The doctor reviewed my test results and urgently called the head of the department.
“How long has this been troubling you?” the doctor asked, carefully examining Emily Carters abdomen.
“About two weeks. But the sharp pain started three days ago.”
Dr. Helen Whitmore frowned as she made notes in the file.
“Have you noticed any yellowing of your skin or the whites of your eyes?”
Emily blinked in confusion.
“Is there? I hadnt noticed anything…”
“Very slight, but its there.” The doctor set down her pen. “We need to arrange an ultrasound and further tests immediately. Are you able to do that today?”
“Yes, of course. I dont have any classes this afternoon.”
The next two hours became a blur of waiting rooms, blood tests, and procedures. The ultrasound showed an enlarged liver and an unusual mass, about which the doctor was vague. “Well need to wait for all the results,” she said cautiously.
Emily returned home exhausted. It wasnt just the pain that worried herit was the uncertainty. Twenty-five years of teaching English literature had taught her to value clarity and precision.
The flat felt empty. Her daughter Charlotte had moved to another city for university, and her husband had left five years ago for a younger colleague. Only her loyal tabby cat, Whiskers, remained, leaping onto her lap, demanding attention.
“Well, old boy, shall we have tea and reread some Dickens?” she asked, scratching behind his ears.
The evening passed in attempts to distract herselfgrading papers, watching her favourite series, calling Charlotte. But her thoughts kept returning to the looming test results.
The next morning, Dr. Whitmore called.
“Emily, you need to come to the clinic today. Your results are in.”
There was a tension in her voice, masked by professionalism. Emilys heart sank.
The consulting room was quiet, save for the ticking of the wall clock. Dr. Whitmore shuffled papers, avoiding direct eye contact.
“Emily, your liver enzymes and bilirubin are significantly elevated. Combined with the ultrasound findings…” She hesitated. “I think you need a specialist consultation at the regional hospital. Ive already spoken with the head of gastroenterologytheyll see you tomorrow.”
“Is it… serious?” Emilys throat went dry.
“I dont want to alarm you prematurely, but yes, theres cause for concern. Hospitalisation may be necessary.”
The next day, Emily sat in the waiting room of the grey, imposing regional hospital, its endless corridors smelling faintly of disinfectant.
A young doctor introduced himself as Dr. James Bennett. He was thorough, asking about her symptoms, habits, and family history before reviewing her results.
“Your work must be quite stressful?” he asked.
“Yes, I teach A-level literature.”
“And when was the last proper holiday you tookwithout marking papers or preparing lessons?”
Emily smiled weakly. “Im afraid theres no such thing. Even summers are spent planning for the next term.”
Dr. Bennett shook his head, then studied the results again. Suddenly, his expression shifted. He reread a page, cross-checked numbers, then stood abruptly.
“Wait here a moment,” he said, taking the file with him as he left.
Emilys pulse hammered in her ears. “It must be something very bad if he rushed out like that,” she thought, fighting panic.
Minutes later, the door opened. Dr. Bennett returned with an older physician, his neatly trimmed grey beard giving him a distinguished air.
“Dr. Richard Hartley, department head,” he introduced himself, shaking Emilys hand. “Lets have a chat.”
After reviewing the results, he peered at her over his glasses.
“Emily, are you taking any medications regularly? Herbal supplements, perhaps?”
“No, just the occasional painkiller for headaches.”
“Nothing new recently?”
She hesitated. “Well, there were these liver capsules… A neighbour recommended them. I took them for a while, but they didnt help, so I stopped two weeks ago.”
Dr. Hartley and Dr. Bennett exchanged a glance.
“Do you remember the name?”
“Something like ‘HepatoCare,’ I think. I might still have the box at home.”
Dr. Hartley leaned back. “Emily, your results are unusual. While there are signs of liver damage, some markers dont fit the typical profile. We suspect drug-induced liver injury.”
“From those capsules?”
“Quite possibly. Even over-the-counter supplements can cause adverse reactions, especially without medical supervision.”
A pang of guilt struck her. Shed taken them on a neighbours advice, never thinking to consult a doctor.
“What happens now?” she asked quietly.
“Further tests. Id recommend admitting you today.”
The shared ward was clean but datedpeeling paint, creaky beds, and old-fashioned lockers. Her roommates were two elderly women and a girl in her early twenties.
“New patient?” one of the women, Margaret, asked brightly. “What brings you here?”
“Liver trouble,” Emily said vaguely.
“Oh, weve all got that!” Margaret chuckled. “Gallbladder removed years agonow I turn yellow sometimes. And poor Lucy here,” she nodded to the young girl, “has autoimmune hepatitis.”
