“Pancreatic cancer” were not the two words I was expecting to think about today on my long drive home from the university hospital on other side of the state. I knew, of course, that something wasn’t quite right, but always, in the past, the something that was not quite right could be treated promptly and effectively with an antibiotic. A couple of surgeries were exceptions to this rule, but both of those surgeries had been minor. A hernia repair one time and a meniscus repair another. Some aching for a day or two, a few pills for the pain, and then slowly back to normal.
I had been hoping for another repair this time, something relatively easy to fix.
(To continue reading, click here. This is a short story, a work of fiction, published in an online literary journal.)