“Those symptoms are concerning. The visual disturbances particularly. I’m just going to do a few basic tests and screenings first, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Good. I need to look into your eyes for a second, so this might be uncomfortable,” Dr. Singh says as he pulls his little light instrument from his jacket pocket and flips it on. “Keep your focus on me, but look past my shoulder.”

“Okay.”

He moves the light in front of my left eye, and I wince both from the brightness and the way it makes my head hurt.

“You’re doing well. Just a few more seconds,” he mutters as he looks deep into my eye. I don’t have any idea what he’s looking for, but I trust that he knows what he’s doing. I just want answers, preferably ones that aren’t terrifying. “Good. One eye down. Now let’s take a look at the other.”

He moves the light to my right eye and repeats the process. It’s just as uncomfortable as it was in my left eye, but at least this time I know what to expect and how long it’ll last.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, and something in his tone makes my stomach clench. “Let’s check your pupillary response. Do me a favor and focus on my finger, okay?” he says as he holds up one finger in front of my eyes. I focus on it and nod. “Good. Now follow my finger as closely as you can.” He starts moving his finger back and forth in front of my eyes with a focused intensity that wasn’t there before.

“I’m noticing some subtle tracking issues,” he says, his tone professional but with an edge that makes my pulse quicken. “Has this vision problem been getting progressively worse?”

“Yes,” I admit. “It started with just occasional blurriness, but now I’m getting these halos and sometimes complete blind spots.”

He nods, making a note on his clipboard. “And the headaches—how would you describe the pain, on a scale of one to ten?”

“They’re definitely up there,” I say. “Like someone’s driving an ice pick through my skull.”

Dr. Singh writes something else down, his expression carefully neutral. “Does anyone in your family have a history of headaches or other problems similar to this?”

I think about it for a second but come up empty. “Not that I know of.”

My chest tightens as the words leave my mouth. Casey’s cancer diagnosis was preceded by a bunch of strange symptoms that slowly turned more concerning, and he and I shared DNA, shared a womb. The thought that whatever took him might somehow be lurking in me too has always been one of my deepest fears, even if doctors have repeatedly assured me that lightning rarely strikes twice like that.