I think about my last appointment, the oncologist’s clipped answers, a wall of indifference that left me feeling smaller.
I glance at the clock, calculating the hours until my next appointment, the one that might finally provide answers.
Three weeks feels like an eternity.
I check my phone, hoping for a message or a call that might break this cycle of waiting.
Nothing.
I return to the sink, running water over the tea towel, trying to focus on the simple task at hand.
The dark spots remain in the corner of my vision, a silent testament to the questions that remain unasked.
I catch my reflection in the small kitchen window, the morning light casting shadows across my face.
It’s a face I barely recognize these days, lined with worry and fatigue.
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