The doctor examined my test results and urgently called for the head of the department.
“How long has this been troubling you?” the doctor asked, carefully pressing on Emily Carter’s abdomen.
“About two weeks. But the sharp pain started three days ago.”
Margaret Bennett 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…”
“Slight, but present.” The doctor set down her pen. “We need to arrange an ultrasound and further tests immediately. Can you do that today?”
“Yes, of course. My classes are finished for the afternoon.”
The next two hours passed in a blur of examination rooms, blood tests, and waiting. The ultrasound revealed an enlarged liver and what the doctor vaguely called “an anomaly”something theyd need more results to clarify.
Emily returned home exhausted. It wasnt just the pain that troubled her, but the uncertainty. Twenty-five years of teaching English literature had taught her to value clarity and precision.
The flat was empty. Her daughter, Charlotte, had gone away to university, and her husband had left five years earlier for a younger colleague. Only her cat, Whiskers, remained, leaping onto her lap, demanding attention.
“Well, old boy, shall we have tea and reread some Austen?” she asked, scratching behind his ears.
The evening passed in attempts to distract herselfgrading papers, watching a favourite drama, calling Charlotte. But her thoughts kept returning to the pending test results.
The next morning, Margaret called directly.
“Emily, you must come to the clinic today. The results are in.”
There was a tension in her voice, poorly masked by professional calm. Emilys heart sank.
The office was quiet, the only sound the ticking of the wall clock. Margaret shuffled papers, avoiding direct eye contact.
“Emily, your liver enzymes and bilirubin are alarmingly high. Combined with the ultrasound findings…” She hesitated. “I think you need a specialist consultation. Ive arranged for you to see the gastroenterology consultant at the county hospital tomorrow.”
“Is it… serious?” Emilys throat felt dry.
“I dont want to alarm you prematurely, but yes, theres cause for concern. Hospital admission may be necessary.”
The next day, Emily sat in the county hospitals waiting room. The vast, grey building, a relic of post-war construction, loomed with endless corridors and the sharp scent of disinfectant.
A young doctor introduced himself as Daniel Whitmoreattentive and courteous. He asked endless questions about her health, habits, family history, and studied her results intently.
“Your work must be quite stressful?” he asked, flipping through the reports.
“Yes, I teach A-level literature.”
“And when was the last time you took a proper holiday? No marking, no lesson planning?”
Emily smiled faintly.
“Im afraid thats never happened. Even summers are spent preparing for the next term.”
He shook his head and continued reviewing the results. Suddenly, his expression shifted. He reread a page, cross-checked numbers.
“One moment,” he said, taking the folder and stepping out.
Emily sat alone, her pulse loud in her ears. *It must be bad if he left so abruptly*, she thought, fighting panic.
Minutes later, the door opened. Daniel returned with an older doctor, silver-haired with a neatly trimmed beard.
“John Harrington, head of the department,” he introduced himself, shaking her hand. “Please, lets discuss this.”
He studied the results, then peered over his glasses.
“Tell me, Emily, are you on any regular medication? Herbal remedies, supplements?”
“No, just the odd painkiller for headaches.”
“Anything new recently?”
She hesitated.
“Well… some liver capsules a neighbour recommended. I took them for a while, but they didnt help, so I stopped two weeks ago.”
The two doctors exchanged glances.
“Do you recall the name?”
“Something like ‘Hepataid’? I might still have the box at home.”
John leaned back.
“Your case is unusual. Some markers suggest severe liver damage, yet others dont fit the typical pattern. We suspect drug-induced hepatitis.”
“From… those capsules?”
“Possibly. Even approved medications can cause adverse reactions, especially over-the-counter remedies taken without advice.”
Guilt prickled. Shed bought them on a whim, never thinking to consult a doctor.
“What now?” she asked quietly.
“Further tests. Wed like to admit you today.”
The four-bed ward was clean but datedpeeling paint, creaking beds, worn furniture. Her roommates were two elderly women and a girl barely twenty.
“New arrival?” one of the women, Edith Marlowe, asked. “What brings you here?”
“Liver trouble,” Emily said vaguely.
“Oh, weve all got that!” Edith chuckled. “Gallbladder removed, now I yellow like a daffodil. And young Lucy here” she nodded to the girl, “has autoimmune hepatitis.”
The evening passed in conversation. Emily learned her roommates histories, along with half the wards gossip. Edith was a fount of knowledge about every staff member.
