**Personal Diary Entry**
The doctor studied my test results and urgently called in the consultant.
“How long have you been experiencing this?” she asked, carefully pressing on my abdomen.
“About a fortnight. But the sharp pain only started three days ago.”
Dr. Eleanor Hart frowned as she made notes in my file.
“Have you noticed any yellowing of your skin or the whites of your eyes?”
I blinked in confusion.
“Is there? I hadnt noticed anything…”
“Its subtle, but present.” She set down her pen. “We need to arrange an ultrasound and further tests immediately. Can you do that today?”
“Yes, of course. I dont have any classes this afternoon.”
The next two hours blurred into a whirl of consultations, blood tests, and waiting. The ultrasound showed an enlarged liver and something the doctor described vaguely: “Well need all the results before drawing conclusions.”
I returned home exhausted. The pain was one thing, but the uncertainty gnawed at me. Twenty-five years teaching English literature had taught me to value clarity and precision.
The flat was quiet. My daughter Emily had left for university, and my husband had moved in with a younger colleague five years ago. Only Whiskers, my faithful tabby, greeted me, demanding attention as he leapt onto my lap.
“Fancy some tea and Dickens, old boy?” I asked, scratching behind his ears.
The evening passed in restless distractiongrading papers, rewatching *Downton Abbey*, calling Emily. But my thoughts kept circling back to the pending test results.
The next morning, Dr. Hart rang me herself.
“Mrs. Whitmore, you must come in today. Your results are back.”
Her voice carried a tension she tried to mask with professionalism. My stomach dropped.
The office was silent except for the ticking of the wall clock. Dr. Hart shuffled papers, avoiding eye contact.
“Your liver enzymes and bilirubin are alarmingly high. Combined with the ultrasound…” She hesitated. “Ive referred you to St. Georges Hospital. The gastroenterology consultant will see you tomorrow.”
“Is it… serious?” My throat tightened.
“I dont want to worry you prematurely, but yes, theres cause for concern. Hospitalisation may be necessary.”
The following day, I sat in the stark waiting room of St. Georgesa towering grey building with endless corridors and the sharp tang of antiseptic.
A young doctor introduced himself as Dr. James Carter. He was thorough, asking about symptoms, habits, family history, reviewing every scrap of paperwork.
“Your job must be stressful?” he asked, scanning the results.
“I teach A-level literature.”
“When was your last proper holiday, without marking or lesson planning?”
I smiled weakly. “Im not sure Ive ever had one. Even summers are spent preparing for September.”
He sighed and kept reading. Suddenly, his expression shifted. He reread a page, cross-checked numbers, then stood abruptly.
“One moment,” he said, taking the file with him.
My pulse pounded so loudly I swore it echoed in the corridor. *This must be very bad if hes running for help.*
Minutes later, he returned with an older consultanta silver-haired man with a neat beard.
“Professor Daniel Wright,” he introduced himself, shaking my hand. “Lets talk.”
He scrutinised the results, then peered over his glasses.
“Are you on any regular medication? Herbal supplements, perhaps?”
“Just painkillers for headaches.”
“Anything new recently?”
I hesitated. “Well… these liver capsules a neighbour recommended. I took a course, but they didnt help, so I stopped two weeks ago.”
The two doctors exchanged a glance.
“Do you recall the name?”
“*HepatoCare*, I think. I might still have the box at home.”
Professor Wright leaned back. “Mrs. Whitmore, your case is unusual. While theres clear liver damage, some markers dont fit typical patterns. We suspect drug-induced hepatitis.”
“From those capsules?”
“Possibly. Even approved medications can trigger adverse reactionsespecially over-the-counter supplements taken without medical advice.”
Guilt prickled. Id bought them on a whim, never consulting a doctor.
“What now?” I whispered.
“Further tests. Id like to admit you today.”
The four-bed ward was clean but datedpeeling paint, squeaky NHS-issue beds. My roommates were two elderly women and a girl barely twenty.
“New here?” one asked, introducing herself as Margaret. “What brings you in?”
