But now, the hospital has become a fortress, with my sister holding the key.
Nurses brush off my questions with vague reassurances, and the locked door is a stark reminder of where the control lies.
“Visiting hours are strict,” they say, as if that explains everything.
Yet, my sister is always there, authorized as a family support person.
Her proximity to the medical team grants her access I am denied.
The waiting room clock ticks ominously, marking time until my dreaded appointment with the head nurse.
A meeting I’ve been bracing for, but one that fills me with dread.
I sit, my thoughts swirling with the weight of uncertainty, the locked door lingering in my chest like a shadow I can’t shake.
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