6. Treatment

Natasha's POV

I woke up to the melodious chirping of birds and the gentle caress of sunlight on my face. Today dawned as a beautiful and warm morning. However, it being Sunday meant no college today. Despite this, I harbored hopes that the day would unfold smoothly; I certainly didn't want to ruin it. I began my day with my usual morning routine, followed by preparing breakfast for my dad at the appointed time.

Moreover, I had to make a trip to the hospital to pick up my dad's medications. As one cycle of treatment concluded and a new one commenced today, my deepest wish is for his swift recovery. I long for him to regain his health and vitality, to return to being the loving and caring father he has always been.

As usual, my dad and I shared breakfast in silence. After our meal, I took the responsibility of tidying up the dining area. Following a brief moment of rest, we set off for the hospital to collect his medications and for his daily checkup. Anxiety gripped me as we made our way there, my mind preoccupied with concerns about his health. I couldn't shake off the worry about whether his condition was improving or deteriorating.

We sat in the waiting room, anxiously awaiting the results. When they finally arrived, a wave of relief washed over me to hear that my dad was showing some improvement. Every bit of progress meant the world to me, given how rare it was for him to recover this quickly. However, my sense of relief was short-lived as the doctor's next words hit me like a ton of bricks.

"Miss Natasha, your father requires a specialized treatment that we are unable to provide here. The necessary equipment for his care is not available at our hospital," the doctor explained calmly, though his words sent shockwaves through me.

"Where can he receive the best treatment?" I inquired, my voice betraying the fear and desperation I felt.

"America," came the doctor's simple reply.

My jaw dropped in disbelief. The thought of seeking treatment in America seemed like an impossible dream. As a student still pursuing my education, the financial burden of such a journey was beyond what I could bear. The meager income we relied on was nowhere near enough to cover the costs of treatment abroad.

"Isn't there any other way?" I pleaded, hoping for an alternative solution, but the doctor shook his head solemnly.

"I'm sorry, Miss, there is no other option. It's either you take him to America for the best treatment or leave him untreated," he stated firmly, his words hanging heavily in the air.

My heart sank as the gravity of the situation fully dawned on me. I was overwhelmed with conflicting thoughts, unsure of what to do next. Before I could gather my thoughts, my dad's voice boomed through the room, breaking the tense silence.

"What do you mean leave me untreated?" he demanded angrily, his frustration evident.

"Mr. Agarwal, please, I urge you to remain calm," the doctor implored, attempting to diffuse the situation.

I reached out to touch my dad's shoulder, trying to calm him down. "Dad, please, let's not start a scene here," I began, but before I could finish, he forcefully pushed me away with a strong jerk, cutting me off mid-sentence.

Fear gripped me as I realized the extent of his anger. My dad had a history of being abusive and struggling with anger issues, and I knew I couldn't afford to let fear paralyze me. Despite my apprehension, I knew I had to intervene. This was a public place, a hospital, and maintaining calm was crucial.

The doctor spoke again, his voice calm yet authoritative, knowing that my dad was a patient in need of understanding and support.

"Mr. Agarwal, please, I understand your frustration, but let's try to talk about this calmly," the doctor urged, gesturing for him to take a seat.

My dad's brows furrowed in anger, but eventually, he relented and sat down, albeit begrudgingly. The tension in the room began to ease slightly as the doctor continued.

"We're here to help you, but we need to discuss your options calmly and rationally. Let's work together to find the best solution for your health," the doctor suggested, his tone soothing yet firm.

As I stood at a distance, observing the scene unfolding before me, my dad's voice still resonated loudly in the room. Despite my inner turmoil, I couldn't muster even the slightest bit of courage to speak up against him. It felt as though my vocal cords had turned to stone, rendering me incapable of uttering a single word.

There were so many things I longed to express, thoughts and feelings that had been buried deep within my heart for years. Yet, like always, they remained imprisoned within me, locked away where no one could reach them. The only person who ever truly understood me, my confidante and source of comfort, was my mumma. But the cruel reality was that she was no longer with us, leaving a void in my life that seemed impossible to fill.

The doctor eventually succeeded in calming my dad, though a lingering hint of hostility remained in his gaze, noticeable to my keen eye.

As the nurses arrived to escort my dad for his second round of treatment, I found myself left behind, sitting alone on a nearby bed. Lost in the whirlwind of my own thoughts, I was completely zoned out, unaware of the world around me.

Suddenly, a gentle hand rested on my shoulder, startling me out of my reverie. I lifted my head to find the doctor standing before me, his expression softened into a reassuring smile.

"Natasha, you shouldn't dwell on things too much, hm? You know it's not good for you," the doctor said gently, his tone filled with concern. "Don't let stress consume you, dear. Try to stop overthinking. Everything will be alright, just believe in God."

His words washed over me, offering a semblance of comfort in the midst of my inner turmoil. Despite the weight of my worries, I couldn't help but find solace in his reassurance. With a faint nod, I forced a small smile, grateful for his kindness in a moment of vulnerability.

"I know I shouldn't, but what can I do now? I just can't stop thinking; it just happens on its own," I confessed, frustration lacing my voice.

The doctor nodded understandingly. "I understand, I understand," he replied reassuringly. "I've encountered many patients like you before, and I still do. My suggestion for you is to see a therapist, dear, and work through your trauma. It could prevent future problems."

His suggestion filled me with disbelief, and I shook my head vehemently. "I'll never go to a therapist," I declared firmly.

"Why, dear?" the doctor inquired gently.

"I don't like it. I don't like sharing my personal thoughts with a stranger. I just hate it, and I don't want to go," I explained, feeling my breathing grow heavy and erratic. "I-I just don't want to," I stammered, my words faltering.

Sensing my distress, the doctor placed a comforting hand on my back, offering gentle reassurance. "It's okay, dear, it's okay. Take a deep breath, calm down. No one is forcing you; it's entirely your choice," he said soothingly.

"It's alright to feel this way, Natasha," the doctor continued, his voice filled with empathy. "Therapy can be intimidating, especially when it involves sharing deeply personal experiences. But remember, therapists are trained professionals who are there to support and guide you through your healing journey. They provide a safe space for you to express yourself without judgment."

I listened to his words, feeling a mixture of apprehension and reluctance. Opening up to a stranger seemed like an insurmountable challenge, yet a part of me recognized the wisdom in seeking professional help.

Taking a deep breath, I met the doctor's gaze with a hint of determination. "I'll... I'll think about it," I murmured softly, my voice wavering slightly.

He offered me a reassuring smile. "That's all I ask, Natasha. Just remember, you're not alone in this. We're here to support you every step of the way."

With those words echoing in my mind, I felt a glimmer of hope amidst the turmoil. Maybe, just maybe, seeking help wouldn't be as daunting as I imagined. But for now, I allowed myself to simply breathe and contemplate the possibility of healing.

As we drove home, the atmosphere inside the car remained heavy with silence. The completion of my dad's second round of treatment only seemed to deepen the somber mood that had settled between us. The soft afternoon sunlight filtered through the thin layers of clouds, casting a gentle glow over the winter landscape.

The subdued lighting matched the weight of our thoughts, and I found myself lost in contemplation as the scenery passed by in a blur. Each passing moment felt like a fleeting reminder of the uncertainties that lay ahead.

Despite the heaviness of the situation, there was a quiet beauty in the way the sunlight danced through the clouds, casting fleeting shadows upon the earth below. It served as a gentle reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is still light to be found, if only we have the strength to seek it.

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