with only four chairs
for the women who have been told to wait
sometimes I wonder if it’s the waiting that does the worst
damage
waiting too long to seek help
waiting to find out the results
the door opens and a tiny lady enters with her husband
and approaches the reception desk
with the all too familiar large envelope of assorted scans
in her hands
I recognise everything about her
the flat chest
the grey, buzz cut hair
and I think, dear god, will that be me standing there
she’s clearly come from bad news
it fills the small room
and she says to the receptionist
in a voice shaken but attempting to be bright
“well, this one will be a challenge”
and I don’t want to hear a word she has to say
I have lived this nightmare for too long in real life
and whilst asleep
she takes the seat
next to me
and I can tell right away she wants to chat
and I don’t want to hear a word she has to say
her husband, well versed in the endless waiting
has already opened his paperback
and I recognise everything about him
the husband, in sickness and in health
and I can tell he’s supportive but on auto-pilot
“I looked at it like it was a job I had to do” my dad would
say
he tells her to read all the information she has
so she can have her questions ready for the doctor
she is taking deep breaths
“just read your notes” he says
she starts to sob quietly
“I'm allowed to breathe” she replies
driving to find out the final results
my phone alerts me to a message
it’s my sister
and it reads ...
