Outlast The Storm

While we waited, I checked out Mr. Clean on a bottle sitting on the table—bald head, fluffy eyebrows, white t-shirt, and silly grin. If he scrubbed bathrooms all day, how could he keep his shirt spotless? Maybe that’s why they call him Mr. Clean. Or perhaps he’s the President of the company. That would explain why he looked so happy. I’d also wear a smile if money hit my bank account whenever customers bought my cleaning products.

My lobster shouted from a jacuzzi bubbling with hot butter, “Where are you?”

Why is it taking them so long to give me the test results?

“Hello? Mr. Webb, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Can you hear me?”

“Barely.”

“I’ll increase the volume. Is that better?”

“Yes.”

“How are you?”

“Hungry.”

“Mr. Webb, thanks for your patience. We have your MRI results.”

It’s about time. Any longer, and we were out of here. Let’s finish so we can get to the restaurant.

Someone in the background interrupted the voice on the phone.

“He shouldn’t drive. Ask him if he knows someone who can take him.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“And make sure the receptionist gives them the address.”

“I will.”

“Tell him we can prescribe something for the pain he can pick up in five minutes.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Who told you I need pain pills? Why are you telling me not to drive? I know how to get to the restaurant – I don’t need the address. What’s going on?

“Sorry about that, Mr. Webb. Can you call someone to drive you?”

“My wife’s here.”

“Perfect. There’s a pharmacy next door to the radiology building, and we can call in a prescription for pain medicine that you can pick up in five minutes.

Mr. Webb, You have a brain tumor. Get to the hospital now.”

What?

No!

Ambushed

One minute, I dreamed about dinner; the next, I became dinner. Like a lion crouched in tall grass stalking a deer, a brain tumor hid inside my head. When I looked the other way, it jumped out, grabbed me by the throat, and took me down.