“Okay, Elena, I need you to stay with me. Can you tell me where the pain is?”
“Lower abdomen.”
Her grip tightened slightly.
“Any recent injury?”
I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know the answer. Because I wasn’t supposed to say it out loud.
“Yes,” I said anyway.
That was enough.
She stood up fast, turning toward the desk. “I need a gurney now.”
Someone behind her moved, but not fast enough.
My vision flickered again. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, trying not to pass out. My hands were shaking now. Not subtle. Full tremor.
Then the doors opened again.
I didn’t need to look to know who it was.
“You’re kidding me.”
My dad’s voice. Of course.
Heavy footsteps. My mom right behind him.
“What is going on?” she demanded.
I looked up slowly.
They weren’t worried.
They were annoyed.
Brenda stepped between them and me.
“Are you family?”
“Yes,” my dad said immediately. “We’re her parents.”
“Good. She needs immediate evaluation. Her vitals are unstable. I’m trying to get her in for imaging.”
“What did she tell you?” my mom cut in.
Brenda blinked. “Excuse me?”
“She does this,” my mom said, waving a hand toward me like I wasn’t sitting right there. “Every time there’s something important happening, she suddenly gets sick.”
I let out a weak breath. There it was. Right on schedule.
“She is not stable,” Brenda said, firmer now. “I need consent to proceed with a CT scan and possible emergency intervention.”
My dad crossed his arms.
“How much is that going to cost?”
Brenda didn’t miss a beat. “Sir, that’s not the priority right now.”
“It is for us,” he replied.
I felt something inside my chest drop. Not surprise. Just confirmation.
My mom stepped closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing something reasonable.
“Look, she’s always been like this. Dramatic. Attention-seeking. We’re not authorizing a bunch of expensive tests because she wants to ruin her sister’s wedding.”
Brenda looked at me. Really looked. Not like a case. Not like a problem. Like a person.
“Elena,” she said quietly. “Can you consent for yourself?”
I tried to answer. My mouth opened. Nothing came out. The room tilted again, harder this time.
“She’s not in a state to consent,” Brenda said, turning back to them. “That’s why I need you to sign.”
“No,” my dad said flatly.
The word landed heavier than anything else in the room.
Brenda stared at him. “Sir, she could be bleeding internally.”
“She’s not,” my mom snapped. “She’s exaggerating.”
I felt my fingers go numb. The shaking stopped.
That wasn’t a good sign.
“Then sign the refusal,” Brenda said, her voice colder now. “But understand what that means.”
My dad didn’t hesitate. “Give me the form.”
Brenda grabbed a clipboard, her movements tight and controlled. She handed it over without another word.
I watched as he signed it. Not quickly. Not angrily. Calm. Like he was approving a dinner reservation.
My mom leaned in slightly as he wrote.
“Just put minimal care,” she added. “Fluids or whatever. Nothing major.”
Brenda’s jaw tightened.
When my dad handed the clipboard back, she didn’t take it right away.
“You’re refusing recommended medical treatment,” she said, making sure every word landed. “If her condition worsens—”
“She’ll be fine,” my dad cut in. “She always is.”
Brenda took the clipboard. Didn’t argue. Didn’t raise her voice. But something in her expression hardened.
“Understood,” she said.
My parents didn’t even look at me again.
“We’re leaving,” my mom said. “We’re already late.”
My dad nodded. “Call us if it’s actually serious.”
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