This new specialist, a woman with kind eyes and a calm demeanor, starts with questions.
“How have you been feeling lately?”
Her voice is steady, a contrast to the turmoil inside me.
“Tired,” I admit, the word barely wrapping around the depth of my fatigue.
She nods, making notes, her pen a soft scratching sound in the quiet room.
“Any changes in appetite or energy levels?”
The questions continue, each one probing beneath the surface.
I answer as best I can, the responses feeling inadequate to convey the full picture.
“We’re going to do a few tests today, if that’s alright.”
Her tone is gentle, seeking consent rather than demanding it.
I nod, though my heart sinks at the thought of more poking and prodding.
The tests are routine, yet each one is a reminder of the fragility I live with.
Blood drawn, pressures checked, weights measured.
With each step, I feel the familiar vulnerability, the sense of exposure.
As she finishes, the specialist looks at me with a sincerity that catches me off guard.
“We’ll figure this out together,” she assures, her words a promise I want to believe.
It’s a small comfort, a glimmer of hope in a journey that often feels endless.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
