Every Second Counts: The Portrayal of Invisible Illness in “Countdown”

There are two ticking clocks in Amazon Prime’s Countdown. One of them, the prevention of a terrorist act with nuclear material. The other lies in wait inside Mark Meachum’s skull, the glioblastoma multiforme taking over the space in his head, its cancerous tentacles not leaving room for anything else. For those of us who have witnessed what this type of tumor can do, we know its brutality. Not just the physical pain in the one to two years people live after diagnosis, but the way it invades who you are, with personality changes, memory loss, visual impairment, motor dysfunction, and seizure disorders.

Mark Meachum, portrayed by the ever talented Jensen Ackles, is clinging to who he is. Like many who have an illness that doesn’t have an obvious external visual indicator (at least not yet for Mark), he says nothing to the people around him, keeping the secret close.

This is a shield, a different type of badge to use, one that reads: “Healthy.”

Making this a private burden means that, for as long as he can, everyone treats him as the capable officer he is. No one looks at him like he’s a dead man walking, and his boss doesn’t put him on leave.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s only letting people believe he cheated on his fiancée with her sister because either visual impairment and/or a lack of inhibition from personality changes was the reason he made a move. It makes sense why he’d say nothing to his fiancée either and be willing to let her believe the worst, because she’d be marrying him only to lose him a short time later. Disabled people are viewed as people who need to be taken care of, or alternately, put out of sight; society tends to only look at a sense of burden but disabled people try to protect the people around them in many ways, sacrificing so others get the sense of normalcy we may not have. Whether it’s a chronic illness that is terminal or not, there can be a sense of losing time. The clock ticks by the minutes of your life, with knowledge that the world is still going on without you being able to participate in the way you or others expect. With a progressive illness, the sand in the hourglass spills downward even faster. Some people fight for every second, pushing themselves to extremes to pack in as much life as possible. Others withdraw from a life they don’t think they can have anymore.

Countdown plays with this idea. Each episode, there’s the knowledge that time is running out for Mark, but there’s also the question of how Meachum’s illness will reveal itself. He refuses to take his prescribed medication, the show already reminding us through Oliveras (Jessica Camacho) that these agents get randomly drug tested. (Kudos to the show for having his doctor say “relief medication” rather than pain medication. It’s smart reframing.) The audience has the pressure cooker of the nuclear bomb plot revealing itself, but we are also on edge, asking what part of himself Mark will lose next.

When will the pain go beyond his stoicism and demand a treatment that may cloud his sharp mind? At what point will the cancer ensnaring his gray matter rear itself like the worst magician’s act on the planet, the invisible becoming visible to the people around him and robbing him of the little voice that tells him nothing has to change? Not yet, Mom. Just five more minutes.

Disability is often a grieving process, a grieving of your loss of self. And like any other grieving process, even as you are confronted with the loss and limitations, denial and bargaining are powerful to contend with. Often through pain or other symptoms, people will try to push past what their body and mind are capable of, to show up for their loved ones, to show up in their own lives, and stake a claim in who they are. Getting to acceptance is not a linear path, especially for people whose illness progresses over time, because there are new losses to grieve, fresh hells to incorporate.

Grieving on your own is a hideous path to take, and isolation doesn’t only harm with a spiritual death, but can cause stress that tears your health down even more. We want Mark to have community, something he seems to want as he reaches out a hand in friendship to his colleagues, even after being rebuffed. But being honest means saying it out loud and making his diagnosis more real, more evident in his daily life. It might mean the loss of his work life, something that is a key part of how he identifies himself. People knowing means their faces may become the face of the looming clock as they treat him differently. But what may he gain?

He’s reaching for every second, trying to stay who he understands himself to be, at times on the job, maybe even preferring to die as that man. Yes, things will change if others know. But the people in your life, when they know, can reflect more than the losses; they can come with the assist to remind you who you are and who you’ve been. They hold up a mirror and remind you that you still exist, even if you’re existing a little differently. Their care can remind you that you’re worth caring about, that the changes that are happening to you don’t mean you’re disposable. And they make the time you do have, whether short or long, worth it.

The seconds will still count, even if your body and mind change. And sometimes you need someone to count along with you, even when the numbers are scary. Especially when the numbers are scary.

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Illustrated by Nightsky. Screencaps by Raloria on LJ. Images courtesy of Amazon MGM Studios.