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Chapter 8: Three Months
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2026-01-12 02:04:27
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A Life Without Gratitude Chapter 19: The Diagnosis
I answer on the first ring. "Hello?""Mrs. Wolfe, it's Dr. Morrison. I have your blood work results. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"My heart hammers. "Yes. I'm sitting down.""Good." She takes a breath. "Your results show some abnormalities I want to discuss. Your complete blood count shows lower than normal white blood cells, particularly neutrophils. Your red blood cells are slightly enlarged. And your platelet count is borderline low."I close my eyes. I remember these words from my first timeline. Different doctor, same diagnosis building block by block."What does that mean?" I ask, even though I know."It could mean several things. But given the pattern and your symptoms, I'm concerned about myelodysplastic syndrome—MDS. It's a bone marrow disorder where the marrow doesn't produce healthy blood cells effectively.""Is it cancer?""It's considered a precancerous condition. Some cases progress to acute myeloid leukemia. Some remain stable for years. We can't predict which tra
A Life Without Gratitude Chapter 18: In the hospital
The waiting room at Greenfield Medical Associates smells like antiseptic and anxiety.I've been sitting here for twenty minutes, filling out intake forms with shaking hands. Medical history. Family history. Current symptoms. The questions feel like landmines.Have you experienced any of the following in the past six months: unexplained fatigue, frequent bruising, night sweats, weight loss?Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.In my first timeline, I ignored all of these. Attributed them to stress, to poor sleep, to working too hard. By the time I couldn't ignore them anymore, it was too late.This time, I'm here. Eleven months before the collapse. Eleven months before stage four.Please let me be early enough."Claire Wolfe?" A nurse appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand.I stand on legs that feel like water. Follow her down a hallway painted in calming blues and grays. She weighs me (I've lost eight pounds since my last physical two years ago), takes my blood pressure (elevated—no surprise), and
A Life Without Gratitude Chapter 17: The Psychologist
Dr. Sarah Chen's office is nothing like I expected.No clinical white walls or intimidating leather couch. Instead: warm honey-colored wood floors, soft gray furniture, plants everywhere—ferns and succulents and something with broad green leaves I can't name. Natural light streams through tall windows. There's a white noise machine humming quietly in the corner, and the air smells faintly of lavender.It feels safe.That thought catches me off guard. When was the last time I felt safe anywhere?"Claire?" A woman appears in the doorway connecting to an inner office. She's petite, maybe late forties, with kind eyes and silver-streaked black hair pulled into a loose bun. "I'm Dr. Chen. Please, come in."I follow her into the therapy room. More plants. A desk in the corner with a laptop, but she doesn't sit there. Instead, she gestures to two armchairs positioned at angles, close but not too close."Make yourself comfortable. Would you like water? Tea?""Water, please." My throat is tight
A Life Without Gratitude Chapter 16: Personal Boundary
"I didn't think so," I say softly. "I'm not coming to dinner tonight. If you want to see me, we can schedule something next week. Just the two of us. Coffee. No agenda. No requests. Just mother and daughter.""I don't want coffee." Her voice is ice now. Tears gone. "I want my daughter to act like part of this family. But clearly, that's too much to ask.""Apparently it is.""Fine. Don't come. Break your sister's heart. Ruin her wedding. But don't expect us to forget this, Claire. Family remembers."She hangs up.I set the phone down with shaking hands.That was brutal. Worse than I expected, even knowing it was coming.But I did it.I said no. I held my boundary. I didn't give in.And I'm still here. Still breathing. Still okay.The phone rings again immediately. Father this time.I silence it.Then Elena. Silence.Then Mother again. Silence.I turn off the phone entirely.Tomorrow I'll deal with the aftermath. Tomorrow I'll face the consequences.But today, I chose myself.And for th
A Life Without Gratitude Chapter 15: The First Morning
I wake up to sunlight streaming through the guest room window.For a moment—one brief, disorienting moment—I expect to feel the pain. The nausea. The bone-deep exhaustion of chemotherapy.But there's nothing. Just the normal stiffness of sleep, the slight chill of morning air.I lift my hand and stare at it. No bruises. No IV marks. Just skin that looks healthy and whole.Real. This is real.I'm twenty-seven years old, and I'm not dying.Not yet.The thought sends a chill through me. Because I know what's coming. Eleven months from now, if I do nothing, the cancer will be there. Last time, I ignored every warning sign until it was too late. Growing silently. Waiting to kill me.But I have time. Time to catch it. Time to fight it. Time to live.If I'm smart.I check my phone. Three new messages from Mother, two from Father, one from Elena. All variations of the same theme: confusion about my "behavior," demands for explanation, guilt wrapped in concern.I delete them without reading fu
A Life Without Gratitude Chapter 14. Eyes Open Again
I can't stop shaking.My phone is still in my hand, Mother's text glowing on the screen: Claire, can you send $500? Your father needs supplies for the café. ASAP.But my mind is stuck in the hospital. In the ICU. Watching my family divide my belongings while I died. Hearing Father say "finally" as my heart stopped beating.I died.I remember dying.The cold. The dark. The terrible clarity that I'd wasted everything.And now I'm here.I force myself to move. To verify this is real. My legs work perfectly—no weakness, no trembling from chemo. I stumble to the dresser and grip the edge, staring at the mirror.The face looking back is mine. But younger. Fuller. The gray tinge gone. The hollows under my eyes filled in. My hair thick and dark, falling past my shoulders instead of gone from treatment.I look like I did at twenty-seven.Before the cancer. Before dying.I lift shaking hands to touch my face. My cheeks. My jaw. My neck. Solid. Real. Warm.This is real.I grab my phone with trem
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