After arriving home, smelling like suntan lotion and sand, Bob suddenly realized that he was supposed to be fasting for the surgery he had scheduled later that day. Knocking his head like a V8 commercial he casually chastised himself for the mistake of eating grapes down at the park.
“Are you sabotaging your recovery, Bob? What were you thinking?” I yelled at him while marching around the kitchen, flailing my arms wildly.
“I didn’t think about it. Willy just handed me some grapes. I took some grapes.” Bob explained, shrugging his shoulders, eyes innocent, head tilted to one side, arms out in an “oh well” kind of expression. He appeared bemused by my “overreaction”.
“Now what are we supposed to do?” I screeched, frantic. My own eyes shooting daggers across the counter. I could have sliced that tumor out myself.
It was the Friday before Memorial Day and now we had to wait over the entire holiday weekend because you can’t get these procedures done on weekends or holidays.
“Cancer doesn’t grow on the weekends,” as my sister Teri said.
Oh, how I wish that were true. At this point you could literally see the tumor get bigger by the day. It was horrifying. Once the biopsy finally was done we would have to wait again for the results and then wait again for the doctor to make her determination. Wait, wait, wait, I couldn’t wait.
“Just don’t tell them.” I suggested in a burst of desperation. “Just go, what are they going to do?”
It was just a couple of grapes, they are mostly water, I reasoned. I wanted Bob to get that offensive growth biopsied NOW.
I stood in the kitchen, defiant, arms crossed, listening to him on the phone with the nurse. He mentioned the grapes, he nodded his head wordlessly and then I heard the word Tuesday. Grabbing my purse off the counter, I turned on my heel and headed for the garage. The sound of the screen door slamming was not nearly enough to drown my screams.