Scene 1: In the waiting room of the doctor’s office, early morning, winter 2015 A gaunt 20-something sits with legs crossed, knee bobbing as she circles her foot.
Her head darts up from a list of questions. She pauses the pen at her lips, eyes the clock on the wall, and continues scribbling.
The clock ticks. A cuticle dangles from her finger. That’s me, the neurotic character starring in a dramedy. Except lately I was in a psychological thriller. (Think: The Twilight Zone meets ER–or Black Mirror meets Grey’s Anatomy.) Most of 2015, doctors dismissed my pain as just another flare-up.
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