That was the first time I felt something crack in me. It hit different—knowing something inside me was alive, even if the rest of me was dying.
She handed me a note. “That’s my number—WhatsApp too. Call me, no matter what time.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
The bus home was packed. Elbows in my ribs, smells of cheap cologne, gun oil, and street snacks. I found a seat in the back, head down, hoodie up. I choose the bus instead of driving my own car.
I texted Alex:
“Doc, how do you even know if nausea’s from cancer or pregnancy? I haven’t been able to eat in days.”
Before she could answer, someone tapped me.
“Hey,” an older guy barked. “This seat’s for elderly or pregnant people. Get up.”
“She looks fine to me,” a woman chimed in. “She can stand. Let the man sit.”
The whole bus started to turn.
I pulled my medical file out of my bag and flashed it like a badge. “I’m pregnant. And I got stage four brain cancer. I’m not getting up. Happy?"
Silence dropped like a shot fired into the air. I leaned back and stared out the window.
And just like that, I didn’t feel scared anymore.
---
The door clicked behind me, and the house was thick with silence. Too thick.