Did you just assume that all would go well and Rick would have his stress test and that he would pass it with flying colors and they would give him a thumb's up sign and say that he was now cleared for surgery and that we would go home and smile and laugh about what a carefree day it had been and we would toast each other with champagne and then make plans for the impending surgery and we would rejoice because Rick would soon be out of pain and that all would be right with the world?
Well you would be wrong.
On Friday, the surgery was cancelled. True. You knew that, though.
But on Monday morning, after I'd packed Rick's lunch for his adventure and rescheduled all of my appointments and planned on how to get him to the heart center for his stress test and arranged for him to be picked up afterwards at the heart center since I couldn't get away exactly when he needed me to ... I got a call. Yes, I got a dreaded call.
The stress test wasn't cancelled. No, not at all, if that's what you were thinking.
It just wasn't that day.
Good ol' Rick. He was a week off. He was living a week into the future. The heart center wasn't though. They insisted it was still only the 20th. Rick insisted it was the 27th. But it was, in fact, still the 20th.
And that's a good thing. Because had it really been the 27th, I would've missed Brenda's Pampered Chef party that I was looking forward to going to, a play rehearsal at my church, a Friday night production of "Twelve Angry People" that I'd auditioned for and not made but was dying to see just to see if they'd cast the right people (it wasn't me, so I actually already knewed they'd goofed), three fun days of meetings at my new school, five days of pay and ... most importantly ... THE MAIDS!
Yes, my house would still be dirty!
Wait. Maybe it really was the 27th...
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