The doctor studied 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 Carters abdomen.
“About two weeks. But the sharp pain started three days ago.”
Dr. Helen Bennett frowned as she scribbled 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…”
“Just a slight tint, but its there.” The doctor set down her pen. “We need to do an ultrasound and run more tests immediately. Can you stay for that now?”
“Yes, of course. I dont have classes this afternoon.”
The next two hours blurred into a dizzying cycle of examination rooms, blood draws, and tense waiting. The ultrasound revealed an enlarged liver and an unidentified mass, which the doctor described vaguely”Well need all the results before we know more.”
Emily returned home exhausted. The pain was one thing, but the uncertainty gnawed at her. Twenty-five years of teaching literature had taught her to value clarityevery word mattered.
The flat was empty. Her daughter, Sophie, was away at university, and her husband had left five years ago for a younger colleague. Only her cat, Oliver, remained loyal, leaping onto her lap, demanding affection.
“Well, old boy, shall we have tea and reread some Austen?” she murmured, scratching behind his ears.
The evening passed in half-hearted attempts to distract herselfgrading papers, watching her favourite show, calling Sophie. But her thoughts kept circling back to the pending test results.
The next morning, Dr. Bennett rang her directly.
“Emily, I need you to come to the clinic today. Your results are in.”
There was a tremor in her voice, a tension she couldnt quite mask beneath professional calm. Emilys stomach dropped.
The office was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Dr. Bennett shuffled papers, avoiding eye contact.
“Emily, your liver function tests are alarmingly high, as is your bilirubin. Combined with the ultrasound findings” She hesitated. “Ive spoken with the consultant at the regional hospital. Theyll see you tomorrow.”
“Is it serious?” Emilys throat was dry.
“I dont want to frighten you prematurely, but yes, theres cause for concern. You may need to be admitted.”
The following day, Emily sat in the stark waiting room of the imposing grey hospital. Its endless corridors and sharp antiseptic smell made her pulse quicken.
A young doctor, introducing himself as Dr. James Whitmore, was thorough and polite. He asked about her symptoms, habits, family history, scrutinising every page of her results.
“Your work must be stressful?” he asked, flipping through the reports.
“Yes, I teach A-level literature.”
“And when was the last proper holiday you tookno grading, no lesson planning?”
Emily smiled faintly. “Im afraid theres never been one. Even summers are spent preparing for the next term.”
Dr. Whitmore shook his head and continued reading. Suddenly, his expression shifted. He reread one page, then another, cross-checking numbers.
“Just a moment,” he said, gathering the file before stepping out.
Emily was alone. Her heart pounded so violently she was certain the nurses outside could hear it. *He wouldnt have rushed out if it wasnt bad*, she thought, swallowing panic.
Minutes later, the door opened. Dr. Whitmore returned with an older physician, his silver beard neatly trimmed.
“Dr. Robert Langley, head of gastroenterology,” he introduced himself, shaking Emilys hand. “Lets talk.”
He reviewed the results, then peered at her over his glasses.
“Emily, are you on any regular medication? Herbal supplements, perhaps?”
“No, just the occasional paracetamol for headaches.”
“Nothing new recently?”
She hesitated. “Well, these liver detox capsules A neighbour swore by them. I took them for a while, but they didnt help, so I stopped.”
The two doctors exchanged a glance.
“Do you remember the name?”
“Something like HepatoCare? I might still have the box at home.”
Dr. Langley leaned back. “Emily, your case is unusual. While your symptoms suggest significant liver damage, some markers dont fit the typical profile. We suspect drug-induced toxicity.”
“From those capsules?”
“Possibly. Even over-the-counter remedies can trigger adverse reactions, especially without medical oversight.”
Guilt prickled. Shed taken them blindly, trusting a neighbours advice over a professionals.
“What now?” she whispered.
“Further tests. Wed like to admit you today.”
The ward was clean but datedpeeling paint, creaking beds, cabinets from another era. Her roommates were two elderly women and a girl in her early twenties.
“New arrival?” one of the women, Margaret, asked brightly. “What brings you here?”
“Liver trouble,” Emily said vaguely.
“Ah, same as the rest of us!” Margaret chuckled. “Gallbladders gone, so I turn yellow now and then. And Lucy over thereautoimmune hepatitis.”
