š“ THE DOCTOR SAID IT WAS CANCER, BUT I TASTED METAL IN MY MOUTH
I remember the sun hitting my face, suddenly too hot, as he gave me the diagnosis.
āItāsā¦aggressive,ā he said, his voice echoing oddly loud in the small, sterile room. Aggressive? Like a rabid dog? My skin prickled with goosebumps despite the sun. I felt strangely disconnected, like watching a movie with the sound off.
My brother squeezed my hand, his knuckles white. He kept saying, “We’ll fight this,” but it sounded hollow, like a recorded message on repeat. I could only focus on the faint antiseptic smell and the way my vision blurred around the edges.
Then, the doctor cleared his throat and added, “We need to start chemo immediately. Andā¦ thereās a complication.” What complication? Was I dying now, right here, in this cursed waiting room?
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My mouth suddenly filled with that familiar, bitter tang ā the taste of old coins Iād been noticing intermittently for weeks, the taste Iād dismissed as stress or maybe a weird coffee. It intensified now, sharp and undeniable. The doctor continued, oblivious to my internal panic and the sudden surge of metallic bitterness. “The complication,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “is related to a rare symptom associated with this specific tumor type. It’s causing a significant metabolic imbalance, which we believe is responsible for the symptom you might have noticed ā a persistent, often strong metallic taste in the mouth.” He paused, looking at me expectingly. I could only nod, the taste coating my tongue. “This imbalance means the standard chemotherapy approach is… less viable, potentially causing severe organ damage before it even touches the tumor. We need a different strategy. A more targeted, experimental protocol.”
The world tilted back into focus. The doctor spent the next hour explaining the experimental protocol ā its risks, its potential rewards, the arduous schedule of specialized infusions and monitoring. My brother listened intently, asking questions where I couldn’t form words. The metallic taste remained, a constant reminder of the fight suddenly thrust upon me, no longer a vague annoyance, but a signal from the enemy within. When we finally stood up to leave, the sun felt warm again, not hot and threatening. My brother didn’t just squeeze my hand; he wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “A different strategy,” he murmured, his voice stronger now, not hollow. “Okay. We do that. We fight it differently.” The metal on my tongue felt less like a death knell and more like the taste of determination, sharp and resilient. We walked out into the bright, noisy world, not cured, not even started on treatment, but with a path ahead, however uncertain, and the metallic taste as our strange, unwelcome companion.