You stared blankly at the plain white wall. There were posters on it but you couldn't focus on them. You couldn't focus during your dissertation defense either -- not that you could answer the committee's questions about the statistics used to analyze your research anyway. It was a complete disaster. Your advisor insisted on using cutting-edge statistical methods that you suspected even he didn't really understand. Now, with him gone you were stranded. Dr. Keilanse had been accommodating enough to fill in as your new advisor, but at this point in your research, your subject-matter expertise in this specific area of research had already begun to outstrip hers.
If you were motivated or had the energy maybe you could've caught up. Maybe you could've rewrote. Maybe you could've more thoroughly read the dozen statistical papers establishing the methodology you struggled to implement, all using terminology that made you desperately wish you had taken more math electives.
Maybe you couldn't, or maybe you just didn't. You had always struggled with motivation, and had long stretches of little to no productivity throughout school. In your periods of functionality, you usually managed to catch back up. You had come to accept that this was going to be the way things were, and you just hoped that you would never feel down for so long that it would do too much damage to repair during the limited time you felt somewhat normal.
But your brother passing earlier this year had been tough. You hadn't been able to travel to see him for the past two years, with school as it was. And your fiancee breaking things off had been tough too. It was at least somewhat your fault, for being so busy and unavailable while trying to push through and finish up your Ph.D. during the last year you had to do so. It was do or die time -- students only had six years to complete their degree after admission. In an attempt to keep your fiancee happy, you acquiesced to an open relationship. This just led to her realizing there were people out there who weren't wholly consumed by school.
You looked at the time on your watch. Dad got it for you when you started grad school. He was so proud. You blink away the tears and actually read the time. Too much time passed. At least thirty or forty minutes. Your friends and classmates had said it usually doesn't take more than fifteen minutes for the committee to decide on the minor revisions and feedback and decide to pass you. You heard the door open down the hall, and approaching footsteps.
Dr. Keilanse's face told you everything you needed to know. "With the situation as it is with Dr. Wehlam leaving... and your personal issues... I was hoping to convince the committee to be understanding... but..."
You can't say you're surprised. A decade of school, building to a single, final result. Failure.