Student Spectrums

Everything in my life changed with one doctor’s visit. The doctor didn’t give me a clear timeline, but the outcome was easily understood. The doctor was very careful and clear with his words while shuffling and shifting all sorts of papers. He explained that, through multiple tests, they had found an incurable health condition. He tried to kind of assure me by saying that I could manage symptoms. It took me a minute to just kinda get all of my thoughts together, staring at the ground.

I looked back at him and asked, “How long do I have left to live then?”

He hesitated. “It is difficult to get an exact timing for conditions like these. It varies for different people, but you should be prepared for a limited time. What matters now is how you choose to spend your time left.”

That was the last thing he said before I left the hospital, how you choose to spend your time. I left without saying anything else; there wasn’t anything else to say either. Outside, the world looked the same; nothing had changed. It was just me by myself; despite that, it felt strange knowing something so important to me had little to no impact on the world around me.

That same night, I had no appetite for dinner. I lay on my bed just staring at my phone. I scrolled through the same places I had looked at hundreds of times before on my photo app. I stopped scrolling when I came across an old photo. I opened it, seeing a woman holding a little kid, posing in front of surrounding breathtaking waterfalls and tall valleys. For a long time, I just stared at it. My phone had been full of photos of places I never remembered going to, probably because I was still a little kid back then. If these photos weren’t already in my phone growing up, I’d think that these captivating scenes were ChatGPT or AI-generated. These photos made me feel distant, though, as if I was watching the life of someone else that I could never experience myself.

The baby in that same photo was me, I knew that much, and the woman was my mother, at least I assumed. I never knew her, nor did I know anyone else. No family was there to pass down information or to answer my questions and curiosity. But this one photo served the purpose of an unusual kind of connection between my mother and me. I swiped up to see that the location added to the photo was Switzerland, specifically in a small place called Lauterbrunnen. For the first time, I didn’t want to just look at the photo; I wanted to literally be there. I wanted to experience seeing that same spot through my own eyes, making it a reality.

The decision came quickly; there was no one to hear or provide feedback, but that didn’t matter. For the first time, the idea didn’t feel like something impossible; it felt necessary. There was no one or anything else that I needed to keep in mind during this decision. Studies and education did not matter at all to me anymore. Was it really more important than the end of my life? I put everything aside, even though the idea was unrealistic, that I couldn’t just leave and travel across the entire world.

When the day finally came for me to leave, I purposely left my doctor’s prescribed medication. I wanted the whole thought of my condition out of my mind, focusing on only one thing. The journey itself was nothing as I had imagined. I had grown up in America my whole life, but this was still my first time leaving home on my own. It wasn’t so smooth; airports were crowded and confusing. And even worse, my money didn’t help me go as far as I had hoped; I was never blessed with generational wealth. I admit, there were countless moments where I wondered if I had made a grave mistake. But in those same moments, a spark of determination continuously pushed me forward.

After missing a connecting flight, making me wait for hours in an uncomfortable plastic chair, my plane landed at an airport in Switzerland, and I still needed to take one last train to reach Lauterbrunnen. Money ran out faster than I expected, and when I bought the final train ticket at the train station, I was officially in debt. I felt bad that I was most likely not going to end up repaying my debts to the bank since I didn’t want to literally spend the rest of my life working to pay it off.

I was standing inside the train station and was, to a degree, indecisive and overwhelmed. At one point, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Excuse me, do you speak English?” I asked a passerby.

He responded, saying, “So-so.”

I told him that I’m trying to get to Lauterbrunnen. He lifted his hands, folding all his fingers except for three of them, indicating that I was supposed to go to platform three. I thanked him for his help; it was a brief moment, but it profoundly mattered. People did not know me, owe me, or even need to respond to me. However, they still helped; this made everything feel less distant and instead a closer feeling to home.

The train ride gave me a glimpse of what I was getting into. The scenery shifted as time passed. Hills turned into mountains, towns turned into small villages, and urban life turned into a natural canvas. The landscape felt familiar to the photo; I knew I was getting closer at a very fast pace. When there isn’t much to do, a normal person could pay attention to details and specifics of things they would have completely ignored before.

As I stepped off the train, I immediately looked around, taking in the vast valley, mountains, grasslands, and waterfalls. For some time, I just stood there, because I wasn’t staring at any picture on my phone anymore; it was real. The village itself was small and calm. I spoke briefly with a shop owner who directed me toward a place to stay, not too expensive for someone out of debt. I’m surprised that my card wasn’t declined while booking a room for the night.

The next morning, I started walking toward a general direction where I thought I would recognize the same spot. The valley seemed familiar in characteristics but not exact. I tried to match different angles, details, shapes, etc. But after a while, I started to doubt myself.

A woman, most likely a local, passing by asked, “Are you looking for something?”

I showed her the photo, and she studied it for a moment.

She said while pointing, “There is a path up there, it looks like this.”

The climb was harder than I thought it would be. I stopped to catch my breath. I wasn’t as strong as I used to be anyway, and the climb took a lot of effort. I actually thought about turning back, but I had not come this far just to stop halfway. When I finally reached the top, I immediately recognized it. The angle and position of the cliffs, waterfall, trees, etc., all matched. The photo lined up perfectly with the view in front of me. And for a brief moment, the distant relationship had now disappeared.

I sat down on the comfy grass, holding the photo in my hands. I thought about my mom, family, and everything I would never be able to understand fully. But I didn’t have a feeling of loss. Being there, in the same place where a beautiful moment had existed, made me feel closer in some way. The energy was angelic and peaceful. All my thoughts slowed down, and I wasn’t thinking about what I didn’t have time for. As the sun set more and the day moved toward evening, I remained where I was. There was no need to rush or any urgency. My environment felt calm in a way I hadn’t expected, as if everything else did not exist.

I realized that in the end, this was what I had been searching for the whole time. Not the captivating location itself, but the feeling of being part of something real instead of just observing it from afar. It was never about how far I had traveled, my experiences, or how much I had seen. It was about choosing to experience something for myself, even if it wasn’t easy, to have a feeling of togetherness and comfort. The risks, obstacles, moments of doubt, and help from strangers were all part of what made the occasion meaningful. Sitting there with the scenery stretched out in front of me, I understood something I never had before. Life isn’t something you can fully capture through images, videos, or memories. It has to be personally lived through, even if it’s only for a short amount of time.