Inertia

"Sir, what's the prognosis?" We all looked up from our notebooks. Some of us had finished taking notes, some stopped midway in their sentences.  As an intimation that it was time to end the morning clinic, our professor had asked if we had any questions.  Sir looked at the boy who had raised the question, then at the boy whose tummy was our area of concern this morning, at his own hands, and then back at our curious friend. A boy lay in front of us, scanning our faces as we listened, questioned, answered and made notes about him. Thankfully he couldn't understand our jargon. The boy had a tumour supposedly. Most of our surgery patients did. It wasn't a big deal. I was calm. But when Sir answered, my tummy gave an uncomfortable twirl. I hadn't finished writing the radiotherapy details this boy was to get. I shut my notebook. I didn't want to finish. It didn't matter anymore, anyway. "2 months." 60 days! Just 8 Sundays? Only la