Was it the humidity from my own breath, brought to my attention by the ill-fitting mask that I have now work for four days straight, which caused my cloudy vision? Or was the inability of my eyes to focus on the patient due to something more intangible. The realization that the man before me was dieing slowly consumed me to the point where I no longer was looking at the world but instead allowing, or rather; demanding the storm within my mind to soon produce an answer. His eyes cried for a solution. They begged for the inevitable to be delayed. The diagnosis on the chart was terse. Three small letters placed along each other like a short row of dominoes where there was no doubt whether or not the last one would fall. TBC. In fact it was a rare form of TBC; Esophageal Tuberculosis.
