Waiting Room Worries
Sitting in the waiting room, my foot tapped out a restless rhythm against the floor, each tick of the clock amplifying the storm of thoughts racing through my head. The soft murmur of nearby conversations faded into the background, drowned out by the endless cycle of what-ifs spinning in my mind. “Breathe,” I reminded myself, but the word felt shallow, barely touching the rising tide of anxiety threatening to break loose within me.
Waiting Room Worries
Diagnosis Confirmed
Dr. Renner, the specialist, reviewed my results and gave a solemn nod. “I’m afraid the original diagnosis was spot on,” he said, meeting my eyes with unwavering honesty. His words hit with a heavy finality, amplifying the disbelief already festering inside me. The clarity of it all felt surreal, each sentence drawing the knot in my stomach tighter. Even though part of me had expected this, hearing it confirmed landed like a sucker punch straight to the gut.
Diagnosis Confirmed