The evening passed in shared stories. By midnight, Emily knew every patients history, thanks to Margarets endless gossip.
“Dr. Langleys brilliant,” she confided. “Twenty years heading this department. But that young Dr. Whitmore? A bit lazy, but sharp as a tack.”
Morning brought another round of testsbloodwork, scans, X-rays. By afternoon, Dr. Langley called her in.
“Emily, Im confident this is drug-induced hepatitis,” he said, spreading reports across his desk. “Those capsules contained a known hepatotoxin. Most tolerate it, but your body didnt.”
“So its not cancer?” The word trembled in the air.
He shook his head. “No. The mass on your scan is reactiveitll heal.”
Relief crashed over her. She nearly wept.
“Ill live?”
“You will,” he smiled. “But no more self-prescribing, agreed?”
Back in the ward, Margaret pounced. “Well? Whats the verdict?”
“Liver damage from those detox pills,” Emily admitted.
“Goodness, I tried those too!” Margaret gasped. “Had no issues, though.”
“Lucky you. My body revolted.”
That evening, Dr. Whitmore arrived with her treatment plan.
“Well start hepatoprotectors, IV vitamins, and a strict dietno fried foods, no alcohol.”
“Why did you look so worried earlier?” Emily asked. “When you first saw my results?”
He flushed. “Your numbers mirrored those of well, severe conditions. I panicked and called Dr. Langley. He spotted the drug link straightaway.”
“Thank God he did,” Emily breathed. “Id already begun drafting my will.”
A quiet sob came from Lucys bed. Emily turned.
“Whats wrong?”
“Nothing,” Lucy wiped her eyes. “Its just they told me mine was minor at first. Now its chronic. Forever.”
Emily sat beside her, squeezing her hand. “But treatable?”
“Treatable, yes. But Im twenty-two, and Ill always be a patient.”
“At least youll take better care of yourself,” Emily said gently. “I needed this scare to realise Id been neglecting mine.”
That night, sleep eluded her. She thought of her lifethe endless work, the daughter she only saw on holidays, the dreams deferred for “someday.”
*Maybe this is a sign*, she thought. *A chance to reprioritise.*
By morning, the pain had dulled. For the first time in weeks, she could breathe without wincing.
After breakfast, she called Sophie.
“Darling, dont panicIm in hospital, but Im fine. Liver trouble, but its fixable Remember that seaside trip we always talked about? Lets do it this summer, yes? The moment Im discharged.”
The next fortnight flew by. Emily grew close to Lucy, mothering her as she would Sophie. Dr. Langley checked daily, pleased as her numbers improved.
“Youre recovering well,” he said one morning. “Another week, and well discharge you.”
Dr. Whitmore visited often, lingering to discuss books. To her surprise, he loved Austen as much as she did.
On her last day, she sat in the hospital garden, spring blossoms unfurling overhead.
“Mind if I join you?” Dr. Whitmore settled beside her. “Discharge tomorrow?”
“Finally,” she smiled.
“Ill miss our literary debates,” he admitted. “Rare to find someone who appreciates Austen in this place.”
“Likewise,” she said. “Who knew a hospital could spark such camaraderie?”
“Perhaps we could continue? As friends, I mean. Book discussions, over coffee?”
She laughed. “Id like that. Ive decided to make time for myself now.”
At the door, Dr. Langley shook her hand. “Take care, Emily. Health is often only noticed in its absence.”
“I wont forget,” she said. “And thank you. If you hadnt suspected those pills”
“Just doing my job,” he said simply. “Glad it wasnt worse.”
Home again, Oliver curled into her lap, purring. She wandered the flat, inhaling the familiar scent. Everything was the sameyet she wasnt.
She dug out an old photo albumpictures of Sophie building sandcastles at Brighton. Then she opened her laptop, typing *”Cornwall, June”* into the search bar.
Next, she rang the school. “Ill be taking leave until September,” she told the headmaster, who spluttered but didnt refuse.
That evening, she wrote a letter. A proper, handwritten onethe first in years. To Sophie, about love, second chances, and the preciousness of time.
*Sometimes life sends a wake-up call*, she wrote. *Mine came when the doctor studied my results and called urgently for his superior. In that moment, I thought it was the end. But really, it was the beginning.*
