“You have to be really good
to get away with smashing a guitar.”
— the prophet lyle lovett
The biopsy was Thursday. You haven’t heard anything since.
You remember the days before Christmas once when you were a kid. You were desperately hoping for your first guitar. Time trudged along as the wait went on forever. This is the same. Except for no guitar and the whole impending death thing and it’s not Christmas even though you watch two Hallmark Christmas movies a night.
Tuesday, they said. You had hoped the news would come sooner. But then you also hoped the Medium Chocolate Frosty cup would magically become bigger again. Life is an endless series of disappointments.
The morning goes by. And then the afternoon. And then, a message. There’s new info on your Mayo portal.
You don’t open it. You have four papers hanging and you can’t afford to be distracted. Unless maybe Mo goes out for pecan pie. Which she doesn’t.
It sits impatiently in the back of your head amid the stories about pardoned turkeys and COVID spikes and transitioning governments and a tiny owl in the Rockefeller tree. Still, you wait, fearful of what could lie ahead.
The shift ends. You go warily to the Mayo portal. You open what could change your life forever, or at least till the end of the week, whichever comes first.
And there, you read the news.
You owe them $9.70.
No biopsy news. Maybe they want the 10 bucks before they cough up the results.
You breathe deeply. You wish you had pie. You think back to how much you loved that first guitar.