She sat beside me and handed over the bottle.
“How are you feeling today?” she asked.
“Worse.”
“Did Gordon come with you?”
I lowered my eyes to the folder in my lap.
“No.”
Pearl searched my face but didn’t press for details. Instead, she quietly reached over and squeezed my hand.
That small gesture nearly brought me to tears.
My closest friend had crossed a busy street during her workday because she didn’t want me facing a doctor’s appointment alone.
My husband, meanwhile, had wanted me to cancel it so his mother could go shopping for designer handbags.
A nurse soon called my name and led us to an examination room.
A few minutes later, my gastroenterologist entered carrying my chart and a tablet. He reviewed my recent lab work, carefully questioned me about my symptoms, and examined my abdomen.
The more I described the worsening pain, weight loss, nausea, and exhaustion, the more serious his expression became.
Because my first round of medication had failed and my condition had deteriorated, the clinic had already arranged additional testing. An abdominal ultrasound ruled out problems involving my gallbladder and nearby organs. After reviewing those results, my doctor immediately scheduled an expedited upper endoscopy in the clinic’s procedure unit.
The examination confirmed his suspicion.
I had developed a severe gastric ulcer.
The surrounding tissue was extensively inflamed, and the ulcer had progressed to the point where continued stress, delayed treatment, or ongoing strain could result in internal bleeding and possible hospitalization.
My doctor turned the monitor toward me and spoke with calm determination.
“You need to take this very seriously, Jocelyn.”
“I do.”
“I don’t think you realize how exhausted your body has become. You need medication, meals that won’t aggravate your stomach, and real recovery. Not one quiet afternoon—consistent rest.”
He updated my prescription and wrote detailed instructions on my treatment plan.
“No late-night work. Avoid unnecessary physical stress. And you must reduce the stress that’s contributing to this condition.”
I almost smiled at the irony.
Reduce the stress.
As if stress were something I could simply unplug.
As if it weren’t living in my house, wearing expensive loafers, and expecting me to finance a shopping spree worth tens of thousands of dollars.
My doctor continued.
“If the pain becomes severe, if you feel faint, or if you notice any signs of bleeding, go straight to the emergency room. Don’t wait.”
I nodded silently.
After the appointment, Pearl and I returned to the waiting area while the pharmacy prepared my updated prescriptions.
I stared down at the paperwork confirming my diagnosis.
Seeing the words in black and white made everything impossible to deny.
For weeks, Gordon and Rita had treated my illness like an inconvenience. That very morning, they had tried to convince me to postpone an urgent medical appointment so they could attend a luxury sale.
I finally told Pearl everything.
I described our conversation in the kitchen, how Rita had shoved my medical folder aside, and how Gordon insisted I move the appointment. I explained the alarm on my phone, the fake emergency work call, and my promise to meet them at the register after they finished shopping.
Pearl’s expression turned cold.
