Evenings are a blur of routine tasks—cooking dinner, tidying up, preparing for the next day. Each action is a way to distance myself from the worry that I can’t seem to shake.
The discomfort is a constant companion, a subtle ache that never truly leaves.
“You should get that checked out,” a well-meaning acquaintance had said once, their tone casual.
I had nodded, opting not to share the deeper worries that linger beneath my calm facade.
The looming call with the specialist hangs over me, the uncertainty pressing down, a silence filled with shadows of what might or might not be lurking beneath these quiet symptoms.
“Have you thought about getting a second opinion?” a friend asks, their voice concerned.
“Maybe,” I reply, noncommittal, aware of the barriers that stand in the way.
Appointments are hard to come by, and each visit feels like a battle for validation, for acknowledgment.
The power dynamic is clear. Dr. Lawson holds the keys to testing and diagnosis, and I am left feeling small, unheard, and unseen.
For now, I wait.
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