The doctor glanced at my test results and urgently called for the head of the department.
«How long has this been troubling you?» asked the doctor, carefully pressing on Emily Harpers abdomen.
«About two weeks. But the sharp pain started three days ago.»
Dr. Charlotte 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, confused.
«Is there? I hadnt noticed anything…»
«Slight, but present.» The doctor set down her pen. «We need to arrange an ultrasound and further blood tests immediately. Can you do that today?»
«Yes, of course. I dont have any classes this afternoon.»
The next two hours passed in a blur of procedure rooms, blood draws, and waiting. The ultrasound revealed an enlarged liver and an unusual mass, about which the doctor was vague: «Well need all the results before drawing conclusions.»
Emily returned home exhausted. More than the pain, the uncertainty gnawed at her. Twenty-five years of teaching English literature had taught her to value clarity and precision.
The flat was quiet. Her daughter, Sophie, had moved away for university, and her husband had left five years earlier for a younger colleague. Only Whiskers, her faithful tabby cat, greeted her, leaping onto her lap demanding attention.
«Well, old boy, shall we have tea and reread some Austen?» she murmured, scratching behind his ears.
The evening passed in attempts to distract herselfmarking essays, watching a favourite period drama, calling Sophie. But her thoughts kept circling back to the pending test results.
The next morning, Dr. Bennett called herself.
«Emily, you need to come to the clinic today. The results are in.»
The carefully controlled tension in the doctors voice made Emilys stomach drop.
The office was silent except for the ticking of the wall clock. Dr. Bennett shuffled papers, avoiding direct eye contact.
«Emily, your liver function tests are significantly elevated, as is your bilirubin. 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. You may need hospitalisation.»
The following day, Emily sat in the waiting area of the large, grey-brick regional hospital. Its endless corridors and bleach-heavy air felt imposing.
A young doctor introduced himself as Dr. James Whitmoreattentive and polite. He asked detailed questions about her symptoms, habits, and family history before reviewing her results.
«Your work must be quite stressful?» he asked, flipping through the reports.
«Yes, I teach A-level English literature.»
«And when was the last proper holiday you took? No marking essays or preparing lessons?»
Emily smiled faintly. «Im afraid thats never happened. Even summers are spent planning the next term.»
He shook his head before returning to the results. Suddenly, his expression shifted. He reread a page, cross-referenced numbers, then stood abruptly.
«Just a moment,» he said, taking the file and stepping out.
Emilys heart hammered so loudly she swore it echoed in the corridor. *This must be very bad if hes running off*, she thought, fighting panic.
Minutes later, the door swung open. Dr. Whitmore returned with an older physician, his neat silver beard giving him a distinguished air.
«Dr. Edward Hartley, head of the department,» the older man introduced himself, shaking her hand. «Lets have a chat.»
After reviewing the results, he peered over his glasses.
«Emily, are you on any regular medication? Herbal supplements, perhaps?»
«No, just the occasional painkiller for headaches.»
«Nothing new recently?»
She hesitated. «Well, there were these liver detox capsules… A neighbour recommended them. I took a course, but they didnt help, so I stopped two weeks ago.»
The two doctors exchanged a glance.
«Remember the name?»
«Something like LiverPure, maybe? I might still have the packaging at home.»
Dr. Hartley leaned back. «Heres the thing, Emily. Your results are unusual. Some markers suggest severe liver damage, but others dont fit typical patterns. We suspect drug-induced hepatitis.»
«From those capsules?»
«Possibly. Even regulated supplements can cause adverse reactions in some people.»
Guilt pricked her. Shed taken them without consulting a doctor.
«What happens now?»
«Further tests. Id recommend admitting you today.»
The four-bed ward was clean but datedpeeling paint, creaky beds, old-fashioned lockers. Her roommates were two elderly women and a girl in her early twenties.
«New here?» asked one of the older women, introducing herself as Margaret. «Whats your trouble?»
«Liver issues,» Emily said vaguely.
«Oh, same as the lot of us!» Margaret chuckled. «Gallbladder out years ago, now I turn yellow if I so much as look at a fry-up. And young Lucy over thereautoimmune hepatitis.»
The evening passed in shared stories. Margaret knew every doctor, nurse, and cleaner in the department.
«Dr. Hartleys a gembeen here twenty years. And young Dr. Whitmores a bit green, but sharp as a tack.»
