Page 64 of Doctor Neighbor

Maddie was unresponsive at school. In an ambulance to UAB ER now. If you’re there, please come if you can. Help me—I don't know what to do.

I’m so scared.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Buster is the only person I can bring myself to reach out to right now. This is his hospital. Surely, he can help us if anyone can.

As I put my phone away, I notice the lead paramedic watching me with sympathy in her eyes.

"We're doing everything we can," she assures me. "Try to stay calm. It helps her to feel your calming presence."

I nod, swallowing hard. I force myself to take deep breaths, trying to project calm I don't feel. For Maddie's sake, I have to be strong.

We burst through the hospital doors, Maddie on a gurney, surrounded by a flurry of medical staff—my heart pounds in my chest, a relentless, suffocating rhythm.

The fluorescent lights overhead blur as tears fill my eyes. Maddie lies still, too still, her small body looking even more fragile than before against the white sheets.

“Please, help her,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “What’s wrong with her?”

The doctors and nurses work quickly, checking her vitals and attaching monitors. Maddie’s face is pale, her lips slightly blue. Her tiny chest rises and falls with the help of an oxygen mask. Her eyes are closed, unresponsive, and it’s tearing me apart.

Dr. Bellinger, a tall, handsome doctor with a calm demeanor and crystal blue eyes, approaches me. “Ms. Johnson, we will run several tests to determine what’s causing Maddie’s condition. Right now, her heart rate and blood pressure are stable, but we need to find out why she’s unresponsive.”

I nod, trying to focus on his words through the haze of panic. “What could it be?” I ask, my voice trembling.

Dr. Bellinger looks at me with sympathy. “There are several possibilities. We’re considering metabolic imbalances, infections, neurological issues, or even a toxic ingestion. We’ll be running blood tests, a CT scan of her brain, and a lumbar puncture to check for infections in her cerebrospinal fluid.”

My knees feel weak, and I clutch the side of Maddie’s bed for support. Her small hand lies limp in mine, and I squeeze it gently, hoping for a response. “Will she be okay?” I manage to ask, my throat tight with fear.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Dr. Bellinger assures me. “The tests will give us more information. It’s important to stay strong for Maddie right now.”

As they wheel her away for the tests, I feel a cold, hollow ache in my chest. Every second feels like an eternity. I pace the small waiting area, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. What if it’s something we can’t fix? What if I lose her?

The minutes drag on, each one heavier than the last. My body is trembling, my hands clammy with sweat. I can’t sit still. I can’t breathe properly. My only concern is knowing that she will be okay.

Finally, Dr. Bellinger returns. His expression is serious but composed. “Ms. Johnson, we’ve completed the initial tests. We’re still waiting on some results, but we’ve been able to rule out a few things. Her blood tests showed no immediate signs of toxic substances, and the CT scan didn’t reveal any major abnormalities. We’re now focusing on potential infections or metabolic issues.”

I nod numbly, trying to process the information. “What does that mean? Is she any closer to waking up?”

“We need to wait for the results of the lumbar puncture and further blood tests,” he explains. “In the meantime, we’re providing supportive care to stabilize her.”

I collapse into a chair, my legs no longer able to hold me up. The uncertainty is unbearable. I look at Maddie through the window of her room, her vulnerable body connected to so many machines. She seems so weak, so unlike the vibrant, energetic girl she usually is.

TWENTY-ONE

Buster

4:06 pm

Five hours. This was supposed to be a straightforward cholecystectomy, in and out in a couple of hours at most. But nothing about this case went as planned.

I glance at the clock, exhaustion tugging at my muscles. The OR is eerily quiet except for the steady beep of the monitors. My team is tired but focused, their faces masked in concentration as we wrap up the procedure.

"Alright, we’re almost there," I say, my voice steady despite the fatigue. "Let's close her up."

The patient, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Thompson, came in with acute cholecystitis. Simple enough, or so we thought. But once we got inside, it was clear this wasn’t just a routine inflammation. Her gallbladder was severely necrotic, and there was extensive scarring from previous undiagnosed episodes.

“Scalpel,” I say, holding out my hand. The instrument is placed in my palm with practiced efficiency. As I carefully cut through the remaining tissue, I think back to the start of the surgery.

An hour in, we encountered unexpected adhesions, likely from past infections. Every time we thought we had a clear path, we found more scar tissue. At one point, her blood pressure dropped dangerously low, and we had to stabilize her before continuing. The necrosis made the gallbladder incredibly fragile, and removing it without causing further damage was a delicate, time-consuming process.

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