by Donna Poole
Gertie peered over her half-glasses at the packed waiting room.
Looks like the room is going to live up to its name today. Might be a long wait.
She tucked a few strands of wispy gray hair behind her ear, pulled out her knitting bag, and got busy.
“Scuse me. You got a tissue?”
The voice came from a young woman to her right. Gertie glanced at the beanie the young woman was wearing to cover her bald head and the empty ice cream pail—aka barf bucket—she was carrying. Gertie had been there. More than once. The woman didn’t look more than twenty years old.
Just a girl, poor kid. God, help me help her.
Gertie handed over several tissues with a sympathetic smile.
“It’s tough, I know. Are you here alone?”
The woman shook her head and blew her nose. “My husband went to the cafeteria. He’s starved, and he doesn’t like to sit here and see…all of us. He won’t go back with me when I get my treatments either. It’s hard for him. You know.”
Gertie nodded. “I know. I’m Gertie, and I’m happy to meet you.”
The woman sniffed. “I’m Ava, and I wish I was anywhere but here.”
Gertie nodded. “I get that. I’ve been coming here a long time.”
Ava’s eyes widened. “A long time? How long?”
“Five years now.”
“What kind of cancer do you have?” Ava asked still crying.
Gertie answered.
Ava wiped her eyes. “That’s the same kind I have,” Ava said. “But they told me I’d probably be cured after eighteen weeks of R-chop chemotherapy, and I’m having a hard time even living with cancer that long! Why do you still have it?”
“It’s a long answer, but I’ll try to make it shorter. At my age and with my other health problems, they said I had a 60 percent chance of beating the cancer with R-chop.”
“But you were in the unlucky 40 percent?” Ava asked.
“Something like that. Next came radiation and GemOx.”
“What’s GemOx?” Ava interrupted.
Gertie was pleased to see Ava’s tears had slowed to a trickle.
“For me it was like R-chop on steroids, but by then I was where I am now, one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, and for me, one foot on a banana peel is especially dangerous.”
“What do you mean one foot on a banana peel?”
Ava had quit crying, and Gertie was feeling pleased with herself. This was heading in the right direction.
“It’s an odd expression. Sometimes in old time comedy acts someone would slip on a banana peel and fall. People would laugh.”
“I don’t think that’s funny,” Ava said.
“I don’t either, really,” Gertie said. “I guess you have to appreciate slapstick comedy to laugh at something like that.”
Ava wasn’t using any more of the tissues. “What’s slapstick comedy?” she asked.
“You ever see The Three Stooges or Home Alone?”
Ava nodded. “Oh yeah, My grandpa thinks stuff like that’s funny. Me, not so much.”
“Well, slipping on a banana peel was in that same genre, but now it means any situation that’s unstable or puts you at risk of sudden change.”
“So your cancer’s unstable?” Ava asked, reaching for another tissue.
Gertie patted Ava’s arm. “Don’t start crying again. It is, but it’s been unstable for five years. I’m used to it.”
“I don’t know how you live like that! I don’t think I could!”
“Do you really want to know how I do it?”
“I really do. You sit there knitting like it’s the most normal thing in the world not to know if you’re going to live or die tomorrow.”
Gertie chuckled. “Actually, Ava, not knowing that is the most normal thing in the world for everyone, but people don’t usually think about it. I have to think about it. And I can face that instability because God is my Rock. And I can face death because I know I’m going to live forever.”
Ava gave her a side eye. “You a Sunday school teacher or something?”
Gertie smiled. “Matter of fact I am. Why? Don’t you like Sunday school teachers?”
Ava thought a moment. “I haven’t thought about Miss Bessie for a long time. She was my Sunday school teacher when I was a kid. I loved her. You kinda remind me of her. She wore half-glasses like you, and she was really old like you, ninety something.”
Gertie laughed. “Hey, I’m only seventy-five.”
Ava blushed. “My bad. I can’t tell people’s ages once they get old. But thanks for reminding me about God. I trusted Jesus as my Savior from sin when I was a little girl, but then life got busy, and I kind of forgot to include him. I hope he hasn’t forgotten me, because I could really use his help now.”
Gertie said, “He hasn’t forgotten you, I promise. And I won’t either. I’ll pray for you.”
Ava started crying again. “I feel like we’re friends now, and I wish you weren’t dying!”
“Who says I’m dying? My cancer isn’t stable, but my oncology team thinks I might live for years!”
“But…but….” Ava wiped her nose and sniffed. “You said you had one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”
Just then they called Gertie’s name to go back for her chemotherapy infusion. She shoved her knitting into her bag, pushed herself out of her chair, grabbed her crutches, and laughed.
“I sure do have one foot in the grave! Look!”
Ava followed Gertie’s glance and noticed only one shoe sticking out of Gertie’s pants. The other pant leg was empty.
Ava’s eyes widened. “Cancer?” she whispered.
“No! Car accident when I was your age. I really did want to bury my foot, but they wouldn’t give it to me after they amputated it. But I have fun telling people I’ve got one foot in the grave!”
Then Ava laughed too. “And the other one on a banana peel! I hope I see you next time I’m here!”
“We’ll see each other again, I’m sure,” Gertie said. “Here or in heaven!”
“You preaching again, Gertie?” Ava heard the nurse say as he walked Gertie toward the elevator.
A few minutes later her husband returned. “I met the funniest old lady in the elevator. She only had one leg. She told me I should spend more time in the waiting room with you, and you know what? She’s right. I was thinking the same thing the whole time I was in the cafeteria. I’m sorry, honey. From now on, it’s the two of us fighting this cancer together.”
Ava slipped her hand in his. “Nope, it’s four of us fighting my cancer. You, me, God, and the old lady with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel?”
“Huh? What’s that mean?”
A nurse called Ava to go back for treatment and her husband stood to go with her.
Ava smiled. “I’ll tell you about the banana peel after they get my IV in for treatment.”
He swallowed hard. “Is it okay if I don’t watch?”
She laughed. “You don’t have to watch them put the IV in. You just watch to be sure I don’t step on any banana peels on the way there.”
The End
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.
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