“I’ll send someone in to schedule the test,” the specialist says to me. “Wait here a moment.”
I nod and watch her leave. As the door clicks shut, a sinking, sick, hollow gap grows and groans in my chest. I shrink against the uncomfortable chair, stare at my hands or count the number of tiles on the floor. I don’t look at the posters of disease on the walls. I already read them earlier.
It never gets better, this moment after the door shuts and there is only you and the white white room. It never changes.
The me who waits for someone to schedule a test is 21-year-old me cradling a broken finger and fearing surgery.…Continue Reading