The tumour is benign. The tumour is benign. The tumour is benign. That’s what he’s going to say, good old Dr. Jenkins. Actually, I don’t know if he’s good really, we always just assume with doctors don’t we? He could be a an animal abuser or bigamist for all I know. Not that it matters, I suppose, not right now. All I care about for now is that he’s a good doctor.
And that he isn’t going to make me wait out here much longer. You would think that with all the advances in medicine that they would be able to run tests and let you know straight away instead of dragging this out, wouldn’t you? And I’m starting to need the toilet. Should run to the ladies quickly before I go in? Lord knows, it won’t be a quick appointment if it’s bad news and I don’t want to wet myself along with everything else.
Although even dealing with the humiliation of wetting myself at the doctors is nothing compared to the dread I feel over telling Jack. He’ll be on his lunch now, eating the sandwiches I made, completely clueless. I couldn’t resist slipping a little love note into the bag with them, I haven’t done that since we first got together.
Funnily enough, I’m dreading giving him good news as almost as much as bad. He’ll be upset and angry that I lied to him and told him that everything was fine after I came in last week and that will last longer if it’s good new than it will if it’s bad. If it’s bad news, I doubt that that will be the bit that we focus on. Besides, he won’t want to upset me. He’ll spend the next few weeks or months or years pussy footing around me because I’m ill. Everyone will.
Maybe I just won’t tell him. I don’t know how to anyway. I’ve practised in my head so many times and I just don’t have the words. It was hard enough when I was just coming back in for more tests, what would I say this time? I just can’t bring myself to say the word. Not that one. I keep picturing this ridiculous situation where my whole family is gathered in front of me and I start to tell them but I can’t finish it because I still can’t say that word and it ends up being like a game of charades to guess what’s wrong with me.
I imagine Mum to be very cold and practical and Dad to just be speechless. God, which of them would I tell first? Maybe I’d just have to get them together, I couldn’t go through that twice in one day and neither would ever get over the other one knowing more than 24 hours before the other. Oh god, they’ll think I’m pregnant. I can see their faces lighting up when I say I have some news. I can’t do it. I can’t. Jack will have to say it. But I can’t ask that of him. Maybe I could just write it down and pass the note around the dinner table.
I really hope I don’t lose my hair, it’s taken such a long time to grow that fringe out.
Oh god, that’s my name now. The tumour is benign. The tumour is benign. The tumour is benign.
The original prompt for this post came from 712 more things to write about by the San Francisco Writer’s Grotto.
“The tumour is benign”