Page 123 of Lassoed Love

Shortly after this, in a fragile moment, Isla’s father stirs, opening his eyes briefly. His gaze, though tired, holds a flicker of recognition. “Isla,” he rasps, his voice hoarse and deep, punctuated by laboured breaths. Isla, already overwhelmed, tries to hush him, urging him to rest. But he persists, insisting with a feeble but determined voice that he has something to say.

Beside him, Isla sobs, her tears flowing freely. I stand beside her, witnessing the emotional exchange, offering my silent support. Despite the turmoil in the room, there’s a palpable connection—a shared understanding of the weight carried in the words about to be spoken.

Through intermittent breaths, he manages to utter, “Letters.”

Isla, choked with emotion, catches her breath and replies, “Dad, I know. I found letters at home. Mum wrote them to me.”

Her father, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, tries to absorb the revelation. “Letters,” he repeats, his voice barely audible. His trembling hand reaches out to touch her face, and a single tear escapes,sliding down his weathered cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his words heavy with emotion.

Isla, overwhelmed, clings to his hand. “Dad, it’s okay,” she reassures him, her voice quivering. “You don’t need to apologise.”

As he drifts in and out of consciousness. Beside Isla, I remain a silent witness to the raw, poignant exchange, my heart aching for both of them. Her father turns his gaze and notices me standing beside him. A look of appreciation fills his weathered, hooded eyes. He nods at me, his acknowledgment silent but profound, holding a much deeper meaning that Isla can comprehend. In a raspy whisper, he mutters, “You look after my girl.”

I respond, my voice choked with emotion, “Yes, sir.”

Turning his attention back to Isla, her father’s eyes widen for a split second before he croaks out, “Cheryl, love, that you.” Isla releases a sob, her emotions bubbling to the surface. His voice remains hoarse and croaky as he slips in and out of consciousness.

Recalling the doctor’s mention of potential memory lapses and confusion, Isla braces herself. “Dad, it’s me, Isla,” she says gently.

But her father, caught in a momentary lapse, repeats, “Cheryl, love. Love you so much. You ‘n Isla.” His words emerge in fragmented breaths, a poignant reminder of the challenges they face. Beside Isla, I offer a steady presence, understanding the depth of the moment and the weight of the emotions swirling in the room.

In between swallows and laboured breaths, Isla’s father croaks out an apology—the weight of a lifetime’s regrets carried in his words. “I’m sorry for everythin’,” he manages, his gaze fixed on Isla.

“I see you in ‘er face,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I love ‘er, even if I never showed it.” He’s looking at Isla, but in his mind’s eye, he sees his late wife.

“Tell ‘er I love ‘er. Proud of ‘er. Hope she goes to that big school, becomes a vet, like ya wanted.”

Isla cries, but nods through tears, whispering, “I will, Dad. I will.” Leaning down, she places a gentle kiss on his forehead.

Isla chokes on her words, her voice thick with emotion, as she apologises to her father. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry for everything, for leaving all those years ago.”

“No need,” he responds weakly. “She did the right thing, Cher. I’m so-sorry.”

Isla just nods, softly saying, “It’s okay. I forgive you, Dad. I love you.” Another silent tear slips out of the corner of her father’s eye before he releases a breath and slips back into unconsciousness.

This time, the monitor on the machine starts beeping loudly, numbers escalating on the screen. I’m clueless about medical jargon, watching in growing panic.

“Xav, what’s happening?” Isla frantically moves to press the button on the side of the wall labelled ‘emergency.’ An alarm blares in the room, and instantly, two nurses rush in.

“Shit, he’s going into cardiac arrest,” one mutters to the other. A third nurse joins them, and they immediately start CPR. Isla, a mess of tears and panic, is sobbing as she tries to explain. I step in to tell the nurse what had happened, recounting the moments leading up to her father’s sudden deterioration.

The nurses move with urgency, a symphony of expertise and determination playing out before us. Each compression is a beat, a rhythmic dance attempting to breathe life back into Isla’s father. The monitor’s harsh beeping punctuates the room. Amidst the controlled chaos, a nurse calmly calls for the defibrillator.

Isla, overwhelmed, seeks solace, burying her face into my chest, her tears silently absorbed by my shirt. I stand there, watching the scene unfold with a focused clarity. The defibrillator is brought forth, and the room briefly hums with charged energy before delivering its decisive shock. Isla’s sobs intensify, the gravity of the moment pressing upon her. I, maintaining a steady composure laced with empathy, feel the weight of the situation. As I stand there, I grapple with the magnitude of the situation. I contemplate how this moment would feel if it were my father lying on that bed or if I had experienced the loss of my mother.

Determined to stay composed for Isla, I steel myself to keep it together. Amidst the controlled tumult of emotions, a resolute commitment takes root in my heart. I’ll spend the rest of my days proving and showing Isla that she is cherished, surrounded by a new family ready to love and support her through whatever trials life may throw our way.

The room collectively holds its breath as the medical team works their magic, and then, a sigh of relief as they manage to bring Isla's father's weak heart back to life. Isla, still tucked under my arm, goes through the emotional wringer—fear, hope, and everything in between.

But reality isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. His heart, although kickstarted, is still on the fragile side. The medical team, a mix of satisfied and concerned expressions, breaks it down for Isla. Tough call, but they had to slide him back on the ventilator, a necessary move to give that struggling heart some much-needed backup.

Isla exhales, a combo of relief and acceptance. The room eases back into a sort of tense calm as the medical crew tweaks the ventilator settings. I tighten my hold around Isla, fully aware that, while this round may be won, the war ain’t over.

In my head, thoughts swirl—life’s a delicate balance of hoping for the best and facing harsh realities. Yet, a nagging worry lingers, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. How much more can Isla take? The weight of her struggles weighs heavily on my heart, and I resolve to be her unwavering support.

The path ahead is murky, but side by side, we’re gearing up for whatever punches life throws our way.

---