The surgeon’s stern expression prepares me for his analysis.
His words, “It’s touch and go”, drill deep and sharp.
Avoiding his eyes, I ask if I can see her.
“Only briefly. Sorry.”
He walks with me along the quiet corridor.
Swaddled in stiff white sheets, she sleeps peacefully.
Months of poisoning, zapping and slicing are finally taking their toll.
She never claimed to be “bravely fighting…”. No, her breasts have simply been the battlefield for a war without winners; medics versus nature.
Leaning over, I gently stroke my fingers across her warm cheeks, then quietly leave the ward.
I touch and go.
Published: 101 Words
