Page 98 of Lassoed Love

Relief courses through me at the thought of Claire’s presence, but worry lingers. “Thank you. It means a lot that she’s coming.”

Imogen smiles softly, reaching for my hand. “We’ll get through this together.”

I join her by the bedside, our attention focused on my father’s still form. The machines continue their rhythmic symphony, a constant reminder of the fragility of life.

“He needs to wake up, Imogen,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t stand seeing him like this.”

Imogen places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “He’s strong, Isla. It’ll take time, but he’ll pull through. You’ll see.”

I nod, trying to absorb the medical information while keeping my emotions in check. Imogen reaches over and gently squeezes my hand, offering silent support.

The door eases open, and a nurse steps into the room, her gentle greeting breaking the silence.

“Good morning, Ms. Thompson. I’ve just come in to check on your dad’s IV drip,” she says, her soft smile offering a hint of reassurance.

As she moves around the bed, meticulously examining the IV, tapping the bag, and securing the tubes, I can’t help but feel a knot tighten in my stomach. The nurse then turns her attention to the whiteboard, scanning my father’s chart.

In a moment of vulnerability, I ask, my voice quivering, “Are things going okay?”

Adjusting her glasses, the nurse begins, “Your father’s vital signs are stable—heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen levels are all within the normal range. The sedative is maintaining him in a controlled state for healing.

“So, in essence, we’ve placed him in a medically induced coma to shield him from intense pain during recovery and preserve higher brain function after the trauma. Regarding his fractures—two ribs and the collarbone—the surgical team has addressed those issues successfully. The ventilator is aiding his breathing, and we’re closely monitoring for any signs of infection or complications.”

She then turns serious, mentioning the most critical concern.

“His brain suffered multiple injuries, causing bleeding within. We’re doing everything we can, but it’s a delicate situation.”

My breath catches, and I nod, my eyes searching for any signs of hope or solace in the nurse’s face.

Imogen, always one to seek answers, interjects, her concern evident. “Any idea when he might wake up?”

Maintaining her professional composure, the nurse replies, “Predicting is challenging. Each patient responds differently. We’ll closely monitor his neurological status, gradually reducing sedation when appropriate. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are crucial for assessing his responsiveness.”

“The neurology team is on top of it, though—conducting assessments to evaluate his brain function. We’ll adjust the treatment plan accordingly. It’s a critical aspect of his recovery, and we’re dedicated to doing everything we can.”

“I must also add, the MRI scans performed last night revealed some concerning findings,” the nurse begins, choosing her words with care. “There’s unusual brain activity that the medical team has detected. While it’s not definitive, it has led them toward a tentative diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease.”

My heart tightens at the confirmation, a cold realisation of the suspicions that had lingered in the recesses of my mind. I’d suspected it all this time, certain myself that he’d had it, but hearing it out loud confirms all my worst thoughts.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, the weight of the word carrying the gravity of the situation.

The nurse, attuned to the emotional turmoil in the room, places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I know it’s a lot to take in,” she says, her voice a soothing cadence. “Your father is in good hands here. We’re dedicated to providing the best care possible for him. If youhave any questions or concerns, feel free to ask.”

I nod, appreciative of her reassurance, but the reality of the situation hangs heavy in the air.

My mind races with worry, and I swallow hard. “Thank you,” I manage to whisper.

The nurse offers a compassionate smile before leaving, leaving me alone with the weight of the information pressing on me. Internally, I grapple with the uncertainty, desperately hoping for signs of improvement in the next crucial hours.

Time stretches on, and I steadfastly refuse to leave my father’s side. The room becomes a cocoon of beeping monitors and sterile scents, and I feel like the only anchor in my dad’s tumultuous sea of unconsciousness. I manage to find a moment to dial Katy’s number at the clinic. The phone rings, each tone echoing my own anxiety. Finally, she picks up.

“Katy, it’s Isla,” I start, my voice holding a tremor.

“What’s going on?” Katy’s voice crackles through the phone, panic palpable even through the connection.

I take a steadying breath, my words measured. “It’s Dad. There was a car accident. I’m at the hospital with him. Things are... not good.”

Silence hangs on the line for a moment before Katy responds, her voice nowsofter, filled with concern. “Oh, goodness gracious me, Isla. I’m so sorry to hear that darl. I’ll... I’ll manage things here.”

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