The Remembering of Oliver

Hunter Freeman
11 min readOct 15, 2020

October 4, 2019: The Scope

My feet dangled off the hospital bed, stretching from somewhere inside a loose-fitting, roller-rink-astronomical-carpet-patterned gown, probably worn by people much sicker and terminal than I was. That didn’t stop my ill mood. The nurses zipped by beyond the white privacy curtain. My girlfriend, Sam, texted my mother that I was prepped for my procedure and was just waiting to be taken to the room.

“It’s going to be funny if I go through all of this for nothing,” I said, dwelling on the numerous fruitless appointments I’d had before this one.

“It’ll be okay,” Sam said assuredly. I squeezed her hand.

The nurse entered my bay and rushed Sam away. She instructed me to lean back and wheeled me down the hall. A woman looked at me through wrinkled eyes as she scooted with her IV to the nearest bathroom, donning a matching gown and pattern. It fit her better.

In my snooping at opened doors and withdrawn curtains, it became apparent that I was the youngest patient in the Endoscopy Lab — by a large margin. I wasn’t sure then if that made me feel better or worse, but thinking about how my symptoms puzzled my doctors, it didn’t surprise me. I wasn’t supposed to be here; not for my age, not for my weight, not for my habits. And yet, here I was, desperate for answers…

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Hunter Freeman

Hunter has been described as “a writer’s writer.” He looks for balance in all things.