“Ladies!” Typist called. “Step it up. We’ve got to leave for the clinic in 15 minutes.”
Cal, Tal, and Nia shot glances around the table.
“Is she getting a little bossy?” Thalia whispered.
“Maybe a little,” Cal whispered back.
“Remember… I can hear you? You don’t have to whisper.” said Typist. “And… You’re right. I’ll try again. We’re short on time… Can we please stop checking our social media and write today’s love letter?” Paintest, again quite pleased with how today’s picture came out, smiled sweetly at her friends.
“So — those things coming out of the ceiling? What were they for?” Cal asked.
“Typist got a little teary at the OR’s double doors and wasn’t up for asking questions,” Nia said. “She did an excellent job with her deep inhales and exhales. Within about three breaths… she was asleep. Next thing she knew she was in recovery — the men on both sides of her curtains making weird sounds from their throats. She understood… her throat felt weird, too.”
Thalia twirled. “No nausea though! And we got a butter burger, fries, and a chocolate malt on the way home.”
A word from Typist:
We have a port. Everything went off without a hitch. Our caregivers were kind and gentle. Typist wants to be her surgeon when she grows up.
Today we have an abdominal MRI, labs, and chemo class.
The beat goes on.