Morning brought another round of tests: blood draws, ultrasounds, X-rays. After lunch, Emily was summoned to Dr. Hartleys office.
He studied the papers before him.
«Sit down, Emily. Im confident this is drug-induced hepatitis. Those capsules contained an ingredient known to occasionally cause liver damage. Most tolerate it fine, but you…»
«So its not… cancer?» she ventured, voicing her deepest fear.
He shook his head. «No. The mass on the scan is reactive tissuereversible with treatment.»
Relief washed over her like a wave.
«So Ill be alright?»
«You will,» he smiled. «But no more self-prescribing, understood?»
Back in the ward, Margaret pounced.
«Well? Whats the verdict?»
«Liver damage from those supplements,» Emily said.
«Blimey, I tried those once!» Margaret gasped. «Did nothing for me.»
«Lucky you. My body clearly disagreed.»
That evening, Dr. Whitmore arrived with a 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 hesitated. «The numbers initially suggested something far worse. I even thought it might be… well, something very serious. Thats why I called Dr. Hartley. He spotted the drug link straightaway.»
«Thank goodness he did,» Emily said. «Id already started drafting my will.»
A quiet sniffle came from Lucys bed.
«Whats wrong?» Emily asked.
«Nothing,» the girl wiped her eyes. «Its just… mines the opposite. They said it was minor, but its chronic. Lifelong.»
Emily sat beside her. «But treatable?»
«Treatable, yes. But Im twenty-two and already a permanent patient.»
«At least youll take better care of yourself,» Emily said softly. «Ive only just realised I shouldve done the same.»
That night, sleep eluded her. She thought of her lifehow work consumed her, how she saw Sophie only on holidays, how shed postponed dreams for «someday.»
*Maybe this is a sign*, she thought. *A chance to reset.*
By morning, the pain had dulled. Cautiously pressing her side, she found tenderness but none of the earlier agony.
After breakfast, she called Sophie.
«Darling, no need to panicIm in hospital, but its nothing dire… Yes, liver trouble, but fixable… Remember how we always talked about Cornwall? Lets go this summer, just us two.»
The next fortnight flew by. Emily grew close to Lucy, almost maternally so. Dr. Hartley visited daily, monitoring her improving numbers.
«Youre on the mend, Emily. One more week, then outpatient care for you.»
Dr. Whitmore often lingered after rounds to discuss bookshe adored Hardy and the Brontës.
On her last day, Emily sat on a bench in the hospital garden, spring blossoms unfurling around her.
«Mind if I join you?» Dr. Whitmore sat beside her. «Discharged tomorrow?»
«Finally going home,» she smiled.
«Ill miss our literary debates,» he admitted. «Its rare to discuss anything but medicine here.»
«Likewise. Who knew Id find a kindred spirit in hospital?»
«Perhaps we could continue? Purely as friends, of coursebook discussions, nothing more…»
She laughed. «Id like that. Ive decided to make time for myself now.»
At their final handshake, Dr. Hartley said, «Take care, Emily. Healths one thing we only appreciate once its gone.»
«Ill remember. And thank youif you hadnt recognised the issue…»
«Just doing my job,» he said simply. «Glad it worked out.»
Home at last, Whiskers wound around her ankles. She wandered through the flateverything unchanged, yet she felt different.
Digging out an old photo album, she found pictures of Sophie building sandcastles in Brighton. Opening her laptop, she typed «Cornwall, June» into a travel site.
Then she called the school, requesting unpaid leave for the rest of term. The headteacher was surprised but agreed.
That evening, Emily wrote a letterproper pen-on-paper, something she hadnt done in years. A letter to Sophie about love, second chances, and the importance of each day.
*Sometimes it takes a sharp wake-up call to see the obvious,* she wrote. *Mine came when the doctor checked my results and urgently called the department head. In that moment, I thought my life was ending. Turns out, it was just beginning. She sealed the letter and placed it on the kitchen table, ready to post in the morning. The sun dipped below the rooftops, casting a warm glow across the room, and Whiskers jumped onto the sill, tail flicking contentedly. Emily poured a cup of chamomile teano longer out of habit, but as a small act of careand opened her favourite Austen novel, the one shed never finished teaching. This time, she read not to prepare a lesson, but for the quiet joy of it. Life, she realised, wasnt in the planning or the perfectingit was in these still, ordinary moments, finally noticed.
