Скачать или смотреть During Family Dinner, They Mocked My Treatment—Not Knowing The Specialist Was Visiting

During Family Dinner, They Mocked My Treatment—Not Knowing The Specialist Was Visiting
‪@RevengeReturn-s3n‬

I sat at my parents' dining table, my tremor medication wearing off two hours early like it had been doing for weeks. My right hand shook as I tried to cut my steak, the knife clattering against the plate. Across from me, my sister Jennifer rolled her eyes so hard I'm surprised they didn't fall out of her head.
"Oh, here we go," she muttered. "The dramatic tremors again."
I was twenty-seven years old with early-onset Parkinson's disease. Diagnosed eighteen months ago after my symptoms were dismissed as "anxiety" and "attention-seeking" for over a year. The tremors, the rigidity, the bradykinesia—all real, all documented, all progressively getting worse despite medication adjustments.
But my family had decided I was faking.
"Jennifer, please," Mom said halfheartedly, not looking up from her wine glass.
"What? We're all thinking it." Jennifer gestured at me with her fork. "She's twenty-seven. Parkinson's is an old person's disease. She probably Googled symptoms and convinced some quack doctor to diagnose her."
My father, Dr. Richard Morrison, Chief of Surgery at St. Catherine's Hospital, set down his glass with deliberate force. He was a commanding presence—six-foot-three, silver-haired, the kind of surgeon who expected immediate obedience in the OR and at home.
"Your sister has always been dramatic," he said. "Remember high school? She convinced herself she had mono for three months. It was just laziness."
"I actually had mono," I said quietly, my voice already shaking with the emotion I was trying to suppress. "The test results proved it."
"After you demanded testing five times," Dad countered. "You manifested symptoms through sheer willpower and stress. Just like you're doing now."
I focused on my plate, on keeping my breathing steady. This was a well-worn argument. My neurologist, Dr. Helen Zhao, had confirmed my diagnosis with multiple tests: DaTscan showing reduced dopamine uptake, genetic testing revealing a LRRK2 mutation, clinical examination showing classic Parkinsonian symptoms. But none of that mattered to my family.
"She's on all these medications," Mom added, finally joining the conversation. "Anti-anxiety pills, she says. But I think she's just becoming dependent. Maybe even addicted."
"They're not anti-anxiety pills," I said, my frustration rising. "They're levodopa, carbidopa, and a MAO-B inhibitor. They help my brain produce dopamine."
"Sure they do," Jennifer said with a smirk. She was a nurse practitioner—Dad's golden child who'd followed him into medicine. "I've worked in neurology rotations. You don't have Parkinson's. You're too young, too functional. Real Parkinson's patients can barely move."
"That's not—" I started, but Dad cut me off.
"Enough, Claire. We've entertained this fantasy long enough. STOP PRETENDING YOU'RE SICK!" His voice rose to a shout that made Mom flinch and Jennifer smile in vindication. "You've wasted thousands of dollars on doctors, medications, and treatments for a condition you don't have. You're twenty-seven years old. You should be building a career, not building an identity around fake illness!"
My hand tremors intensified with the stress, my water glass slipping from my grip and shattering on the hardwood floor.
"Perfect," Jennifer said. "And there's the dramatic finale."
I stood up, my legs stiff, my movements slow—textbook bradykinesia that any first-year medical student should recognize. "I'm going to clean that up."
"Sit down," Dad commanded. "Maria will get it." He snapped his fingers toward the kitchen where our housekeeper was preparing dessert.



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