Thanksgiving: A Fictional Narrative

“I’m sorry sir,” the doctor said. John held back tears. How was he supposed to react after just being told that he had two weeks to live? John had always been wealthy. Being so, he never had to worry about what others thought of him, and he certainly didn’t have to worry about the repercussions of his actions. So, John lived an uncharitable and avaricious life. Sitting on the crunchy plastic bed in his loose hospital gown, John thought back a few weeks to when he realized something was wrong. It was Thanksgiving. All he remembered being thankful for was material things, like his fortune. He’d eaten more than his fair share of stuffing and turkey. He remembered feeling mild heartburn and noticeably wincing. “What’s wrong?” his sister had

He’d never experienced heartburn before. Why on Thanksgiving? “I think you should see a doctor,” his sister had continued. “Doctor’s are overrated,” John replied rolling his eyes. “I’ll give you a number. This guy I know is great, and cheap,” his sister said handing him a slip of paper with a number scrawled across it. “I don’t need cheap,” John scoffed, but he’d taken the paper anyway anxious to save a few bucks. Now, here he was, a few weeks later, sitting in the doctor's office. It was unlike any doctor’s office he’d ever seen before. It was incredibly laid back, and it had an incredibly small staff. It didn’t seem like a hospital. It just seemed like a small group of medical students in an empty building. Still unable to comprehend the news, John asked the doctor, “Are you sure? I’ve been perfectly healthy all my life. What’s the name of the disease again?” “Name isn’t important and you’re not my first patient. Trust me,” the doctor replied going to the sink and washing his hands. “If I were you, I’d get in as much as I could in my last couple weeks, and I’d definitely give to charity.” “Charity?” John laughed. “It’s nothing to laugh about,” the doctor continued. “What’s the point of money if you’re six feet