Two little words hang in the air
Like bricks above my head
Ten centimeters he says
I must be jumping to conclusions
New treatments he says
I must be misunderstanding
My mouth becomes dry and so does his
He flips through the chart
My temples pound
There’ve been others with good outcomes he says
But what is it I whisper, hoping
We’ll get you into a specialist he says and leaves the room
I must be wrong
But I'm not