Fifty-Fifty

By Betty Kate

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  As Millie took that dreaded walk from her son's hospital room to the small conference area, the cold, unforgiving light injected its numbing horror through her.

  "Have a seat," the doctor said, indicating the chair across from him. She sat in the hard vinyl chair, allowing only her bottom to hold her weight. She examined the large scratch on the wall at eye level as the doctor's words began in the periphery.

He tried to put everything tenderly. His words flowed around Milly as she sat stunned, paralyzed in motionless existence. She noticed the plaster hanging in bits around where the wallpaper had been savagely, ruthlessly violated. His words floated around her head, mocking her with their harsh reality. Chemo, port placement, white count, and so on. A dire alarm startled her, coming from somewhere down the hallway. She wanted to run towards the unknown danger but, instead, she maintained her post against the concrete chair. Then the alarm stopped, and the eerie silence invaded the little room again.

His voice started again with the explanation, and possibilities were presented with the proper inflection and optimism. The doctor touched her knee, which was unexpected, as were the tears that began to fall into her lap. He went for Kleenex as she was left alone, the scratch mocking her. The room started to shrink, and she with it until she was insignificant, an old, worn-out, limp piece of clothing someone had left behind.

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        To continue the story, click on the file at right.  Enjoy.