Gemotions

Her legs felt like jelly. She clutched the offending paperwork, the crisp edges of the document cutting into her palm. The doctor’s reassurances felt like a cruel joke, each word a weight pressing down on her chest. Her stomach lurched, a cold sweat breaking out across her forehead. The diagnosis, meant for someone else, now felt like a curse etched into her own flesh.

She couldn’t think straight. Images flashed through her mind: her children, their faces distorted with a grief she hadn't prepared them for; her husband, his voice cracking with a fear she hadn't anticipated. A sob ripped from her throat. She needed to get out, away from the sterile environment, away from the polite smiles and the hushed tones.

She pushed herself up from the chair, her knees buckling slightly. She felt a wave of nausea. Every breath was an effort, a struggle against the sudden, overwhelming panic that threatened to consume her. She took a step, then another, blindly moving towards the exit, desperate for air, for anything that could ground her.