It started with a cough. The cough was persistent, annoying, and enough to make Ned worry.
Its very presence forced him to start hinting and prodding and poking at Edna until she was forced to pat him upon the head and call him ridiculous.
He was the one who made the appointment, who dragged her down to the doctor, and who sat anxiously outside the office until she emerged with a cotton ball taped to the inside of her elbow.
“All I needed was a blood test,” she sighed. “I told you you were scared about nothing.”
“Sorry, Edna – it’s hard for me to stop being a nervous Nedarino around you.”
They had gone on happily enough until the phone rang. The call led to more tests, to exploratory surgery, and to a final diagnosis – terminal lung cancer, totally inoperable.
Six months left to live.
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