She shivered and retched in the medical tent, in terrible pain with a hip flexor pull.
“How far DID you walk today?”
“Nineteen miles…for my sister.”
“How much did you train?
“Well, I’m not generally a walker.”
I didn’t know whether to praise or to scold, but I was smiling too much to do both.
The coroner called today;
Kim found down at home, dead for days, maybe more.
I saw her last two weeks ago. She was holding court in our waiting room, surrounded by a laughing group of ex-strangers, all sharing the pleasure of her story.
But then no one noticed she was gone for days, maybe more.
Gayle was engulfed in post-chemo blues. Worst of all, her back end screamed with the runny aftermath of the toxin’s effects on her guts.
I texted her my secret recipe for relief from bad butt day battles. The following day, her upbeat return text had her sitting in style, hailed me as ‘the butt whisperer.’
Marion’s brother offered to move her back ‘home’. Confused and angry, she declined. Months later post-stroke, she said no words at all.
Her neighbor called Robert asking what to do next. Could he arrange care for her now?
“She said no in summer, so we won’t come again.”
And Marion’s niece hung up the phone.
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