What's In The Box? What's In The Box?

I envision my mother’s cancer diagnosis as resting inside a blue envelope, even though it’s probably a printout on a desk. Or an email. Regardless, someone knows whether she’s going to die of bone cancer, and we do not. At least not for another ninety minutes.
This isn’t Schrodinger’s cat. There is no theory, here; somewhere, there is a clear answer as to my mother’s future, locked and ready. Nothing we do can affect the outcome. I spent all of last night looking at her skin, watching her as we drank and talked, wondering if underneath that muscle were bones that were festering with tumors or just a healthy set of calcium and marrow.
The answer is somewhere. We’ll know soon.
The uncertainty is grinding us down.
I was always fascinated by the Oscar process, and always looked forward to the annual behind-the-scenes showcase where a small, private company tallies the votes. Two men bring a locked suitcase to the Oscars and stand off-stage, handing out envelopes; only they know the contents. Out in the audience, the nominees try to stay calm for the cameras, soaking expensive gowns in sweat… but their fate is known. Two men have seen the future, a future that will be revealed shortly by a handsome man in a tuxedo, ripping open a blue envelope that was sealed three days ago.
There is no uncertainty here. There is merely a secret that will change someone’s lives, words kept in darkness until the time is right.
In eighty minutes, my mother and I will be seated in a doctor’s office, and at some point after that they will bring us news. I suspect they’ve read the results by now; if I were a doctor, I know I’d want to be emotionally prepared in case I had to drop some bad news in someone’s lap. The doctor may be a little nervous, too, or a little happy; already, the shockwaves from this news or lack-of-news are starting to rumble across our lives, affecting loved ones and strangers alike.
But the news is there. Waiting. Lurking. Freedom or death.
Seventy-five minutes to go.