And pit of stomach...so deep inside, we can’t call it.
I wait for more than four hours, not long on many days
but taxing when I'm waiting for an all clear
from the oncologist who has our future in his hands.
I know the signs now; wait for them with trembling knees.If doctor comes to the side chair to talk to me, it’s good news.
If Pearl, his assistent, tells me to come to the room in the back
where doctor waits, I know its bad news; terrible news.
Dr. Dhalaki walks into my vision, mask hanging like a necklacearound his neck. A small, serious man whose brow is always
furrowed. He never gives away an answer in his expressions.
Then he takes the turn, his head buried in some kind of report,
sits down in the chair by the side of the front desk.
We make eye contact and the tears well up, he’s OK,my husband is OK for another three months. No cancer.
All this before the Doctor opens his mouth. He shows
me photos of Bill’s bladder and prostate so I’ll understand
I don’t need the photos. I have all the information I need.
I want to see my husband so we can celebrate life anew.