It's bad news I'm afraid

Margaret didn't like the presence of doctors of any kind. They'd
made her quietly nervous when pregnant and, consequently, surprisingly
loud during the birth. They seemed to her to be in some kind of 'other
place', as though they should have golden hair and white robes that
flowed about their instruments as they performed their miracles with
knowledge so important it must hurt them to carry it around. Chat with
a doctor and they can't help but see your mortality. Like a plumber
conversing with a boiler.
She twisted her neck to look through the small rectangular viewing
panel in the door that lead out onto the ward. That was as close as she
could comfortably get to seeing Lucy at this stage. She managed to
catch a glimpse of the bottom of Lucy's bed before crying again.
The meeting had ended and Dr. Singh and his assistant had left the room
a while ago after Margaret had given her word that she understood
Lucy's situation. They had explained that nothing could be done apart
from the pain killers when the time was right. They hadn't said exactly
when that would be but they were as noncommittal as to exact times as
they could be. Margaret had continued with direct questions and,
finally, received some very direct answers like a kick in the
pants.
Questions about accuracy were first to surface followed by a sudden,
desperate searching for options that had been found and dismissed by
the good doctor a long time ago. Finally she settled for tears and a
big 'why?' to anyone who would listen.
She knew that Lucy was fifty three and that others had died with far
less of life tucked into their knickers. She knew that it was nobody's
fault. They'd both lived good lives up to then but neither had seen it
as the full experience and now she had to explain to her best friend
that this was her lot. Whatever she had on her CV, not that she ever
had one, was going to be it; and if someone were to ask Lucy, 'Have you
known Margaret all your life?' She'd be able to say, "Yes".
Margaret's weeping slowed to a sob and then a few self asserting
sniffles. She stared at the plastic cup of coffee Dr. Singh had brought
her. It was cold now and still. She stared further and deeper. It had
been hot and fresh a few minutes ago. She leaned across to touch the
surface with the soft pad of a shaky finger but pulled away. It was
morbid to make such comparisons. Still, she was going to have to find a
way of selling death and fast because the longer she sat in this room
the worse it would be for poor Lucy who lay a few yards away waiting
for her word. Maybe coffee going cold would be a useful metaphor. Lucy
wasn't big on metaphors.
Telling Lucy she was about to die was just going to be too difficult and that was
that. Margaret decided there simply wasn't going to be a way to do it.
Maybe she would just go out there and chat. She realised that that
would be even harder and, anyway, she owed it to her best friend for
stealing her homework and missing her birthday when they were nineteen
because she had a new boyfriend, in fact for a list of minor sins that
all added up to the shitty end of friendship where responsibility takes
over and you have to be the one to take whatever rage and sadness there
was on behalf of the powers that be.
Lucy didn't believe in any powers. No God or spirit was there in Lucy's
world. She'd always been proud of that. She described herself as "a
collection of carbon based molecules and nothing more" to anyone who
would listen and scorned religious types as weirdos and flakes. She'd
once said something about living in a real world. It'd been in one of
their many philosophical debates back in the sixties after a failed
double date had turned into a fireside chat over too much cider.
Margaret tried to remember what Lucy had said, something about, "We're
real things in a real world and it's a wonderful place to be. So if
you're looking for another world beyond it then you don't deserve this one in the first place." It was something like that but they'd both been very drunk and it was many years ago now. Besides which, reminding someone that they believe everything 'just stops' when you die isn't a good idea when everything's about to just stop.
It's the news itself, thought Margaret as she stood and walked to the door, looking out across the sterile floor like she'd just made a moon landing and was about to take one small step.
She turned and practiced to the chair and her own feint imprint still on it.
"Come on girl, you've had a good innings," no, it wasn't a time for
cliches.
"At least you lasted longer than your tits and tour teeth!" Lucy was
always one for a laugh but the scared look on her face when she woke up
that morning told Margaret that her sense of humour had already passed
on.
Put things in perspective. That was it. There were always others who
had died younger and sadder. "What about those poor parents of kids
that get killed on the roads each year? They'd have given their high
teeth to live to fifty three." She was on to something now. "In fact,
what if you had even less time than you've got? Even extra seconds are
worth something surely? At least this way you're ready for it coming.
You get a chance to say goodbye, to gather your thoughts and prepare.
Make things right with the world."
That was it, Margaret realised it was a matter of a little time
compared to an even littler time and that 'perspective' was a useful
thing to keep. She opened the door and strode onto the ward with a plan
and a smile.

Dr. Singh walked to Lucy's bed and sat on the edge. His face a still
life on the theme of bad news. Lucy was visibly shaken by his
appearance. It had been three days since Margaret had explained the bad
news and prophesised Dr. Singh's visit and now here he was, sitting on
the edge of her bed like a reluctant reaper.
"Lucy, I've had the results of your test and I'm afraid it has
confirmed what we suspected all along."
"I know." Lucy had been trying not to cry since she saw him round the
end bed and make his way, business like, to her side. "Margaret told me
all about it after your meeting. She told me what to expect."
"Well it's as bad as we feared I'm afraid, the cancer had taken hold of
you and there's nothing we can do to stop it. My original diagnosis, as
I explained to your friend, is confirmed so all we can do is make you
comfortable and wait it out." He took her hand and squeezed it
gently along with the thin plastic tube that had been taped to the
back. "I'm afraid you're going to die."
Lucy took a deep breath and smiled a wet, tearful smile.
"I know doctor." Her voice was a whisper but she cleared her throat and
continued. "Margaret told me how long I'd have and I'm ready. I've made
peace with the world and settled a few family issues. I even spoke to
my son for the first time in years- we had a falling out and I wanted
to hear his voice again before I went. It's a shame I won't have a
chance to see him again but at least I can die with a son who told me
he loves me," she was crying full heavy tears now and lifting the
doctor's hand with each point for emphasis. He smiled and nodded and
listened.
"There are things I wish I'd had time to do but, thanks to Margaret,
I've been given the chance to prepare myself and get a few things
sorted out. I'm glad of those few chances at least. I've prepared my
funeral and arranged for my body to be picked up by my son sometime
tomorrow evening."
Dr. Singh sat in silence for a second.
"Tomorrow evening?"
"Yes, doctor. Margaret told me that you'd have the test results back
and that if they were as per your diagnosis then I'd have twenty four
hours left, so you'd come and tell me yourself."
The doctor was puzzled. "Well, Yes, I did tell Margaret that I'd have
the test results back and tell you myself but my diagnosis is, and was
then, that you have two to three years to live Lucy."
Lucy sat, shaking as the news sank in and thanking Margaret for her
injection of 'perspective'. She cried, smiling and leant to hug her
doctor. "Oh Doctor, that's the best news I've ever had!"