The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as I lay on the hospital gurney. The nurse, unfazed by the chaos around her, methodically attached the blood pressure cuff to my arm. My husband stood beside me, fidgeting with his phone, casting nervous glances toward the door.
The doctor entered, carrying a manila folder—the hospital’s logo stamped on the front. He cast a quick, assessing glance at me before opening the folder. “Mrs. Collins,” he began, his voice calm but laced with a hint of something else. “Your medical history shows some concerning patterns.”
I could feel my husband’s hand tense around mine, his grip tightening just a fraction too much. “What do you mean? She just fell,” he interjected, his voice a tad too defensive.
The doctor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he flipped through the pages, stopping at one in particular. “There are multiple entries here that suggest a history of falls,” he said, eyes meeting mine.
I swallowed hard, the room suddenly feeling smaller. My husband shifted beside me, his presence heavy. “It’s a misunderstanding,” he said, but his voice cracked, betraying him.
The doctor nodded, as if to acknowledge the statement, yet his eyes remained fixed on me.
The silence that followed was deafening. The truth was inching closer, and I could feel it pressing against the walls of the room, waiting to spill over.
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