by George

“You have a mass in your chest; I think it’s cancer." The news should have produced a fainting spell, but there was too much to do, reflect upon, wish for, deal with, regret. While you picked out Viking kitchen appliances, I was sliding through a state of the art GE Scanner with 222 pins the size of knitting needles firmly planted in my neck and chest. The technician made me promise not to open my eyes. As I lay beaten by six rounds of chemo, I watched you thumb through In Style and wondered why you never, not once, reached for my hand. Everything changed; my exit strategy put into play; the benign alchemized by the malignancy.


George is writing to relieve the pressure in her head, because the Advil isn’t working, and a gun is out of the question.