The Bermuda Triangle and the Bone Marrow Biopsy

It was five years after my husband’s multiple myeloma diagnosis. Five years after the stem cell transplant that gave us back our life. Now, every year, we return to the oncology clinic for his re-staging, and every year, the anxiety is the same. It’s a moment of truth, the yearly reckoning.

This particular day, we were in the waiting room, anxiously anticipating the bone marrow biopsy. I was trying to lose myself in a book, a shield against the tension that hummed in the air. That’s when I heard them. Two very elderly men were talking. One was speaking rather loudly. At first, I was annoyed. My reading was important (insert sarcasm here). I wanted to block out the noise and the fear.

But then, an internal nudge made me put the book down. I didn't just listen; I pulled out my journal and began writing it all down. Their conversation was surreal, almost a parable:

Man 1: "I wouldn’t wanna go down to the bottom of the ocean. No telling what’s down there. The fish that live down there don’t come up to the surface. They just stay in the bottom part of the water. I’m glad they don’t come up. I don’t wanna see no fish that light up. You know the fish at the bottom part of the ocean light up. If they bite you or sting you, you’d be in a whole lot of trouble.

You know the Devil’s Triangle? Once you go in, you never come out. I think they go to another dimension, but we never really know because no one has ever come back."

Man 2: "I hope that wherever they go is better than here."

Man 1: "Devil’s Triangle. Bermuda Triangle. I’m certain it’s another dimension of time."

(A brief silence.)

Man 1: "If you look at water long enough, it will hypnotize you. Water pulls. It has some sort of pulling power. I’m not gonna get on some bridge under the water and be hypnotized. It’s got power."

Shortly after, Man 2 was called back for his appointment, and the conversation ended.

To anyone just listening, it was a random chat between two old men passing the time. But in that oncology waiting room, I heard more. Here were two men, both frail, both dealing with cancer. Man 1 spoke only of the unseen, the unknown, things he had no power over. Was he truly talking about deep-sea fish and bridges? Or was he talking about the cancer, the darkness, the uncertainty he couldn’t control? He was consumed by fear of the place where he was not in charge. He wanted to be sure he didn't land himself in the deepest part of the ocean, or step off the edge of a bridge.

Man 2, who only made one comment, offered a profound, simple hope: "I hope that wherever they go is better than here."

Both men had cancer. Both were staring down the barrel of an uncertain future on this earth. Both were pondering what was next. One man sounded hopeful, praying for something better than his current reality. The other sounded fearful and desperate to maintain control over the dark unknown.

Cancer or no cancer, aren’t we all like that?

We all want to be sure of what’s next. Not knowing is uncomfortable. It's scary, unpredictable, and entirely out of our control. And we love to be in control.

Unfortunately, so much of life is defined by the opposite:

• It’s not knowing.

• It’s waiting.

• It’s surrendering.

It’s learning to live moment by moment and being fully present right where we are. We aren’t promised tomorrow. We can only control the hope we choose to carry and the peace we allow ourselves to find today, right here, on the surface.

Maybe the deep, dark part of the ocean is less frightening when you accept that sometimes, the only way forward is to trust that wherever you’re going, and whatever you encounter, you are strong enough to handle it—even if you can’t see what lights up below.

How do you handle the "Bermuda Triangles" in your own life? That place where you lose control and the future is uncertain?

©Lisa King, MS, LPC, NCC