Page 17 of Embrace Me Forever

“Country, like you asked.”

“What song?”

“Uh, I think…” He pauses, caught between surprise and recollection, clearly not used to a mundane question coming from me. “It was one of Gabby Barrett’s. Something about growing up. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it.”

I was surprised when she told me she liked country music, a genre I’ve always linked to simplicity. Such a contrast to the intricate network of neurons that define her intellect. A quicksearch brings up the song, uncovering its meaning. A mother’s heartfelt message to her daughter.

The connection tugs at my empathy, adding another layer to the enigma that is her and another level of peril to my already fragile objectivity. Challenges are my specialty, yet for the first time, one is slowly crushing me. I’m torn between the professional and the personal, wrestling with emotions I didn’t realize still existed.

No matter the reason, I know one thing for sure. I’m heading to Denver, and I won’t stop until I uncover every last secret she’s hiding.

5

GEORGIA-MAY

Coco-Rae rests in the hospital crib, her tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. It contrasts sharply with the turmoil within me as I await the full post-operation briefing.

What I know so far, after gathering extensive data from her original procedure, is that the doctors managed to devise a method tailored specifically for her. Using the latest advancements in pediatric oncology, they employed precision medicine techniques that address the tumor at its molecular level.

The door creaks open, and Dr. Thompson steps in. “Ms. Williams,” he begins, his voice low and measured. I brace myself. “The surgery to remove Coco’s tumor was successful. We were able to excise all of it, and we can confirm the cancer hasn’t spread.”

I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Relief floods me, but it’s short-lived as Dr. Thompson continues with the dreaded ‘however.’

“There have been some complications. The surgery affected her motor neurons,” the doctor discloses.

My body hurts as I gaze at Coco. Only her face is visible, and even then, bandages and tubes are all over her. The rest of her is tucked under the blanket. “What are the implications?” I ask.

“The damage to Coco’s motor neurons has caused weakness in her legs and affected her muscle control. Currently, she’s unable to stand or walk. Your daughter will require extensive therapy to regain full mobility.” He studies me for a moment, gauging my reaction. Then, as if deciding I can handle the full weight of his words, he continues, “I won’t downplay the situation. Her recovery will be challenging. However, given Coco’s resilience, I’m confident she’s up to the challenge.”

I swallow, trying to digest his words. My little girl, my sweet Coco, already facing an enormous hurdle at such a young age.

“How long will she need therapy for?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Dr. Thompson replies. “Every child’s recovery is different. It could take months, even years.”

My mind races, calculating the cost of such long-term care. I can’t believe how much money has already been spent. The bills have been piling up, each a reminder of the financial strain this has put on us. And now, to fund Coco’s therapy…the doctor doesn’t have to say it. It’s going to be astronomically expensive.

I think back to my meeting with the Hartley brothers when I offered them QEOPA. I should have asked for more money. But I’ve never been one to be greedy, and I believed what I asked for was more than enough. Now, that decision feels like a mistake.

Dr. Thompson places a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll do everything we can to help Coco, Ms. Williams. There are resources and support groups that can assist you.”

“Thank you, doctor,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. As he leaves the room, I turn back to Coco, tears welling in my eyes. I stroke her hair, vowing silently to find a way to give her the best care possible, no matter the cost.

Coco stirs slightly, her tiny fingers curling around my thumb. I feel a surge of determination. For her, I will move mountains. For her, I will find a way.

The clock on the hospital wall ticks steadily, a cruel reminder of the hours slipping away, yet I haven’t come up with anything concrete. I haven’t heard a word from Hartley Marine—or rather, I haven’t had a chance to check. My business phone sits untouched in my Denver apartment, the one connection to that world left behind to maintain some semblance of isolation. It’s a lifeline I can’t afford to sever, yet I can’t bear the risk of carrying it with me.

My thoughts are interrupted by the familiar click of heels against the linoleum floor. Anne bursts into the room, her eyes wide with concern.

“What did the doctor say, Gi?” she demands, her voice sharp with worry.

“They’ve successfully removed the tumor,” I start with the good news.

“That’s fantastic.”

“But there were complications,” I reveal. “Her motor neurons…her legs are weak. She’ll need long-term therapy.”

Anne’s face crumples for a moment before she regains her composure. “We’ll get through this. But you look like you’ve got more on your mind. What else is going on?”

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