Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg Page B
Authors: Fannie Flagg
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but it didn't make any difference. She'd had a few moments of bravery and made appointments for a checkup, but she always canceled them at the last minute.
The last time she had been to a doctor was six years ago, for a bladder infection. All she wanted was for the doctor to prescribe some antibiotics over the phone, but he made her come in and insisted on giving her a pelvic exam. Lying there with her feet in the stirrups, she wondered if there was anything worse than having some man you didn't know reach inside of you, looking for things, like you were a grab-bag.
The doctor asked how long it had been since her last breast exam. Evelyn lied and said, "Three months ago."
He said, "Well, as long as you're here, I might as well do another one."
She started talking a mile a minute to try and distract him, but in the middle of it, he said, "Uh-oh, I don't like the feel of this."
The days of waiting for the test results had been almost unbearable. She'd walked around in a nightmarish fog, praying and bargaining with a God she was not even sure she believed in. She promised, if he would only let her not have cancer, she would never complain about anything again. She would spend the rest of her life just being happy to be alive, doing good works for the poor, and going to church every day.
But the day after she found out she was fine and would not be dead soon, as she had imagined, she went back to being just like she was. Only now, after that scare, she was convinced that every pain was cancer, and if she went to the doctor to see if it was, she was sure that not only would it be true, but that he would listen with a stethoscope to her heart and rush her to the hospital for open-heart surgery before she could escape. She began living with one foot in the grave. When she looked at her palm, she even imagined that her life line was getting shorter.
She knew she couldn't go through any more days of waiting for test results, and decided that she really did not want to know if anything was wrong, and preferred to drop dead in her tracks, never knowing.
This morning, as they drove out to the nursing home, she realized that her life was becoming unbearable. Every morning she would play games with herself, just to get her through the day. Like telling herself that today something wonderful was going to happen . . . that the next time the phone would ring, it would be good news that would change her life . . . or that she was going to get a surprise in the mail. But it was never anything but junk mail, a wrong number, a neighbor wanting something.
The quiet hysteria and awful despair had started when she finally began to realize that nothing was ever going to change, that nobody would be coming for her to take her away. She began to feel as if she were at the bottom of a well, screaming, no one to hear.
Lately, it had been an endless procession of long, black nights and gray mornings, when her sense of failure swept over her like a five-hundred-pound wave; and she was scared. But it wasn't death that she feared. She had looked down into that black pit of death and had wanted to jump in, once too often. As a matter of fact, the thought began to appeal to her more and more.
She even knew how she would kill herself. It would be with a silver bullet. As round and as smooth as an ice-cold blue martini. She would place the gun in the freezer for a few hours before she did it, so it would feel frosty and cold against her head. She could almost feel the ice-cold bullet shooting through her hot, troubled brain, freezing the pain for good. The sound of the gun blast would be the last sound she would ever hear. And then . . . nothing. Maybe just the silent sound that a bird might hear, flying in the clean, cool air, high above the earth. The sweet, pure air of freedom.
No, it wasn't death she was afraid of. It was this life of hers that was beginning to remind her of that gray intensive care waiting room.
MAY 16, 1934
Gopher Bite
The last time she had been to a doctor was six years ago, for a bladder infection. All she wanted was for the doctor to prescribe some antibiotics over the phone, but he made her come in and insisted on giving her a pelvic exam. Lying there with her feet in the stirrups, she wondered if there was anything worse than having some man you didn't know reach inside of you, looking for things, like you were a grab-bag.
The doctor asked how long it had been since her last breast exam. Evelyn lied and said, "Three months ago."
He said, "Well, as long as you're here, I might as well do another one."
She started talking a mile a minute to try and distract him, but in the middle of it, he said, "Uh-oh, I don't like the feel of this."
The days of waiting for the test results had been almost unbearable. She'd walked around in a nightmarish fog, praying and bargaining with a God she was not even sure she believed in. She promised, if he would only let her not have cancer, she would never complain about anything again. She would spend the rest of her life just being happy to be alive, doing good works for the poor, and going to church every day.
But the day after she found out she was fine and would not be dead soon, as she had imagined, she went back to being just like she was. Only now, after that scare, she was convinced that every pain was cancer, and if she went to the doctor to see if it was, she was sure that not only would it be true, but that he would listen with a stethoscope to her heart and rush her to the hospital for open-heart surgery before she could escape. She began living with one foot in the grave. When she looked at her palm, she even imagined that her life line was getting shorter.
She knew she couldn't go through any more days of waiting for test results, and decided that she really did not want to know if anything was wrong, and preferred to drop dead in her tracks, never knowing.
This morning, as they drove out to the nursing home, she realized that her life was becoming unbearable. Every morning she would play games with herself, just to get her through the day. Like telling herself that today something wonderful was going to happen . . . that the next time the phone would ring, it would be good news that would change her life . . . or that she was going to get a surprise in the mail. But it was never anything but junk mail, a wrong number, a neighbor wanting something.
The quiet hysteria and awful despair had started when she finally began to realize that nothing was ever going to change, that nobody would be coming for her to take her away. She began to feel as if she were at the bottom of a well, screaming, no one to hear.
Lately, it had been an endless procession of long, black nights and gray mornings, when her sense of failure swept over her like a five-hundred-pound wave; and she was scared. But it wasn't death that she feared. She had looked down into that black pit of death and had wanted to jump in, once too often. As a matter of fact, the thought began to appeal to her more and more.
She even knew how she would kill herself. It would be with a silver bullet. As round and as smooth as an ice-cold blue martini. She would place the gun in the freezer for a few hours before she did it, so it would feel frosty and cold against her head. She could almost feel the ice-cold bullet shooting through her hot, troubled brain, freezing the pain for good. The sound of the gun blast would be the last sound she would ever hear. And then . . . nothing. Maybe just the silent sound that a bird might hear, flying in the clean, cool air, high above the earth. The sweet, pure air of freedom.
No, it wasn't death she was afraid of. It was this life of hers that was beginning to remind her of that gray intensive care waiting room.
MAY 16, 1934
Gopher Bite
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