Epitaph for a Working ManO Read Online Free

face.
    And then, a little while later: “Patience is what you need.” And: “Too bad I’m gradually losing mine.” He turned toward the clothes hook, dug the bus timetable out of the inside pocket of his new jacket. “Here, find out the times of the bus to Breitmoos. There won’t be much choice.”
    He nodded as I read out the departure times.
    â€œIt still itches,” he said. “But they say itching’s a sign it’s getting better, don’t they?”
    And after a pause:
    â€œI’ve always had healthy blood. Still, it’s been a real mess.”
    He raised his left elbow and using his right hand scratched himself under the arm, then he scratched the hair on his chest.
    A door on either side, the ceiling low, neon light. Sounds from the corridor; now sounds coming from the consultation room.
    â€œCome on, get a move on!” Irritably he glanced at the door handle next to his head. “Hurry up, I don’t want to be stuck in here for ever.”
    *
    Dr Boren took the letter out of the envelope and glanced through it.
    â€œWell, let’s take a look at it then,” he said with hello-old-man joviality. “You’d best remain standing here, yes, like that, with your back to the window, so that we get enough light.”
    Father leaned over slightly, holding on to the back of the chair. The doctor, a tall gaunt man, bent down over Father’s back. His hand moved across the skin, palpating the flesh. “Yes, good, hmm, turn round a bit, yes, fine, hmm.”
    He showed me what he saw. Small, pale red bumps scattered around the wine-coloured scar. And a broad line, three fingers wide, going down diagonally from Father’s side to his hip.
    â€œSo they didn’t send anything in?” he asked. He picked up the letter again and scanned it.
    â€œWhat did it look like? I mean, before the operation?” I described the tumour. He wanted to know what colour it was. I still remembered.
    â€œWe’ll definitely have to give him radiotherapy,” he said. He dictated some Latin words and some numbers to the male nurse.
    â€œWe’d better start today. You’ll have to reckon on ten to fifteen sessions altogether. To start with, three times a week. Come and see me again next Wednesday. Then we’ll take a tissue sample. It won’t hurt. Just a prick. To find out exactly what it was. If necessary we’ll adjust the treatment accordingly.”
    He held various plywood shapes to my father’s back, experimenting with different combinations. He drew a black line around the shapes, marking corner points. “First here, then here.” Again he dictated numbers and Latin words to the male nurse.
    â€œRight, see you again next Wednesday. At three. You can arrange the appointments for the therapy with the nurse at the desk.”
    During the whole of the consultation he’d only spoken to me.
    Now we were dismissed.
    He put out his hand to Father.
    â€œGoodbye,” said Father. “And thanks!”
    â€œDon’t mention it.”
    The male nurse showed us back to the cubicle. I’d hardly closed the door when Father said, “He must be crazy to think I’m coming here three times a week!”
    He had trouble getting his arms into his shirt sleeves. Anger made him fumble.
    Now the cubicle seemed more cramped than ever. “It’ll make me lose at least half a day each time. What on earth is that man thinking of?”
    He grumbled on.
    The radiotherapy – over on the other side of the X-ray department – was soon over. We arranged with the nurse for him to come at eight o’clock each time for the following sessions.
    â€œIt really is a nuisance,” he said as we slowly climbed the stairs to the entrance hall. “I’ve got more sensible things to do than waste whole mornings coming here. Okay, I’ll come again on Friday. As for next week, I’m not promising