The diagnosis
The weakness did not leave. Even after the herbs. Even after rest. Even after days of trying to pretend I was getting better. My body felt like it was slowly shutting down, piece by piece. I couldn’t stand for long. My head spun even when I sat still. Food no longer tasted the same, and sleep brought no relief—only more exhaustion. The old woman watched me closely. One morning, as I struggled to sit up, she held my face in her hands and said, “This is no longer something I can treat at home.” Her voice was gentle, but her eyes were serious. “You must go to the hospital.” Fear settled in my chest immediately. Hospitals had always meant bad news to me. Bills. Diagnoses. Words that changed lives. I tried to argue, but my body betrayed me—I nearly collapsed again. So we went. She ac
- Writer