“Liver trouble,” I said vaguely.
“Join the club!” She chuckled. “Gallbladders gone, now I turn yellow. Thats Alice over thereautoimmune hepatitis.”
The evening passed in shared stories. Margaret knew every doctor, nurse, and cleaner by name.
“Professor Wrights brilliant,” she confided. “Been here twenty years. Young Dr. Carters a bit green but sharp.”
Morning brought another round of testsblood draws, scans, X-rays. By afternoon, I was summoned back to the consultants office.
Professor Wright spread papers across his desk.
“Mrs. Whitmore, the evidence points to drug-induced liver injury. Those capsules contained a known hepatotoxin. Most tolerate it, but you…”
“So its not… cancer?” The word stuck in my throat.
He shook his head. “The mass on your scan is reactive tissue. Reversible.”
The weight lifted so suddenly I nearly wept.
“Ill live?”
“Undoubtedly. But recovery requires strict treatmentand no more self-prescribing.”
Back in the ward, Margaret pounced. “Well?”
“Liver damage from those supplements.”
“Blimey! I tried those toono harm done.”
“Lucky you. My body disagreed.”
That evening, Dr. Carter arrived with a treatment plan.
“Well use hepatoprotectors, IV vitamins, and a strict dietno fried foods, no alcohol.”
“Why did you look so worried earlier?” I asked. “When you first saw my results?”
He flushed. “Your numbers mirrored certain… grave conditions. I called Professor Wright straightaway. He spotted the drug link immediately.”
“Thank God he did. Id already drafted my will.”
Beside me, Alice sniffled.
“Whats wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she wiped her eyes. “Its just… they told me mine was minor. Now its chronic. Im twenty-two and stuck with this forever.”
I took her hand. “But its manageable?”
“Manageable, yes. Still hurts sometimes.”
“At least youll take better care than I did,” I said. “This scared me straight.”
That night, sleep eluded me. I thought of my all-consuming job, of Emilynow only home for holidaysof dreams shelved for “someday.”
*Maybe this is a sign,* I thought. *A chance to reset.*
By morning, the pain had dulled. For the first time in weeks, I could breathe without wincing.
After breakfast, I called Emily.
“Darling, dont panicIm in hospital, but its treatable… Liver issues, but fixable… Remember how we always talked about Cornwall? Lets go this summer, just us.”
The next fortnight flew by. I grew close to Alice, seeing Emily in her. Professor Wright monitored my progress daily.
“Youre improving,” he said finally. “One more week, then outpatient care.”
Dr. Carter often lingered after rounds to discuss booksDickens, Austen, the Brontës.
On my last day, I sat in the hospital garden, spring blossoms unfurling.
“Mind if I join you?” Dr. Carter sat beside me. “Discharge tomorrow?”
“Finally.”
“Ill miss our literary debates,” he admitted. “Its rare to talk about anything but medicine here.”
“Likewise,” I smiled. “Who knew a hospital could spark such friendship?”
“Perhaps we could continue? Coffee, book chats… platonically, of course.”
“Id like that. Ive decided to make time for myself.”
At discharge, Professor Wright shook my hand.
“Take care, Mrs. Whitmore. Healths often only noticed in its absence.”
“Ill remember. And thank you. If you hadnt”
“My job,” he said simply. “Im glad it wasnt worse.”
Home again, Whiskers wound around my ankles. Everything was unchangedthe flat, the furnitureyet *I* was different.
I dug out old photos of Emily building sandcastles in Brighton, then opened my laptop: *”Cornwall, June.”*
Next, I rang the school. “Im taking unpaid leave until September.” The headmistress was startled but agreed.
That evening, I wrote a proper letterpen on paper, the way we used to. A letter to Emily about love, second chances, and how lifes sharpest wake-up calls often teach the simplest truths.
*”Sometimes it takes a scare to make us see clearly,”* I wrote. *”Mine came when the doctor called the consultant. In that moment, I thought it was the end. Turns out, it was a beginning.”*
