Gemotions

The sterile smell of disinfectant made Eleanor’s stomach churn. She gripped the cold, stainless steel of the counter, willing herself not to bolt. This was it, the final, humiliating confirmation. After months of misdiagnoses and dismissive attitudes, here she was. The nurse’s voice, chirpy and cheerful, grated on her nerves.

“You’re the last one of the day, Ms. Finch! Ready to hear the good news?” Eleanor wanted to scream. Good news?

A man in a wheelchair rolled into the reception area. She watched him, his gaze fixed on her. He had a bandage on his arm, a similar one to hers. His eyes, though, were what caught her attention. Recognition. He rolled closer, his lips moving as if to speak.

“It’s the… the…” he began, before trailing off, unable to finish his sentence.

Eleanor completed it for him, “The syndrome, yes.” She felt a wave of cold wash over her.