The Mysterious Benefactor

 

In a Boston medical office, Winston Saunders sat on the examination table and waited for the doctor. Weak and frail, he didn’t need a doctor to tell him he was in extremely poor health. His pale skin clung to his thinning frame, and sores dotted his body, oozing and bleeding intermittently. His condition was worsening rapidly, and without some kind of corrective treatment, he would die, probably within the next six months.

 

As usual, Winston knew this visit would be a waste of time. It wasn’t that Dr. Isaiah Hartell lacked sympathy—he simply wasn’t equipped to treat Winston’s mysterious illness. No, Winston wasn’t here seeking a cure; that, if it existed at all, would have to come from elsewhere. This trip was solely about renewing his prescriptions. Without them, the pain would become unbearable. 

 

Natalie, Winston's personal nurse, sat nearby. She was a natural beauty, appearing to be in her mid-thirties, with flowing sandy-colored hair and a warm demeanor. Single and deeply committed to her work, she had become an indispensable part of Winston's life. She lived with him, ensuring his health and well-being around the clock. Beyond her duties as a nurse—administering medications, monitoring his condition, and managing his treatments—Natalie also took on the roles of cook, occasional chauffeur, and full-time companion. Though the demands of her position could be overwhelming, she approached them with grace and professionalism. Her efforts were well-compensated, and she seemed to genuinely take pride in her work, a fact that Winston silently appreciated, even if he rarely said so aloud.

 

Dr. Hartell stepped into the room with a practiced smile, breaking the silence with a familiar greeting. "How are you feeling today?"

 

Winston knew this was not a serious question but rather an icebreaker. Just get to the point and write the prescription already, he thought. Instead, he responded, "Never better." 

 

"That’s the spirit," Dr. Hartell replied, oblivious to the edge in Winston’s tone. "How did your appointment with the specialist go?"

 

Winston resisted the urge to lash out. Maybe try reading the file, genius, he thought before delivering his standard, measured response. "More tests, more questions, and no answers," he said flatly.

 

The doctor flipped through the hefty stack of paperwork in Winston’s file. "Looks like they really put you through it," he observed, his tone casual. "I haven’t had time to review everything; frankly, most of this is out of my expertise. But it seems they’re leaning towards some kind of mitochondrial disease."

 

Winston offered a slight nod, masking the growing irritation simmering beneath his composed exterior. How long must I endure this charade of an 'examination'? he wondered, his patience ebbing with every passing moment.

 

"Do you have a follow-up scheduled for more tests?" Dr. Hartell pressed, his tone neutral.

 

"Yes," Winston replied. It was a lie, of course. He did have tests in the works, but not with the usual specialists. His relentless research had led him to a different doctor—albeit unconventional and risky. It was a Hail Mary, but that was all he had left.

 

Dr. Hartell continued flipping through the thick stack of papers in the file. "And it looks like we’re due to renew your prescriptions."

 

Duh, Winston thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

 

"How is your pain?" Dr. Hartell asked, glancing up briefly. 

 

On the wall behind him hung the inevitable pain chart. It ranged from zero to ten, with a smiley face perched smugly at zero—a bright, cheery grin that mocked Winston’s current state. He once wore that face: confident, in control, triumphant. That was the old Winston. The new Winston found himself trapped at the other end of the spectrum, somewhere beyond the frowning face at ten. Agony and misery had etched themselves into his features.

 

This chart is a joke, Winston thought bitterly. It didn’t come close to capturing the scope of his suffering. He wasn’t a ten—he was at least a 13, maybe even a 14. His skin felt alive, crawling and itching with a constant, unbearable sensation. His head pounded, each throb like a hammer striking an anvil. And his body—his entire body—seemed to be transforming into something alien, something unrecognizable.

 

Yet, sharing these truths wasn’t an option. A confession like that would mean tests, hospital stays, endless prodding—and Winston had no time for that. No, he couldn’t afford to sit on the sidelines, not now.

 

“It’s about the same,” he replied coolly, the words slipping out with practiced ease. It wasn’t entirely untrue. After all, today's pain was no worse than yesterday's. But that was hardly a comfort.

 

"I'll tell you what," Dr. Hartell said, tapping his pen thoughtfully on the desk. "I'll up your dosage to help you stay ahead of the pain. If things worsen, make sure you let me know."

 

This was what Winston appreciated most about Dr. Hartell. He was quick with the prescription pad. The man didn’t ask too many questions or waste time on unnecessary chatter. These meds were Winston’s lifeline, crucial to enduring until his next appointment—an appointment that required an international flight and far more energy than Winston currently possessed.

 

Dr. Hartell rose from his chair, signaling the end of their exchange. "I’ll have my staff call in your prescriptions. Is there anything else you need?"

 

It was hard to tell who wanted to get out of the room quicker. 

 

"No, that's all," Winston mumbled. It crossed his mind to say thanks, but Winston Saunders was not known for being gracious.