She’s in a biopsy now. A Mike Pease print of the
Mohawk Valley hangs out here, waiting to be
recognized as Upstate New York via only red barn,
trees and moraine-built hills, left behind when ice
caused the river. Finger Lakes just southwest from
his well-made snippet, the fifty-eighth of one hundred
twenty. Pease is good, but not good enough to keep
my mind off Yobo’s procedure, no less results, and the
road ahead. She’s scared, visibly scared, even a tear
in her eye, but this needs to be a no-stress day, so I
excuse myself between ultrasound and biopsy, allowing
that leaving creates more nervousness for Park, not the
type that cottons to surgery of any kind. This room has
folks from Danville, my matriarchal great-grandmother’s
home. This and the print nurse me through this time. A
quick run over to return a brace-shop miss-mailing keeps
the innards from churning. Now laughter flows through
the room full of cancer patients and their supporters.
Yobo’s late now, in overtime on the biopsy table, with
Doctor Chong overseeing an Indian intern. He’s got
trachea, arteries and lymph nodes to miss, and whew, he
did miss, so here she is, ice-packed throat, alive, but upset.
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