Oh Christ, Eros,
I'm not exactly sure what Dr. Twinn means, but I've never gotten the look from a doctor before. Except from Dr. Frank, once, a long long time ago.
"Lynnie," he said, staring into my eyes from across that familiar mahogany table, "I've got to tell you something, dear. The results, well, hun, they weren't good."
I never hated Dr. Frank. I loved him, very much. But in that moment, when I knew what he was going to say, I hated him. I hated what I was about to hear. I hated that I was sitting there, waiting to hear it.
"Lynn, you have breast cancer"- all I wanted to say was "Yeah? Breast cancer? Well fuck you, too!" But instead I just sat there, defeated, silent, and I remember he looked at me and expected anything but quiet and I was just so, so quiet. No tears, no expression. Inside, though, I was a boiling fucking furnace.
And when Dr. Twinn came in today to talk to me about what they were finally able to discover in the empty fucking cut out spaces they made in my brain, why the new tissue "doesn't seem to fit correctly" as if that makes any sense at all, I saw the look and knew that I was not going to be getting any good news.
But the dickbag just gave me the look, said to me "Lynn, we're going to have to talk, soon. Stay in bed, please", and walked out the fucking door. Well now I'm not quiet. Now I'm crying and screaming and Bali, this big mother fucking Great Dane beast dog, even he's shaking. AH!