Whether anyone had repeated the pathology.
Whether my family had history of autoimmune disease.
I sat there gripping my sleeves.
Owen sat beside me, silent.
After forty minutes, Dr. Shah leaned back.
“I want to be very careful,” she said.
Those words made my stomach drop.
Doctors only said careful before they hurt you.
She continued.
“I am not saying your diagnosis is wrong. But I am saying there are inconsistencies in the progression, the imaging, and some of the markers. I want your biopsy re-reviewed by our pathology team.”
I stopped breathing.
“What does that mean?”
“It means before we discuss final prognosis, I want confirmation.”
I stared at her.
“My doctor said terminal.”
“I understand.”
“He said treatment would only buy time.”
“I understand that too.”
“So you think he was wrong?”
Dr. Shah folded her hands.
“I think your case deserves more scrutiny before anyone tells you how much life you are allowed to expect.”
Beside me, Owen lowered his head.
Not in victory.
In relief so heavy it looked painful.
I turned to him.
“You knew?”
“No.”
“But you suspected?”
“I suspected doctors are human.”
Dr. Shah ordered more tests.
More scans.
More waiting.
Waiting is one of the cruelest rooms illness puts you in.
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