The evening passed in conversation. Emily learned the medical histories of her ward-mates and half the department, thanks to Margarets endless supply of hospital gossip.
“Dr. Hartleys one of the best,” she confided. “Twenty years as department headeveryone respects him. That young Dr. Bennetts a bit of a slacker, but sharp as a tack.”
Morning brought another round of testsblood work, scans, X-rays. By afternoon, Emily was called to Dr. Hartleys office.
He sat behind his desk, papers spread before him.
“Emily, after reviewing everything, Im confident this is drug-induced hepatitis. Those capsules contained an ingredient known to cause liver damage in rare cases.”
“So its not… cancer?” she whispered, voicing her deepest fear.
He shook his head. “No. The mass on the scan is reactive tissueits reversible.”
A weight lifted from her shoulders. Tears welled up.
“So Ill be alright?”
“You will,” he smiled. “But no more self-medicating, agreed?”
Back in the ward, Margaret pounced.
“Well? What did he say?”
“Liver damage from those supplements.”
“Oh, I tried those once!” Margaret gasped. “Nothing happened to me.”
“Lucky you. My body didnt agree.”
That evening, Dr. Bennett arrived with a treatment plan.
“Well start you on liver-protective medication, vitamins, and IV fluids. Strict dietno fried foods, no alcohol.”
“Doctor, why did you look so worried during my first consult? I saw your face when you read my results.”
He flushed slightly. “Your markers resembled those of severe conditions. I thought it might be… well, something very serious. Thats why I called Dr. Hartley. He spotted the drug connection immediately.”
“Im glad he did,” Emily smiled. “I was already saying my goodbyes.”
“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst,” he said philosophically. “Comes with the job.”
From the next bed, Lucy sniffled quietly.
“Whats wrong?” Emily asked.
“Nothing.” The girl wiped her eyes. “Its just… they told me mine was nothing at first. Now its chronicsomething Ill have forever.”
Emily sat beside her, taking her hand.
“But its treatable?”
“Yes. But sometimes it hits meIm twenty-two, and Ill always be a patient.”
“At least youll take better care of yourself,” Emily said gently. “It took this scare for me to realise I cant ignore my health.”
That night, Emily lay awake, reflecting on her lifethe job that consumed her time, the daughter she saw only on holidays, the dreams endlessly postponed.
“Maybe this is a sign,” she thought. “A chance to reset.”
By morning, the pain had dulled. She called Charlotte.
“Darling, dont panicIm in hospital, but nothing life-threatening… Yes, liver trouble, but treatable… Listen, remember how we always talked about a seaside holiday? Lets go this summer, just us two. Well plan it as soon as Im discharged.”
The next fortnight passed surprisingly quickly. Emily grew close to her ward-mates, especially Lucy, who reminded her of Charlotte. Dr. Hartley checked in daily, pleased with her progress.
“Youre recovering well,” he said one morning. “Another week, and we can discharge you.”
Dr. Bennett often lingered after rounds to discuss literaturethey shared a love of Austen and Hardy.
On her last day, Emily sat in the hospital garden, spring blossoms unfurling around her. Dr. Bennett joined her on the bench.
“Discharge tomorrow?”
“Yes, finally going home.”
“Ill miss our book talks,” he admitted. “Its rare to discuss anything but medicine here.”
“Likewise,” she smiled. “Who knew Id find a kindred spirit in hospital?”
“Perhaps we could continue? Just as friends, of coursemeeting for book discussions…”
“Id like that. Ive decided to make time for myself now.”
At their final meeting, Dr. Hartley shook her hand.
“Take care, Emily. Rememberhealth is often appreciated only in its absence.”
“I will. And thank you. If not for your expertise…”
“My job,” he said simply. “Im glad it wasnt worse.”
At home, Whiskers greeted her with impatient meows. She stroked him, breathing in the familiar scents of her flat. Everything was the same, yet she felt changed.
She dug out an old photo albumpictures of Charlotte as a child, building sandcastles at Brighton. Opening her laptop, she searched for summer flights. “Cornwall, June,” she typed.
Then she called the school, requesting an early leave. The headteacher was surprised but agreed.
That evening, Emily sat down to write a lettera proper, handwritten one, something she hadnt done in years. A letter to Charlotte about love, hope, and the importance of cherishing each day.
“Sometimes life sends us a wake-up call,” she wrote. “Mine came when the doctor saw my test results and urgently called the department head. In that moment, I thought my life was ending. But really, it was just beginning.”
