The overhead lights cast a glare on the white tiles of the wall, making the room feel colder than it probably was. Juan shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The metallic tang of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of where he was and what was about to happen. His gaze drifted to the instrument tray, a display of gleaming blades and clamps. He tried to focus on the ceiling tiles, tracing the crevices, anything to distract from the knot of dread twisting in his stomach. He was inside an operating room.
Two months ago, this had all seemed so distant, so impossible. He'd been a picture of health, or so he thought. He did not smoke; he drank alcohol in moderation, and he was not taking any maintenance medications. Then came that morning, the shock of blood, a bright crimson swirling in the toilet bowl. He remembered staring at it, the initial disbelief giving way to a cold dread that he tried to bury deep down. He told himself it was nothing, just a fluke. He felt fine, after all. His bowel movements were regular, his appetite was good, he hadn't lost any weight. It was probably just hemorrhoids, like his friend had.
But the image of that blood haunted him. He found himself checking the toilet after every visit, a growing anxiety gnawing at him. He tried to ignore it, to convince himself it was nothing. But then, a month later, it happened again. This time, his wife caught him.
"Juan, what is this?" Her voice was sharp with alarm, her eyes wide with fear.
He mumbled something about hemorrhoids, trying to downplay it, but the look on her face told him he wasn't fooling anyone.
"No more excuses, Juan. We're going to the doctor."
He'd resisted at first, pride battling with the fear that was slowly taking root. But his wife was insistent. They had four children, responsibilities. He couldn't afford to ignore this.
The doctor's office was filled with a lavender scent, a stark contrast from the smell of disinfectant in hospitals. After a brief conversation with him and physical examination, the gastroenterologist explained the potential seriousness of blood in the stool, especially at his age – fifty-six. He stressed the importance of a colonoscopy, a procedure that would allow him to visualize the inside of Juan's colon and take biopsies if necessary.
The anticipation of the colonoscopy was far worse than the procedure itself. He'd woken up groggy, the doctor's words hitting him like a punch to the gut: "There's a mass in your colon, Juan. We took biopsies from it."
The waiting was the hardest part. Four days of agonizing uncertainty, each tick of the clock a hammer blow to his already frayed nerves. He tried to stay busy, to keep his mind occupied, but the fear was a constant companion.
Finally, the day of the results arrived. The doctor's office felt even colder this time, the silence heavier.
"The biopsy confirms it's cancer, Juan."
The words echoed in his ears, each syllable a hammer blow. Juan felt a coldness spread through him, a numbness that was more terrifying than the fear itself. He looked at his wife, her face pale and drawn, and a wave of guilt washed over him. He was the strong one, the protector. How could he be the one needing protection?
Surgery was scheduled, a whirlwind of pre-op appointments and tests. He signed consent forms, his hand trembling slightly, the gravity of the situation sinking in. He thought about his children, their faces flashing before his eyes: Maria, just starting college; Carlos, with his dreams of becoming a pilot; little Sofia, who still believed in fairy tales. He had to fight. For them, for his wife, for himself.
Now, here he was, lying on the operating table, the cold steel a contrast to the warmth of his memories. The anesthesiologist's voice was a gentle murmur, easing him towards oblivion. As the darkness closed in, a single image filled his mind: his family gathered around the dinner table, laughing, sharing stories, their faces illuminated by the warm glow of the overhead lamp. He clung to that image, a beacon of hope in the encroaching darkness. He would fight. For them, for himself, for the chance to return to that light.
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