The pain hit me so hard I dropped the tray. Coffee splashed across the counter. Silverware clattered to the floor, and I had to grip the edge of the bakery display just to keep myself from collapsing.
For a second, everything around me—the hum of the espresso machine, the cheerful conversation of customers, the scent of cinnamon and yeast—blurred into a wall of noise.
But the pain, it was sharp, searing, like someone had reached inside and twisted my insides into a knot.
“Hey, Naen, are you okay?” My manager called out from the back.
I forced a smile, wiping sweat from my upper lip. “Just a cramp,” I lied.
“Didn’t eat much this morning.”
It wasn’t the first time I had said that.
And it wasn’t just a cramp. For weeks, the ache in my stomach had been growing worse, starting as a dull throb after meals, then turning into sharp stabs that left me breathless.
But I kept going.
I couldn’t afford not to.
At 27, working part-time at Sweet Haven Bakery didn’t come with insurance. And between rent, groceries, and helping out with utilities at home, doctor visits were a luxury I couldn’t justify.
I tried everything: over-the-counter meds, heating pads, peppermint tea like my grandma used to make, but nothing touched the pain. So, I worked through it, smiled through it, hid it until I couldn’t anymore.
That night, after closing, I took a bus straight to the urgent care clinic near the shopping plaza.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while I sat clutching my stomach and filling out forms with shaking hands.
The doctor who saw me was kind, but her eyes told me more than her voice did. She pressed gently on my side, asked a few questions, then said, “I’m referring you to a specialist.
I don’t want to guess here.
This could be something that needs surgical attention.”
Surgical. The word made my blood run cold.
Surgery meant time off work, bills, recovery, money I didn’t have and couldn’t even imagine finding.
Still, I went to the specialist.
He reviewed the scans and confirmed it: likely intestinal obstruction, possibly something worse.
“If we don’t act soon,” he said, tapping the folder with a heavy finger, “this won’t just be painful. It’ll be dangerous.” I sat in his office, nodding like I understood, even though all I could hear was the word dangerous. I walked home in silence, the folder with estimates and procedure codes pressed tight to my chest like it could somehow protect me from the dread sinking in.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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