Page 74 of Doctor Second Chance

"Significant hypodensity in the bilateral frontal and temporal lobes," Dr. Patel confirms. "We're not seeing any reduction in the cerebral edema despite aggressive mannitol therapy."

I close my eyes, picturing Opie's smiling face—my son, who might never hear his mother's laugh again or feel her arms around him.

"What's her intracranial pressure?" I ask, grasping at straws.

"Holding steady at 25 mmHg. We've maxed out on barbiturate coma therapy, but..."

"But there's no meaningful change," I finish for him.

The silence on the line speaks volumes. We both know what comes next—comfort care, making her final days or weeks as peaceful as possible.

"Thank you, Dr. Patel," I manage to say. "I appreciate your efforts and thorough care."

As I hang up, the reality crashes over me. Ari, the mother of my child, is slipping away. And Opie... my sweet, innocent boy. How do I tell him that mommy might never come home?

My chest tightens, and the air suddenly becomes thicker and suffocating. I lean forward, elbows on my desk, head in my hands. For the first time in years, I feel utterly helpless. All my medical knowledge, all my surgical skills—none of it can fix this.

I stare at my phone, Elle's name highlighted on the screen. My finger hovers over the call button, but I can't bring myself to press it. What would I even say? "Hey, Elle, just calling to let you know my son's mother is probably going to die"? The words stick in my throat, refusing to form.

Dropping the phone on my desk, I lean back in my chair, feeling hollow and numb. How am I supposed to process this? More importantly, how am I going to help Opie through it?

A small voice in the back of my mind whispers that miracles can happen. I've seen it before in my career—patients defying all odds, waking up when everyone had given up hope. The rational part of me knows the chances are slim. The statistics aren't in Ari's favor. But there's still a possibility, however remote, that she could turn a corner.

I take a deep breath, trying to ground myself. The hospital isn't giving up entirely. They're just shifting focus, ensuring Ari remains healthy and comfortable while nature takes its course. It's a waiting game now, one with incredibly high stakes.

My eyes drift to the framed photo on my desk—Opie's gap-toothed grin beaming back at me. How do I prepare him for the possibility of losing his mom? How do I support him through this when I can barely keep myself together?

I pick up my phone again, scrolling past Elle's name to find my son's favorite babysitter. I need to see Opie, to hold him close and cherish every moment we have. The rest— Elle, work, everything else—can wait. Right now, my boy needs me more than ever.

4:19 pm

I sit on the park bench, watching Opie race up the ladder of the giant slide structure. His laughter carries across the playground, mingling with the shouts and giggles of other children. My heart aches as I observe his carefree joy, knowing the devastating news I'm holding back.

The weight of Ari's condition presses down on me, threatening to crush my composure. I wrestle with the impossible decision of when and how to tell our son. Should I shield him from the harsh reality or prepare him for what's coming?

My mind keeps circling back to the idea of flying Opie to Houston. He deserves a chance to see his mother while she's still alive. I know that if I don't give him this opportunity, he may resent me when he's older. The thought of that potential regret gnaws at me.

But then I picture my four-year-old son standing beside Ari's hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines and tangled tubes. Is that the final image I want him to have of his vibrant, loving mother? The doctor in me understands the clinical aspects, but as a father, I'm lost.

I've guided countless families through similar situations, offering advice and comfort. Now, faced with my own crisis, all that experience seems to evaporate. I'm adrift, second-guessing every potential choice.

Opie waves to me from the top of the slide, his face beaming with excitement. I force a smile and wave back, my heart breaking a little more. How do I protect him while also being honest? How do I balance his need for closure with his innocence?

The playground suddenly feels suffocating. Children's laughter is drowned out by the constant chatter of indecision in my head. I need to make a choice, but every option seems wrong.

I'm lost in thought, watching Opie play, when Elle's voice startles me.

"Hey there, stranger," she says softly, sliding onto the bench beside me.

I turn to her, surprised. "Elle, I didn't expect you to come."

She smiles, but I can see the concern in her eyes. "You seemed off in your text. I wanted to check on you."

I nod, grateful for her presence but unsure how to explain. "Thanks for coming."

Elle reaches out, her hand resting lightly on my arm. "What's going on, Shep? You look like you're carrying the weight of the world."

I take a deep breath, struggling to find the right words. "I got a call about Ari today," I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's... it's not good."

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