I sat twiddling my thumbs. My foot shook like it was determined to fall off.
This was my fourth visit to the doctor in nine days.
It excluded my ambulance ride to the emergency room. Turned out to be acidity instead of a heart attack.
Damn that spicy pasta!
There were three patients ahead of me. I was sure none of them were suffering like I was. Today could be the last day of my life.
The receptionist called out a name. It should’ve been mine. Where was compassion when you needed some?
I looked at my arm for the hundredth time. The red bump had grown a quarter of a millimeter. I wasn’t fooled by its tiny size. It was a silent killer.
That was me. The receptionist was finally doing her job. It was time to break the news to my doctor.
How would he take it?
Dr. Hibb was a jovial man. He always smiled when he saw me. And laughed when I told him my problems.
But today, his face looked different. The frown could just be the mark of a rough day.
I immediately lay down. His long, heavy sigh could’ve been my imagination.
My diseased arm needed his prompt attention.
‘Doctor, this bump on my arm. It’s definitely cancer.’
I looked away. Couldn’t bear to see his sad expression.
His gloved hand lifted my arm, touching the bump, rubbing it with his finger.
The pain was uncomfortable. But I would be brave.
I heard metal clatter. Then felt a jabbing pain. The bump now had a tiny red hole.
Dr. Hibb shook his head, his frown in place, a small, black speck in his outstretched hand.
‘Is that the tumor?’
The doctor didn’t chuckle. He thundered.
‘You idiot! It’s an ingrown hair!’
A mother and daughter struggle to love each other. My Only Child Hope is a story of gain, loss, and pain.