“He made it through the operation,” the nurse says. “But to be honest, with how hard that kick hit, and how much blood we had to release from the hematoma, we aren’t sure what the damage will be over time.”
“What are you saying?” Jeffrey asks curtly. “You mean to tell me that you don’t know if he will be okay?”
“Brain injuries are touchy,” I say, trying my best even at my worst to try to calm Jeffrey down. “They won’t know until he wakes up and sees how he does.”
“Jesus,” Jeffrey groans angrily, muttering to himself as he sits back down.
“Thank you for letting us know,” I say as the nurse gives me a little nod.
“We will see if he rouses from the surgery on his own, which could take a few hours,” she says. “Either way, he will be brought up to the ICU then. You’re welcome to stay here or head home to gather up some things for him.”
“I’ve got to get some headache pills in me,” Jeffrey says as he rubs his temples. “Are you guys heading up to the house to grab stuff for him?”
“Yeah, I guess Mitch went home and got his toiletries together at least,” Zack says as he looks at his phone. “Thanks for sitting with us, Darla.”
“Of course,” I say as my lip quivers, the mask I’ve been wearing to try to keep calm starting to slip.
“We will keep you updated, okay?” Zack says as he hands me his phone and has me put my number in.
“Thank you,” I say tearfully as the three boys head out, and my legs, fawn-like and wobbly make me have to sit down again.
Of course, I meet the man of my dreams and he’s now in critical condition, I think to myself as I finally let it all out, crying loudly in the big, lonely room. Unsure of what to do with myself other than put my hands together in prayer, I hope for a miracle.
***
Darla
I had offered to stay and wait for Eli to get on the ward so the nurse on call in my place could go home, but she refused. So, I’d spent the whole day—though I was supposed to be asleep—either lying in bed crying or pacing the floors of my house. I spent hours waiting for Zack to text me, to say anything.
But the text never came.
I was still scheduled to work a mid-shift, and I did my best to hold myself together, hoping beyond hope that when I got there, Eli would be alright. Eventually, when I get to the nurse’s desk, all eyes are on me.
Just as expected, the gossip mill always turns no matter where you work, and the day crew whispers as I shuffle through the charts. I look for Eli’s and Eli’s alone.
My eyes flutter up for a moment and I notice that the old man from last night isn’t in his room either. To get the hens of the roost to stop murmuring, I decide to ask about him.
“Where’s Elijah?”
“He’s out for an MRI right now,” one of the girls says as I continue to thumb through the charts, still not finding the one man I’m looking for.
“Where is Eli Garcia’s chart?” I ask calmly, my eyes wandering over to the other nurses.
“You mean, Elijah,” one says.
“No, I mean, Eli Garcia,” I say. “Fifty-four, head trauma and brain surgery.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells,” another one says, and I turn around to look at the whiteboard on the wall.
No Eli Garcia.
“Move out of my way, please,” I say to the nurse in front of our floor’s computer, and she eyes me suspiciously as I sit down and my fingers fly across the keyboard. I enter my username and password and begin searching the ER, OR, and ICU databases for records of Eli Garcia. Just as I thought, ER released him to OR. . . but where did he go after? Did he need a transfer to a bigger hospital?
I clamp my hand over my mouth as I read the words, muffling a loud, painful scream that sends the whole ward into a panic.
Eli Garcia, Male, 54, deceased. Made it through the operation with success, but then seized downstairs in the recovery room, and passed away. The patient has been moved to the morgue and placed under the care of Doctor John P. Fisher, a hospital pathologist.
“No,” I say out loud as I nearly fall out of my chair. “No, no, no!”