too.

“I’m sorry for your fate. Please accept my condolences,” I finally said, after a few moments of silence.

He raised his head and looked at me, replying:

“Thank you; that pain will pass as well, just as everything in life passes. And what brought you here?”

To that I replied:

“My mother fainted; they brought her because of an emergency intervention, and now I’m waiting for them to finish. Unfortunately, I was not beside her when the accident happened.”

Placing his hand on my shoulder, Dr. Ivanov looked me in the eyes and said:

“Don’t blame yourself, because you are not the one who takes and gives. You have your whole life ahead of you; whatever happens with your mother — and I believe it will be good — you must continue with your head held high.”

I replied again with a question:

“How do you walk upright, after everything that happened to you?”

To this question he immediately answered:

“I must, because my time of departure has not yet come.”

I asked him again, curious:

“You speak as if you have some task to fulfill, or do you simply think your time has not yet come?”

Again his answer followed quickly:

“I don’t know whether I have a task to fulfill; my lifespan is too short for me to understand my role in this world. But I know that everything has its reason; nothing happens by chance. Starting from plants, through animals, all the way to man — every speck in this universe follows only one law. Likewise, our meeting was not accidental.”

Doubt was growing in me as to whether he was right. Perhaps I did not understand him well, so I asked him again, so that I might clarify my uncertainties:

“Why then does man make mistakes? Why do accidents happen? Shouldn’t everything be perfect in this world? What is sorrow and pain for, in your opinion?”

He smiled briefly and replied decisively:

“You think this world is not perfect? I still think it is. We are simply too small to manage to comprehend the great plan that stands behind everything. Perhaps we are not actually making mistakes, but fulfilling some greater plan — because if He created us, how then can we make mistakes?”

Having the feeling that he had not fully answered my question, I repeated it:

“And what about sorrow and suffering?”

To this question he gave an answer:

“I don’t know its purpose, but I know that sorrow is the mover of many thoughts and many noble deeds. Without it many thoughts would never have been conceived; much of what exists today would not exist, because when a man is serene, when he loves and lives with full lungs, he rarely remembers to think about difficult questions. Dissatisfaction is a mover, while satisfaction often slows.”

Maybe he was right. Someone breaks under sorrow and thus is not even worthy to set off toward some greater paths. Still, some questions remained; I was like a hungry wolf craving answers, while Dr. Ivanov shone with some special light and was exceptional compared to all the people I had known until then.

Curiously I asked him again:

“Why do you think our meeting could not have been a coincidence? Why exactly the two of us to meet, and why exactly here? Couldn’t it have been anyone else? What if the bus had been late — then maybe some other person would be sitting here now, wouldn’t they?”

He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes for a moment.

“But the bus wasn’t late,” he said softly after he opened his eyes again.

What would have been, if it hadn’t been? Or what would not have been, if it had been? Those were my questions. Since time immemorial people dissect such questions, torment their mind and their body. Yet has anyone achieved anything with them? The doctor was tormenting himself too; he simply had a different stance and different questions. Could it even have been the way it wasn’t? I think we will never know the answers to all those questions. Still, we must have some influence in this world. I was interested in his stance on that, so I asked him again:

“You think we cannot influence this world? Correct me if I misunderstood you.”

His answer immediately followed:

“Oh, we absolutely can!”

His answers were too unclear to me. It seemed to me that he was circling around what he thought. Again I persistently asked, briefly and clearly:

“How?”

Then his answer followed:

“With our thoughts! Every thought is a connection between spirit and matter, the past, the present, and all future generations. And no one can know how great the strength of the emanation of our thoughts truly is, because each of our steps sets in motion an endless wave of other steps.”

Never before had I thought that my thoughts could influence anything. I had always considered my thoughts my own business. I was convinced that my imagination was a personal matter, intended exclusively for me, as a source of motivation or distraction. Immediately I put to him a new question, although I was not sure he would have an answer to it. I was more interested in challenging him than I expected him to have an answer.

“You mean to say that my thoughts can change this world?”

Regardless of my challenge, he answered calmly:

“An individual cannot change the world, but his thoughts can turn into words; those words can inspire another man and his deeds, and those deeds can set in motion a chain of further deeds. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Now the word is with each of us; God has entrusted us with the word so that we may draw the world around us. Therefore always watch what you think and what you say. The word can create, but it can also destroy. Even the purest love can, with dirty words, be turned into hatred.”

His unusual views thrilled me. He was a bit strange; there were even some prejudices, because I did not know where his views came from, his words. However, I also wondered whether it even matters whose views they are, where they come from. Isn’t the only thing that matters, in the end, whether those thoughts are well-intentioned and whether they can help me? Although I would gladly have talked much longer with Dr. Ivanov, it was time to say goodbye. I wanted to find out information about my mother’s health condition, so I said to him:

“Thank you for the wise words. Now I will go to my mother to see whether the intervention has finally finished.”

The doctor replied:

“You’re welcome; good luck, and I hope everything will be all right.”

It was a very strange encounter that would stay with me for a long time. I went again toward admissions, where they told me that the intervention had just finished and that I could wait in front of Dr. Jakovljević’s office. I immediately went there. I was very cold; perhaps I was in some kind of shock, or I had simply made peace with the situation I expected.

Soon I found the attending doctor’s office; I knocked three times and opened the door, after which I received permission to enter.

Dr. Jakovljević looked at me somehow from under his brow through his glasses, as if he was currently busy or burdened with something; in general he did not seem particularly kind. He only said briefly:

“Speak, boy.”

Dr. Jakovljević was a very tall, big and strong man, with a dark gaze. I did not feel comfortable in his presence. Still, I remained composed and addressed him with a serious look.

“Good day, doctor. I am Jovan Adamović; I came because of my mother, Anđa Adamović. I was told at the Emergency Department that you are the attending physician. I would like to see her, or at least to know whether she is well.”

After he heard my statement, the doctor changed his expression; he softened somehow and looked at me with pity. I knew immediately that the situation was not good for my mother. He raised his head from the desk and looked me straight in the eyes.

“So, I have just performed emergency surgery on her because of damage to the brain that she received from the fall. Unfortunately, during the operation we determined that she also had a brain tumor in a late stage. We did not manage to save her. I did everything I could; may God judge me if I did not.”

I froze in that moment; tears began to flow down my face on their own. I looked at the doctor, lost, and in fact I was looking through him. She was gone from one day to the next; we couldn’t even say goodbye. We will never talk again, laugh together, grieve and cry — everything passed in an instant.

“Thank you, doctor. I’m going then.”

Those were the only words I managed to say. I only wanted to run away, to not be there in that moment. I began to blame myself again — how could I even think that it would be a relief for me if she were no longer here. How easy it was to imagine her death, and how hard it actually was to bear her leaving once it truly happened. However, Dr. Jakovljević did not want to let me leave in that state.

“You can’t, Jovan, anywhere in such a state. I know this is a hard moment for you.”

How lightly his words came out of his mouth when it was not his pain in question but mine.

“I know this is a great loss for you, but death is an integral part of life; it awaits each of us. Now you need to be strong — for her.”

Again I listened to how I should be strong. I wanted to be strong, but how?

“Doctor, I can’t anymore.”

The doctor did not want to hear those words at all; he immediately continued to persuade me.

“Your mother raised you so that you would become a man. The wish of every parent is to one day see their grown child happy and successful, because every parent lives on through their child. It is tragic when a child dies before a parent — it is the same as if the parent himself died, because there is no continuation for him. You will continue with your life, as befits you.”