The sterile smell of the clinic waiting room mingles with the faint scent of disinfectant, a constant reminder of where I am. It’s late afternoon, and I’ve just left a brief consultation with Dr. Lawson, who barely glanced over my file.
“Isn’t there something more we can do?”
My question seemed to hang in the air, unanswered, swallowed by the room’s emptiness.
“Let’s keep monitoring,” she replied, her voice brisk and detached, signaling an end to the discussion.
The weight of my unspoken concerns feels heavier today, like a pause that stretches too long, unsettled and unresolved. The symptoms that have whispered beneath the surface for years—subtle, easy to miss—are left unaddressed once more.
Outside, the world continues unchanged, while inside, I carry the quiet pressure of worry. My days blur into a routine of work emails, grocery runs, and preparing meals, all while I downplay the discomfort that persists.
The power dynamic is clear. Dr. Lawson holds the keys to testing and diagnosis, and I am left feeling small, unheard, and unseen within the sterile walls of healthcare bureaucracy.
The looming call with a specialist scheduled for next week presses on my mind, filled with shadows of what might or might not be lurking beneath these quiet symptoms.
For now, I wait.
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