The checkup room was sterile and quiet, a sharp contrast to the chaos that usually surrounded him. The doctor, a man in his early forties with tired eyes and a no-nonsense tone, asked him questions. How long had the pain lasted? Where exactly did it hurt? Justin answered, still trying to sound casual.
He hoped it was something minor—ulcers, maybe. A stomach bug. A little warning to slow down. But when the scans came back, the doctor’s demeanor changed. He sat down across from Justin and spoke the words slowly, carefully, like lowering a hammer. “You have pancreatic necrosis,” he said. “It’s severe.”
Justin blinked, unsure if he’d heard right. The words felt heavy, alien. The doctor continued, explaining that the tissue in part of his pancreas had begun to die—caused by years of heavy alcohol use. It wasn’t something that would go away on its own.
“You’ll need surgery,” the doctor said, his voice steady but not unkind. “The necrotic tissue has to be removed. Do you have a family? It’d be a good time to let them know.” Justin stared at the floor. Fifty-six, and this was his future—clinging to life through prescriptions and precision.