Stop, she said as her eyes traced the path of the second hand spinning around the hospital clock.
Stop, she thought as the fingers of her right hand brushed against the wrinkled skin of her left, browned with age and liver spots and too much sun.
Relax, she pleaded futilely with her crumbling psyche, "you've got more time"
She could feel the cancer under her skin, not tangibly but in the same way she felt love for her husband.
She could feel it growing, thriving.
Perhaps not in the same way she felt love for her husband. Did she love her husband? She'd trade him for a clean bill of health.
'more time' was dwindling rapidly, the second hand sped on.
One more minute she begged, her voice was a whisper. Her own frailty gnawed at her, chewing holes in her resolve.
'One more second?' She pleaded, disease holds mollifying wishes in low esteem.
No? She asked, resignedly.
No. The second hand sped on.