I smelled my gravy. Such a lovely smell for a Tuesday morning.

“Girl you are a trip. This is Bianca. From the doctor’s office.”

Oh, Boy. “Oh, hey, Girl! How are you?”

My gravy smelled so good I tell you.

“Listen. Doctor Hamilton needs to talk to you.”

I got quiet.

Cancer.

I was dying of Cancer.

More and more everyday I felt like I was suffocating. I couldn’t believe that my life has panned out to this.

“Ok, about?”

She was quiet.

“Just come in Mrs. Jackson.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Jesus, why now?”

Gahdamn it, now I couldn’t eat my biscuits and gravy.

It took me forever to find a parking spot at Baptist Hospital. People parked every which gahdamn way, even in the fire zones.

I happened to see an old lady backing out.

“Bitch, hurry the fuck up!” I was steaming.

She flipped the bird. “Hurry up. Ho! You can audition for the Efferdent commercials later!”

The old hag said, “Bitch, fuck off!”

“Fuck you, Ho!”

She honked twice: Fuck You!

I honked three times.

Fuck. You. Bitch!

I got me a parking spot.

💋💋💋💋💋

“Hey, Bianca!”

She set some files on a cluttered desk. She looked at me with a smile.

“Hello, Mrs. Jackson. The doctor will see you now.”

I sighed, giving her a gloomy look. I
wondered what this was all about. He could have scheduled my chemotherapy session over the phone.

It was bad enough I was dying, even
though I didn’t look or feel any different.

“Ok, I’m going.”

“You look like you’re headed to the torture chamber.”

“Feels like it, Chile.”

“It’ll be all right.”

“I’m dying and you say it’s all right.”

She said nothing. Dismissing her comments, my heels clickety-clacked towards the doctor’s office.