Sarah couldn't stop fiddling with the frayed edge of the admittance paperwork. Her fingers, usually steady from years of surgical precision, trembled slightly. This was ridiculous. It was just a clerical error. Still, the receptionist’s apologetic tone echoed in her ears. *“There’s been a mix-up… your records… they seem to be with another patient.”* A cold sweat prickled her skin, and she pulled at the too-tight collar of her shirt. What if they had given her the wrong medication? What if the procedures documented… She pushed the thought away, but it resurfaced a moment later with more force.
The waiting room seemed to shrink, the colorful posters on the wall pressing in. Each cough, each whispered conversation was amplified, each rustle of a magazine felt deafening. She took a deep breath, or at least she tried to; the air felt thin and unsatisfying. The nurse, a kind woman with a reassuring smile, finally called her name. The walk to the examination room felt like an eternity.
Inside, the sterile white walls and bright overhead lights only intensified the disquiet. She focused on the nurse's movements, the way her pen scratched across the chart, trying to find a point of calm, but her stomach churned as if she was riding an elevator stuck between floors. Every question felt loaded, every answer a potential trap.