The pain hit me so hard I dropped the tray. Coffee splashed across the counter in a dark wave, ceramic mugs shattered against tile, and I had to grip the edge of the bakery display case just to keep myself from collapsing right there on the floor. For a second, everything around me—the rhythmic hum of the espresso machine, the cheerful chatter of the morning rush, the warm scent of cinnamon rolls and sourdough—blurred into a wall of meaningless noise. But the pain, that was sharp and immediate and real, like someone had reached inside my abdomen and twisted my organs into a knot.
“Naen, you okay back there?” My manager Julia called out from the register, concern threading through her voice.
I forced a smile, wiping sweat from my upper lip with the back of my hand. “Just a cramp,” I lied, my voice steadier than I felt. “Didn’t eat much breakfast this morning.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d said that. And it wasn’t remotely true. This wasn’t a cramp from skipping breakfast or drinking too much coffee or standing on my feet for six hours straight. For weeks—maybe months if I was being honest—the ache in my stomach had been growing progressively worse, starting as a dull throb after meals that I could ignore, then evolving into sharp, stabbing sensations that left me breathless and dizzy.
But I kept going. I couldn’t afford not to.
At twenty-seven years old, working part-time at Sweet Haven Bakery didn’t come with health insurance. Between rent for my studio apartment, groceries, student loan payments, and the money I contributed to utilities at my parents’ house because they’d asked and I’d never learned to say no, doctor visits were a luxury I couldn’t justify. I tried everything I could afford: generic pain relievers from the drugstore, heating pads pressed against my side until the fabric scorched, peppermint tea like my grandmother used to make me when I was little. Nothing touched the pain. So I worked through it, smiled through it, hid it behind a cheerful customer service voice until I physically couldn’t anymore.
That night after closing, I took the bus to the urgent care clinic near the shopping plaza on Riverside. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving, while I sat clutching my stomach and filling out intake forms with hands that shook so badly my handwriting looked like a child’s. The doctor who eventually saw me was kind, middle-aged with tired eyes that suggested she’d seen everything twice. She pressed gently on my abdomen, asked careful questions about my symptoms, my diet, my family history, then straightened up with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
The story doesn’t end here –
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