It wasn't me, I swear, but I couldn't help but realize a patch had been installed on my system. I could see a progress bar on top of my head after the recent health episode that almost took my life.
My family has been cursed with chronic illness for all the male members since my granddad. Not that I know much about him, since he passed away before I was even born. My dad had 13 siblings—11 boys and 2 girls. Naturally, with that many boys, the branch of the family carrying our surname grew exponentially over the past century. What I couldn't help but notice, though, was that almost all the men in our family developed hypertension by the young age of 30 and subsequently built up other chronic conditions: heart attacks, diabetes, kidney failure, cancer... hardly any of them died of natural causes.
I tried to ignore it. Since I was aware of the hereditary risk, I actually worked out pretty darn extensively. I told myself that as long as the blood bank continuously accepted my regular donations, I was proven to be healthy enough not to have those chronic diseases.
Then a stroke came out of nowhere.
I'll skip the part where I crapped my pants and the whole grueling recovery process. Over the past five months, I think I've done pretty darn well sticking to my physio and eating somewhat healthily.
Have you ever played Street Fighter at the arcade? There's a health bar over the hero you select. Every time your hero gets hit, the bar drops. Once it depletes completely and your hero dies, you have to insert another coin to continue. If the countdown runs out, all your progress resets and you have to start the game over from scratch.
Ever since I was discharged and sent home, I noticed I could see a bar above my head whenever I looked in the mirror. It felt kind of fun at first, discovering this newly installed gadget. I had a progress bar to gauge my remaining strength! It made me feel like a real-life arcade character, seeing that health bar blinking near the top. To me, a full bar meant I was full of life.
I thought I had recovered remarkably well. Life was almost back to normal—just like before the stroke, except I still relied on a walking stick. My bar remained near full strength. I believed that if it hadn't been for the stroke, it would be at 100%, so I felt pretty good about things.
Until one day, an emergency broke out at the office.
A meeting between our client and my bosses was getting extremely tense. I tried my absolute best to stay calm and keep my emotions in check. Even so, the stress was overwhelming for a recovering stroke patient, so I excused myself to the washroom to splash some water on my face.
To my surprise, the bar had expanded—it was now pushing 95% of its entire length. I pressed my palm against my chest and felt my heart racing violently, pumping hard against my ribs. I looked up and saw my face turn pale, my lips trembling.
Darn it, it's not a health bar. It's a progress bar for my illness.
It was a new gadget installed during my stroke, and it didn't come with a user manual. I had assumed it was a Street Fighter health bar that I needed to keep full. How the heck was I supposed to know it was a heat indicator? It immediately reminded me of a joke my dad used to tell about driving: The "F" on the fuel gauge stands for Finished, and "E" stands for Enough. Standing there, I realized I was that idiot misreading the gauge.
Knowing I couldn't go back into that meeting, I stayed in the washroom, trying to keep cool and splashing cold water on my face, hoping to bring the progress bar down.
Wham!
My manager burst into the restroom, shouting because I’d been missing for over ten minutes. The sudden bang of the door shocked me, and the pressure in the room skyrocketed. I watched the bar climb to 99%. Knowing things were about to go south, I prepped to drop to the floor—just in case a heart attack hit at 100%, at least I wouldn't smash my head against the sink on the way down.
As my manager kept scolding me, I slid down against the toilet bowl. My head started spinning, and I felt saliva uncontrollably dripping off my chin...
...and then I woke up sitting beside my bed, coming out of a total nightmare.
The drool from the dream was still hanging off my jaw. I was drenched in sweat, my heart pounding as if I had just been chased by a dog. I managed to pull myself up and look into the mirror. Above my head, the progress bar seemed to recede: 99%, 98%, 96%, 92%... before getting stuck at 87%.
It’s been a long time now, but that dream still comes back to haunt me every so often. Whenever I check the mirror, I can still see a faint progress bar hovering above my head, lingering right around 85%. I honestly can't tell if it's a real system update installed in my head, or just my imagination taking over.
