In the hospital room.
Mr. Paskowitz, the patient, lay there with a vacant look in his eyes.
His wife sat beside him, knitting a sweater.
"Mr. Paskowitz, the X-ray results are back. There's a large mass of foreign objects in your stomach, and even laxatives won't help dislodge it," Adam said, holding up the X-ray for them to see.
"Oh, great," the patient's wife quipped without looking up from her knitting. "Doc, can you just reach into his backside and yank it out?" 😜
"Sweetheart, please!" Mr. Paskowitz snapped, clearly annoyed.
"No can do," Adam replied, the corner of his mouth twitching as he maintained a professional smile. "It's a sizable mass blocking things up. Surgery's the only way to get it out. But here's the thing, Mr. Paskowitz—can you tell me what exactly you ate?"
"Garbage. Absolute garbage," Mr. Paskowitz mumbled, glancing at Adam.
"Could you be a bit more specific?" Adam asked, looking over at the man's wife. "We need to know what we're dealing with to prepare properly."
"Tell him what you ate, Moll," the wife said, barely holding back a laugh. "Here's a hint, Doc—he's a writer, and he's been agonizing over his work."
"Writer's block, huh?" Adam nodded knowingly. "Yeah, that can be brutal."
"You know the feeling?" Mr. Paskowitz asked, eyeing Adam suspiciously.
"Oh, absolutely," Adam said with a chuckle. "That feeling when you can't write a single word, everything slows to a crawl, your brain's like a pot of mushy porridge—just bubbling and foggy. Every sentence feels like a stab in the temples, your head spins, you're drained of all energy, you wanna cry but can't, and it's like the world's crashing down with nowhere to run. Total despair." 😩
"Man!" Mr. Paskowitz slapped the bed and shouted, "That's it exactly! You nailed it! You really get it!"
The description of writer's block wasn't originally Adam's—it came from a character named Lü Xiùcái he'd heard in a past life, back when he was just starting out with online writing. He'd fall asleep to old reruns of Martial Arts Chronicles, and Lü's words hit him hard. They resonated so deeply, capturing the raw struggle of being a writer.
Adam had never been a natural at writing. He just loved reading novels. Over time, though, he couldn't find stories that scratched the itch anymore, so he decided to write his own. At first, he was all fired up, thinking, I'm the chosen one, a prodigy! I'll write a masterpiece and become a legend overnight! But when he sat down at the computer and couldn't type a single word, reality slapped him hard. Turns out, he wasn't the chosen one after all. 😅
That first attempt crashed and burned. Over the years, he'd get bursts of motivation, give up, then try again—a cycle that dragged on until he finally got the hang of it and officially started writing. Writer's block was a constant companion. Lü Xiùcái's words weren't just the screenwriter's truth—they struck a chord with Adam back then and even had this foreign patient nodding in awe.
It was just too real, too raw. A perfect summary of the miserable life of a struggling author.
"Dr. Duncan here totally gets it," Carter, standing behind Adam, chimed in. "He's not just a doctor, you know. He's a famous writer too."
"A writer? Duncan…" Mr. Paskowitz blinked, then it clicked. "You're the guy who wrote Lord of the Mysteries! Adam Duncan!"
"That's me," Adam said with a smile. "So, now can you tell me what you ate?"
"He ate his novel," the wife finally blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer as she knitted away.
"What?!" Carter's jaw dropped.
"I ate my manuscript—the whole thing! Every single page of that worthless pile!" Mr. Paskowitz shouted.
"I read all your drafts. They weren't as bad as you think," his wife teased. "If you hadn't eaten it all, you could've shown it to this talented doctor here. Maybe the ending wouldn't be so… awkward."
Mr. Paskowitz froze. Clearly, the thought had crossed his mind. If a successful author had seen his work and given it a shoutout, maybe he could've made it big. Too late now, though.
"It was absolute trash!" he growled, frustrated.
"Three years," his wife scoffed. "Three years of listening to your rants and complaints, just to watch you eat it in the end?"
"Three years?" Adam raised an eyebrow. "For one book? Mr. Paskowitz, have you considered getting a day job and writing on the side? Might spark some inspiration."
"I'm a writer!" Mr. Paskowitz shot back, fired up. "I don't need a backup plan!"
"Fair enough," Adam said with a shrug, not pushing further.
Three years on a book that didn't get published and ended up in his stomach, landing him in the hospital for pricey surgery. Talk about passion over profit. 😬
Man… Adam couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration. This guy had a wife who stuck by him through it all. Meanwhile, in his past life, so many writers slaved away at day jobs, stayed up late writing, risked burnout for meager pay, all for the love of the craft. Most had nothing to show for it. Even the ones who made a living off writing got judged hard in the dating scene. And here was Mr. Paskowitz—three years, no book, and still had a loyal wife? Talk about unfair! The struggles of those online writers from his past life were on a whole other level. Life's just not fair sometimes.
"Mr. Paskowitz, we've booked the operating room for you. An hour from now—" Adam started explaining the surgery plan when he suddenly froze.
"What's wrong, Doctor?" The wife, despite her teasing, clearly cared about her husband and grew worried.
"He's sweating," Adam said, his mind racing through possible causes. "How much paper did you actually eat?"
"A ton!" the wife answered.
"Carter, draw blood from Mr. Paskowitz and send it to toxicology for testing," Adam instructed.
"On it, Doc," Carter said, quickly stepping forward to take a sample.
"What's going on, Doctor?" the wife asked, her voice tinged with anxiety.
"I suspect Mr. Paskowitz might be poisoned," Adam explained. "Paper can contain harmful substances like lead or mercury from the printing process. If ingested in large amounts, it can lead to heavy metal poisoning. Given how much paper he ate, the risk is pretty high."
"You hear that?!" the wife exclaimed, torn between worry and exasperation. "Damn it! Even if it was all garbage, couldn't you just burn it? Did you have to eat it and turn yourself into a trash bin?"
"I wanted to put it behind me for good and start fresh with a new book!" Mr. Paskowitz said, pale and sweating buckets. "Eating it was… a ritual!"
Adam could only shake his head.
Soon, Carter returned with the test results. "It's mercury poisoning."
"Administer dimercaprol," Adam told the nurse. It was the standard treatment for mercury poisoning, helping to flush the metal out of the body.
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