I was halfway through my pre-calculus exam when the pain first made its presence known. It did not arrive as a gentle warning or a dull ache that I could easily set aside; instead, it felt like a sharp, white-hot needle pressing into the lower right side of my abdomen. The sensation was quick and terrifyingly precise, as if someone had reached beneath my skin to find a hidden bruise that had been waiting years to be disturbed.
At first, I relied on the only survival strategy I had ever known. I sat perfectly still and pretended that nothing was wrong. In the Gentry household, pain was never treated as useful information from the body. It was viewed as an inconvenient request, and making requests was a dangerous game to play.
A request for help invited deep sighs, theatrical eye-rolls, and lectures about being too sensitive. If the pain belonged to my younger half-sister, Chloe, the entire house would immediately shift its axis to accommodate her. When Chloe had a simple scratch, my mother dimmed every light, Rick drove to the nearest pharmacy, and the world spoke in hushed, reverent tones.