“Dr. Harringtons a gem,” she confided. “Twenty years heading this department, everyone respects him. Young Dr. Whitmore, thoughbit of a slacker, but sharp as a tack.”
Morning brought another round of testsblood draws, scans, X-rays. After lunch, Emily was summoned to Johns office.
He spread papers across his desk.
“Sit down, Emily. After reviewing everything, I believe this is drug-induced hepatitis. Those capsules contained a known liver irritant. Most tolerate it, but your system reacted badly.”
“So its not… cancer?” she ventured, voicing her deepest fear.
He shook his head.
“No. The mass on the scan is inflamed tissuereversible with treatment.”
Relief washed over her. She nearly wept.
“Then Ill… be alright?”
“You will,” he smiled. “But recovery will take time. And no more self-prescribing, understood?”
Back in the ward, Edith pounced.
“Well? Whats the verdict?”
“Drug reaction. Those capsules were to blame.”
“Goodness, I tried those once!” Edith exclaimed. “Did nothing for me.”
“Lucky you. My body disagreed.”
That evening, Daniel arrived with a treatment plan.
“Well start hepatoprotectors, vitamins, IV therapy. And a strict dietno fried or fatty foods.”
“May I ask,” Emily said, “why you seemed so alarmed earlier? I saw your face when you read my results.”
He flushed.
“Certain combinations usually indicate… dire conditions. I feared the worst, so I called Dr. Harrington. He spotted the drug link straightaway.”
“Thank goodness he did,” Emily smiled. “Id already started drafting my will.”
“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst,” he said ruefully. “Comes with the job.”
In the next bed, Lucy sniffled. Emily turned.
“Whats wrong?”
“Nothing,” Lucy wiped her eyes. “Its just… they told me mine was mild, but its chronic. Lifelong.”
Emily sat beside her, taking her hand.
“But treatable?”
“Oh, yes. Just… Im twenty-two, and already a permanent patient.”
“At least youll take better care of yourself,” Emily said gently. “I only just realised I shouldve done the same.”
That night, Emily lay awake, reflecting on her lifethe work that consumed her, the daughter she saw only on holidays, the dreams perpetually postponed.
*Perhaps this is a sign*, she thought. *A chance to reassess.*
Morning brought unexpected lightness. The pain had dulled. Cautiously, she pressed her sidetenderness remained, but the sharp agony was gone.
After breakfast, she called Charlotte.
“Lottie, love! No, no, Im finewell, in hospital, but its treatable… Yes, liver issues, but reversible… Listen, remember how we always talked about Cornwall? Lets go this summer, just us. The moment Im discharged, well plan it.”
The next fortnight flew by. Emily grew close to her roommates, especially Lucy, whom she mothered instinctively.
John checked in daily, monitoring her improving numbers.
“Youre recovering well, Emily,” he said one morning. “Another week, and well discharge you.”
Daniel visited often, lingering to discuss books. To her surprise, he was well-read, and they lost hours debating Dickens and Brontë.
On her last day, Emily sat in the hospital garden, spring blossoms unfurling around her.
“Mind if I join you?” Daniel sat beside her. “Discharge tomorrow?”
“Finally going home,” she smiled.
“Ill miss our literary debates,” he admitted. “Rare to find someone who discusses more than symptoms.”
“Likewise,” she said. “I never expected to find kinship here.”
“Perhaps we could continue?” he ventured. “Not professionally, just… as friends. Book talks, perhaps?”
She smiled.
“Id like that. For once, Ill have time for such things.”
At their parting, John shook her hand firmly.
“Take care, Emily. Health is often valued only once lost.”
“Ill remember,” she nodded. “And thank you. If not for your expertise…”
“Just doing my job,” he said simply. “Im glad it wasnt worse.”
Home welcomed her with Whiskers impatient meows. She stroked him, wandering the familiar rooms. Everything was unchanged from three weeks agoyet *she* was different.
She dug out an old photo album, finding snapshots of toddler Charlotte building sandcastles in Brighton. Opening her laptop, she searched for June bookings. Then she called the school, requesting unpaid leave for the rest of term. The headmistress was startled but agreed.
That evening, Emily wrote a letterproper pen-and-paper, something she hadnt done for years. A letter to Charlotte, about love, second chances, and the preciousness of time.
*Sometimes life sends a wake-up call*, she wrote. *Mine came when the doctor saw my tests and called the consultant. In that moment, I thought it was the end. But it was only the beginning.*
