Last week, I caught myself hiding my hands during handoffs.
The ridges seem worse under scrutiny.
Yesterday, a sharp tenderness crept into my fingertips.
I ignored it.
Today, the bumps have spread, no longer subtle.
I’ve promised myself I’d see a doctor this weekend.
But I’m dreading the appointment.
If it’s something serious, what happens then?
Time off would overburden my colleagues, and the hospital won’t hold the floor open.
There’s a mandatory staff meeting Monday about upcoming evaluations.
I’m anxious that admitting health issues might be seen as weakness.
It might jeopardize my position.
So here I am, hands trembling slightly as I reach for my coffee.
The quiet weight of what I’ve been ignoring settles over me.
The looming pressure of what’s yet to come feels heavy.
It’s late Thursday afternoon—almost the weekend.
But the weekend feels distant, another hurdle to face.
The fluorescent lights flicker slightly, casting shadows that dance across the room.
In the silence, I hear only the hum of the vending machine.
Each noise seems amplified in the quiet room.
The coffee is lukewarm, its bitterness grounding me momentarily.
Thoughts swirl, yet I find myself rooted to the spot.
Everything feels like a cycle I can’t escape.
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