Last night my patient was told she had two months to live. Maybe more, maybe less…
She sat there listening to what the doctor had to say about her poor prognosis, tears building behind her eyes.
He tenderly answered her questions, leaving her no more further scenarios to ponder within her bald head.
He left. I stayed.
I handed her some tissues, helped dry her sunken face, and held her hand as we waited for her family’s return.
She then looked at me suddenly, grinning as she said, “Well… now I have a reason to get cable and sip my fucking margaritas right?”
And I giggled and replied, “Yes… I believe you fucking do”.