Morning in the hospital room is always a waiting time. Waiting for a doctor's visit, who, like an impassive judge, will give his verdict on your state of health. And so, Dr. Burt, with his usual stethoscope around his neck, but with an unusual heaviness in his eyes, enters the room. His silence is the worst possible prediction. The familiar examination procedure, the familiar questions, but this time everything seems different. In his words – "Your condition is becoming more fragile every day" — there is no usual medical formality, only a bitter statement of fact. My heart constricts, my breathing quickens, and a storm of thoughts rushes through my head, the collapse of that sweet deception begins that everything will be fine.

Fear is the first thing that overwhelms. Fear of the unknown, of illness, of what the future holds. Fear is followed by anxiety, deep and all-consuming, it corrodes from the inside, not allowing you to focus on anything else. And anxiety can be followed by panic, insidious and merciless, paralyzing the will and robbing the ability to adequately assess the situation. At such moments, the world narrows down to the walls of the ward, to Dr. Burt's face, to those piercing words hanging in the air like a heavy fog.

Dr. Burt's pause is not just a pause, it's an eternity stretching between hope and despair. Every passing moment stretches like a year, forcing you to relive the horror of what's coming. And finally, the outstretched

— «I'm afraid that one day...» — sounds like a verdict, cold and inevitable. But there is hope in the same sound. The hope is that Dr. Burt does not give up, that he is looking for ways to save himself, even if they seem incredibly difficult.