They walked him out of the room hours ago, a flimsy bathrobe flapping behind his surgical gown.
Still no news if the procedure went as expected, or if his heart stopped during the anaesthesia.
Odds are forever in favour of the former, but that’s what Melissa Rivers imagined.
What’s waiting like for the non-anxiety prone?
The last quarter-century’s highlights reel continues to loop though my brain. I try to press pause by reading, watching tv, counting breaths. Nothing stops the runaway train of worry.
A lifetime later, a Caribbean nurse comes in and moves the empty bed. “He be back in a few, hon. Just needin’ to rearrange the furniture.”
The sigh of relief just won’t come, as I’m suddenly from Missouri. They need to show me.
They wheel him back in, his gown now polka-dotted with blood. More than a little disconcerting as it was a non-scalpel procedure.
“Doc say everythin’ be fine, my lovelies,” the nurse assures us.
The highlights reel jumps around to the countless times I’ve rolled my eyes at his inability to consume pasta, ketchup or Cabernet without staining his shirt.
My stinging eyes blur over, ever so grateful for the dining mishaps to come.