I follow earthquakes. Ascension Island, 5.5. North Indian Ocean, 4.3.
It murmurs like a strange lullaby in the background. It whispers at night to see if I’m awake. It nudges me as I float distractedly through my mental fog.
There is a comfort in it. A consistency. Tremors, worldwide, but they are small … even, tender. The earth rocks me in my uncertainty.
Multiple nodules on her thyroid.
They don’t mean anything yet, but they’re looming in the distance. I float. I run. I drift. I don’t want to listen to them. They’re not real yet. Not until the biopsy. Not yet.
Maybe if I pretend it’ll be okay. Maybe if I plan for the worst it’ll be okay.
It’s not okay.