**Diary Entry 21st April**
The doctor reviewed my test results and immediately called for the head of the department.
How long has this been bothering you? she asked, carefully pressing on Emily Carters abdomen.
About two weeks. But the sharp pain started three days ago.
Dr. Margaret Edwards frowned as she scribbled notes in the chart.
Have you noticed any yellowing of your skin or the whites of your eyes?
Emily blinked in surprise.
Is there? I hadnt noticed anything…
Its slight, but present. The doctor set down her pen. We need to do an ultrasound and more bloodwork immediately. Can you stay for that today?
Yes, of course. I dont have classes this afternoon.
The next two hours blurred into a whirlwind of examinationsblood drawn, waiting rooms, the cold gel of the ultrasound wand. The scan showed an enlarged liver and something the doctor described vaguely as a mass, adding, Well need all the results before drawing conclusions.
Emily returned home exhausted. The uncertainty gnawed at her more than the pain. Twenty-five years teaching English literature had taught her the value of clarity.
The flat was quiet. Her daughter, Sophie, had left for university in Manchester, and her husband had moved out five years ago for a younger colleague. Only Oliver, her aging tabby cat, remained, hopping onto her lap and demanding attention.
Fancy some tea and a bit of Austen, old boy? she murmured, scratching behind his ears.
The evening passed in half-hearted distractionsgrading papers, rewatching *Downton Abbey*, calling Sophie. But her thoughts kept circling back to the pending results.
The next morning, Dr. Edwards rang herself.
Emily, you need to come in today. The results are in.
Her voice held a tension she couldnt quite mask. Emilys stomach dropped.
The clinic was hushed, the ticking clock the only sound. Dr. Edwards shuffled papers, avoiding direct eye contact.
Your liver enzymes and bilirubin are alarmingly high. Combined with the ultrasound findings… She hesitated. Ive referred you to a specialist at St. Thomass. Theyll see you tomorrow.
Is it… serious? Emilys throat tightened.
I dont want to frighten you prematurely, but yes, theres cause for concern. Hospitalisation may be necessary.
The following day, Emily sat in the stark waiting room of St. Thomass, its clinical corridors and antiseptic smell overwhelming. A young doctor, introducing himself as Dr. James Whitaker, was thorough and kind. He asked about her symptoms, habits, family history, scrutinising every result.
Your work must be stressful? he asked, flipping through the file.
I teach A-level literature.
When was your last proper holiday? No marking, no lesson plans?
Emily smiled faintly. Im afraid theres no such thing. Even summers are spent preparing for September.
He sighed and returned to the results. Suddenly, his expression shifted. He reread a page, cross-referenced numbers, then stood abruptly.
One moment, he said, taking the folder and stepping out.
Emilys pulse pounded in her ears. *This must be bad if hes bolted.*
Minutes later, he returned with an older consultantsilver-haired, neatly bearded.
Dr. Henry Lawson, head of hepatology, the older man said, shaking her hand. Lets discuss.
He reviewed the tests, then peered over his glasses.
Emily, are you on any regular medication? Herbal supplements, perhaps?
No, just the occasional paracetamol for headaches.
Anything new recently?
She hesitated. Well… these liver detox capsules. A neighbour swore by them. I took a course, but they didnt help, so I stopped.
The doctors exchanged glances.
Do you recall the name?
Something like LivPure, maybe? Ive got the box at home.
Dr. Lawson leaned back. Heres the thing. Your results show severe liver distress, but some markers dont fit the usual patterns. We suspect drug-induced hepatitis.
From those capsules?
Possibly. Even OTC supplements can cause adverse reactions, especially without medical oversight.
Guilt prickled. Shed taken them blindly, trusting a neighbour over a professional.
What now? she whispered.
Further tests. Wed like to admit you today.
The ward was clean but datedpeeling paint, creaky beds, NHS-issue curtains. Her roommates were two elderly women and a girl in her early twenties.
New? one asked brightly. What brings you here?
Liver trouble, Emily said vaguely.
Join the club! the woman laughed. Im post-gallbladder, Doris heres got cirrhosis, and Lucy She nodded to the girl. Autoimmune hepatitis.
The evening passed in chatter. Doris, a fount of hospital gossip, declared Dr. Lawson a saint and Dr. Whitaker a bit green but sharp.
The next morning brought more testsblood draws, scans. By afternoon, Dr. Lawson summoned her.
Its drug-induced hepatitis, he said. Those capsules contained a known hepatotoxin. Most tolerate it, but you didnt.
So its not… cancer? The word tasted sour.
He shook his head. The mass on your scan is reactive, not malignant. Reversible with treatment.
Relief hit like a wave. She nearly wept.
Ill live?
You will. He smiled. But no more self-prescribing, agreed?
Back in the ward, Doris pounced. Well?
Liver damage from those pills, Emily said.
Blimey! I tried those last year! Doris gasped.
Lucky you. My body rebelled.
That evening, Dr. Whitaker arrived with her treatment planIV drips, medications, a strict no-alcohol, low-fat diet.
Why did you look so worried earlier? Emily asked.
He flushed. Your numbers mirrored certain… grave conditions. I panicked and called Dr. Lawson. He spotted the drug link straightaway.
Thank God he did, Emily said. Id already drafted my will.
Beside them, Lucy sniffled.
Whats wrong? Emily asked gently.
Nothing, Lucy mumbled. Its just… they told me mine was mild at first. Now its chronic. Forever.
Emily squeezed her hand. But treatable?
Yeah. Just… Im twenty-two. Feels unfair.
At least youll take better care than I did, Emily said. It took this to make me slow down.
That night, sleep eluded her. She thought of her all-consuming job, of Sophieseen only at holidaysof dreams shelved for someday. *Maybe this is my wake-up call,* she realised.
By morning, the pain had dulled. She called Sophie: Darling, how about that Cornwall trip we always talked about? Lets book it for June.
Two weeks flew by. Emily grew close to Lucy, mothered by instinct. Dr. Lawsons daily rounds showed steady improvement.
One more week, he said finally, then home.
On her last day, Dr. Whitaker found her in the hospital garden.
Ill miss our literary debates, he admitted.
So will I, she said.
Perhaps we could continue them? As friends, I mean.
She smiled. Id like that.
At discharge, Dr. Lawson clasped her hand. Healths easily overlooked until its gone. Dont forget.
Home again, Oliver purred against her legs. Everything was the sameyet she wasnt. She dug out old photos of beach trips with Sophie, then opened her laptop: *Cornwall, June*.
Next, she called the school. Im taking leave till term ends. The headteacher sputtered but agreed.
That evening, she penned a letterproper ink on paperto Sophie. *Sometimes life must shout to teach us simplicity,* she wrote. *When the doctor called the consultant, I thought it was the end. But it was the beginning.*
**Lesson learned:** The body keeps score. Listen before it shouts.
