Madame Butterfly

Careful and slow, this week closes its pages and I sigh. Tomorrow I will go once again for another test. I will wade through the palpable heat that rushes at me like a thousand children that haven't seen me and cling to me now. Walking slowly...hoping.

Hoping this will be the last of those needles, those nurses who cover their mouths with their hand in shock and say "oh honey" as if they were in "Gone With the Wind" because you were yelping like a 5 year old and they don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies and those temporary receptionist who keep telling you how amazing it is that you knew their name was Allen (when you were just trying to tell him your last name) and could you call your other doctor on your cell to confirm something because he hates using the phone. What could I do but smile.

Smile, sit and reminisce in the mauvy cotton candy pink waiting rooms about another summer where I first saw Madame Butterfly. I recall my surprising flood of tears for Butterfly and I know that this waiting room cannot be half as unbearable as hers'.