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I’m afraid I have no good news to report. “Don’t sugar-coat it, Doc,” came her quick retort. I’m sorry to say that you haven’t got long. “I’ve already danced to that tired old song.” I’m saying that you don’t have much longer to live. “You think that’s the worst news a doctor can give? That song was new twelve years ago. Then I danced fast - now, I dance purdy slow. Jest settin’ ‘round waitin’ for folks to call; they don’t come - ‘bout out-lived ‘em all! I’ve seen it all - been there - done that. You know, I’m on my thirteenth cat. Yep, buried twelve; first when I was just ten. I cry every time, just like I did then. Seen too much death ‘tween fam’ly and friends. I’m ready now for whatever God sends. How long ya think? A month? Maybe two? I’m knittin’ an afghan - I’m nearly through. Course, wouldn’t mind stickin’ around ‘til Fall; ya know, the weather is cool . . . bright leaves and all. Yeah, one last Thanksgiving with my new great-grandson, maybe a fam’ly picture or two, then I’d be done. Course, come Christmas time I’d hate to cause a fuss; See, that’s when Daddy died, inconsiderate cuss. Better stick around through the holidays, I’ve gotta do the baking any ways. No, Doc,” she said, “no time for tears.” And she walked out the door like she had for twelve years.
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