Gemotions

The email arrived like a harbinger of doom. Subject: *Important Medical Information.* Claire squinted at the screen, the glare of the monitor amplifying her general malaise. She’d been meaning to schedule a checkup for… well, forever. Now, the email, full of clinical terms, felt like a personal attack.

Her apartment, a testament to her lack of enthusiasm, was in a state of controlled chaos. Laundry overflowed from the hamper. Dirty dishes piled in the sink. The thought of expending any energy on tidying felt utterly draining.

The email's contents were alarming. Something about "advanced stages" of something or other. Her gut churned, but the physical sensation was quickly replaced by an overwhelming desire to do absolutely nothing. She closed her laptop, crawled back into bed, and pulled the covers over her head.

A week later, at a forced appointment, a frazzled doctor apologized profusely. They had, apparently, mixed up her records with those of a retired schoolteacher named Harold, who, the doctor explained, was quite ill.