I returned from the sea vacation – tanned, slim. In the evening my stomach hurt so much that I was taken by ambulance. At first, I assumed it was just something I had eaten or maybe the exhaustion of traveling. But the pain kept intensifying until I could hardly stand upright. The paramedics moved quickly, asking questions I could barely answer between breaths. By the time I reached the hospital, waves of nausea and confusion washed over me. They placed me in a double room, drew the curtains, and ran several tests while I tried to steady myself. I remember staring at the ceiling and wondering how a trip so peaceful could end with so much chaos.
By the next morning, the atmosphere shifted from urgent to strangely observant. Three young doctors, each with a slightly different expression of curiosity on their faces, entered the room one by one. They asked similar questions, checked my abdomen with practiced hands, and exchanged glances I couldn’t quite interpret. Their professionalism was clear, but so was their uncertainty. My roommate, an older woman who had been reading quietly since dawn, watched the parade of white coats with raised eyebrows. I sensed she wanted to say something, but she held back, likely out of respect for my anxiety and the doctors’ process.
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