Day 7 : What if Dr. Sen is a quack?

Seven days. A whole week of knowing that my expiration date is closer than the milk in my fridge. Funny how time seems to slow down when you're counting the moments like coins in a jar—each one heavier than the last.

I didn’t go to work today. Or yesterday. Or the day before that. I called in sick, which wasn’t even a lie this time. The fever hit hard yesterday, leaving me curled up under a blanket with tissues, painkillers, and Netflix for company. I told my manager I had the flu. “Bad fever,” I rasped into the phone, trying to sound convincingly pathetic. What a cliché.

Linda bought it though. Said, “Take care of yourself,” in the way people do when they don’t actually care but feel obligated to sound supportive.

Honestly, though, I wanted to quit by now. Every spreadsheet and email feels like a joke. What’s the point? I’m not going to be around long enough to care if the Q3 budget balances.

But then there’s that nagging thought: What if Dr. Sen was wrong?

I mean, what if the guy’s a quack? What if this whole diagnosis is just one big, elaborate mistake? After all, I felt fine last week. Not a single symptom to suggest that I was living on borrowed time. Maybe my six months is just a clerical error.

What if Dr. Sen is just another overconfident, overpriced fraud with a shiny diploma? What if the test results got swapped, and somewhere out there, some unhealthy guy is freaking out over my clean bill of health?

The idea feels absurd. But then again, so does everything else.

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I can’t quit my job, though. Not yet. Because if it turns out that Dr. Sen is a fraud and I miraculously survive, I’ll need money—money to pick up the pieces of my life that I’ve casually been tossing out like confetti.

So here I am, holding on to my boring little job because, hey, what’s more practical than financial security in the face of impending doom?

I decided to skip the office charade today, though. Instead, I went for a walk. I needed to breathe. To feel alive for just a little while longer.

The city was the same as always, full of people hustling, rushing, always looking ahead as if they had all the time in the world.

I envy them. And I hate them, too.

Because they don’t know. They don’t know the weight of six months hanging over their heads like a ticking bomb.

But then, maybe that’s their superpower—ignorance. Maybe not knowing is what makes it all bearable.

But somehow, weirdly enough the fact that I knew my deadline had made me feel superior to them, who didn’t know the unpredictable; their death time.

Then I thought about Dr. Sen. That bastard in his crisp white coat, sitting behind his shiny desk, calmly saying the words: “Six months.” He doesn’t even know me. He doesn’t know what I’ve been through, what I’ve survived, but he gets to decide when it all ends?

Who gave him that right?

I mean, the guy didn’t even flinch when he said it. “Tumor.” Like he was reading off a grocery list. No pause, no hesitation—just a word that lodged itself in my chest like a splinter. “Six months,” he added, as if he were offering me a special deal: Act now, limited time only!

Screw him. Screw his stupid degrees, his perfect office, and that smug little plaque on his desk that says “Healing with Compassion.” Compassion, my ass.

I wanted to throw his diplomas out the window. Rip his stupid, neatly organized office apart. I wanted to ask him if he ever loses sleep over the things he tells people.

Or does he just go home, eat dinner, and watch cricket, like he didn’t just drop a bomb on someone’s entire existence?

If he’s wrong? Well, wouldn’t that be ironic. If I survive, I’ll hunt him down and sue him for all the emotional trauma I’ve been putting myself through this week.

But for now, I’ll hold on. To my job. To my life. To the hope that maybe, just maybe, this is all one big mistake.