Evenings bring a semblance of routine as I prepare dinner, the chopping of vegetables a familiar, soothing sound.
But the meals I craft with care, aiming for balance and nutrition, sometimes taste like ash in my mouth.
I eat out of necessity, not desire, each bite a reminder of the things I cannot control.
The oncologist’s appointment looms, a date I’ve circled on my calendar with a mix of dread and resignation.
What will they find?
Will it be the reassurance I long for or the confirmation of my fears?
“You should go,” my sister insists over the phone one evening, her voice firm and unyielding.
“I know,” I murmur, twisting the phone cord around my fingers.
But knowing doesn’t make it easier.
The weight of the unknown presses heavily on my shoulders, a burden I can’t seem to shake.
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