Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg Page A

voice, "Your mother has a rapidly progressing cancer of the lung that has metastasized itself in the liver, pancreas, and spleen, with some indication of invasion into the bone marrow."
    Up until that very moment, her mother had not even known that she had cancer. Evelyn had not wanted her to know be-cause her mother had been so scared. She would remember the look of sheer terror on her mother's face as long as she lived, and that doctor, who continued on down the hall with his entourage. Two days later, her mother went into a coma. She could also never forget that gray, sterile, concrete-walled intensive care waiting room where she had spent all those weeks, frightened and confused, just like the rest of the ones waiting there; knowing that their loved one was lying just down the hall in a cold, sunless room, waiting to die.
    Here they were, perfect strangers, in this small space, sharing what was probably the most intimate and painful moment of their lives, not knowing how to act or what to say. There were no rules of etiquette. Nobody had prepared them for this ordeal. Poor people, terrified like herself, trying to be brave, chatting on about their everyday lives, completely in shock, pretending everything was all right.
    One family had been so frightened that they couldn't bring themselves to accept the fact that the woman down the hall, dying, was their mother. They would always refer to her as "their patient," and ask Evelyn how "her patient" was doing: to put the truth as far away from them as possible and try to ease the pain.
    Every day they waited together, knowing the moment would come, that awful moment when they would be called upon to make "the decision" whether or not to turn the machines off. . .
    "It's for the best."
    "They'll be much better off."
    "It's what they would want."
    "The doctor says they're already gone."
    "This is only a technicality."
    A technicality?
    All those calm, adult discussions, when all she really wanted to do was scream for her momma, her sweet momma, the one person in the world who loved her better than anyone ever would or ever could.
    That Saturday the doctor came to the waiting room and looked in. All eyes were on him and the conversation stopped. He glanced around the room.
    "Mrs. Couch, may I see you in my office for a moment, please?"
    As she gathered her purse with shaky hands and pounding heart, the others looked at her in sympathy, and one woman touched her arm; but they were secretly relieved that it had not been them.
    She felt as if she were in a dream and listened carefully to what he said. He made it seem so simple and so natural. "No point in prolonging it . . ."
    He made perfect sense. She got up like a zombie and went home.
    She thought she was ready to accept it, to let her go. But then, nobody was ever really ready to turn off their mother's machine, no matter what they thought; to turn off the light of their childhood and walk away, just as if they were turning out a light and leaving a room.
    She could never forgive herself for not having the courage to go back over to the hospital and be with her mother. She still woke up crying over the guilt, and there was not a way in the world she could ever make up for it.
    Maybe having gone through this had been the start of Evelyn's fear of anything having to do with doctors or hospitals. She didn't know; all she knew was that the thought of going to a doctor made her literally break out in a cold sweat and start to shake all over. And just the sound of the word cancer caused the hair on the back of her arms to stand up. She had stopped touching her breasts at all, anymore, because one time she had felt a lump and almost fainted. Fortunately, it turned out to be Kleenex that had stuck to her bra in the wash. She knew it was an unreasonable fear and that she really should go in for a checkup. They say you should have one every year. She knew she should do it, if not for her sake, for her children's sake. She knew all that,