Page 92 of We Were Something
She pulls away and glares at me. “Oh for once can younotbe a doctor and instead be a concerned husband? I don’twantyou to be honest. I want you to console me.”
I grit my teeth, wanting to tell her I’mnother concerned husband, but I know it won’t solve anything. So I stay silent as she bursts into tears again and wipes at her eyes.
She turns to look at me, the expression on her face equal parts angry and devastated, and opens her mouth to speak. But she stops, her eyes catching on something behind me.
I turn to find Paige standing awkwardly a few feet away holding one of my mother’s big duffle bags in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.
“I know this wasn’t on the list, but I figured it couldn’t hurt for her to wake up and see something beautiful,” Paige tells me, giving me a soft smile.
“They don’t allow flowers in the ICU,” Jen says, some of her hostility from earlier draining away.
“Well, I’m not a big rule follower,” Paige says, giving Jen a smile she doesn’t deserve. “And I figure some flowers and a photo can fit nicely on the window sill and be completely out of everyone’s way.”
She sets the bag on one of the seats and tugs out a large framed photo. Before she even places it in my hand, I already know which one it is. My mom keeps it in the center of her dresser in her bedroom.
It’s a picture of my mom, me, and Jen on our wedding day.
“I figured seeing a picture that reminds her of the people she loves will be helpful if she’s confused when she wakes up,” Paige adds.
I turn the photo and show it to Jen, watching as her face falls, water filling her eyes. She steps forward and takes it from me, looking it over for a long moment, her hand stroking at the glass to wipe away some of the dust that has stuck to it.
“Thank you,” Jen whispers.
“This was an excellent idea,” I tell Paige, feeling my own bit of emotional overwhelm at the gesture.
Paige put aside whatever feelings she has about this uncomfortable situation with my ex and decided to bring a picture she could tell had a place of importance in my mother’s home. The decision to do that is…well, she’s a bigger person than I’ve ever been in my life.
Jen holds out the photo so I’ll take it, and when she looks at me, there’s something in her eyes that is so familiar. A way she used to look at me when we were together, when we were younger. A look she hasn’t given me in years.
“I grabbed the pajamas and house shoes you asked for, and the blue blanket from the couch,” Paige continues, digging around in the bag. “But I also stopped by the mall and grabbed you a few changes of clothes and some toiletries, since I haven’t seen a bag for you anywhere.”
I look away from Jen and reach out to Paige, tugging her hands away from the bag and pulling her into my chest, wrapping her tightly in my arms. “I haven’t even thought about the fact that I didn’t pack a bag,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “Thanks for thinking of that.”
Paige nods against my chest and allows me to hold her there for a long moment, her hands stroking up and down my back in a soothing rhythm that has me wishing I could make all of this go away so I can steal my girl off back to the privacy ofSeas the Day.
Eventually, I release her, and she busies herself for a few moments with reorganizing whatever she’s brought with her in the duffle.
Then she picks up the flowers and photo and walks into the room, placing them carefully by the window so mom can see them when she gets back. If she ever opens her eyes.
“They took her up to do some more tests,” I tell Paige when she returns to the hall. “And then they’re probably going to do another surgery.”
Paige nods, concern etched across every stitch and line of her face.
But she doesn’t try to fix it. Instead, she just takes my hand in hers and gives it a squeeze before taking a seat.
We wait in silence.
“I’m meeting the Parks at seven to talk about the funeral,” Jen says, letting out a shuddered breath. “Will you call me if there’s news?”
I nod. “You can come back whenever you want to see her,” I say, trying to be gracious. “But I’ll call if something happens.”
Jen looks at me gratefully before giving a small wave and heading down the hall.
Eventually, Dr. Ramos comes to let me know theydidfind bleeding on the MRI, most likely an intracranial hemorrhage, but that there wasn’t any significant visible damage from the stroke.Then he rushes off to operate, to remove part of my mom’s skull to drain the bleed and alleviate the swelling.
I slump into my chair once he’s gone, running through all the things I can remember from my first few years of med school when I spent time considering where I wanted to specialize. I’ve worked with neurosurgeons for years now, but for the life of me I can’t seem to pull forward any kind of memories from school or textbooks that put my mind at ease.
Instead, I’m flooded with the statistics of everything that could possibly go wrong. From the likelihood that the surgery itself will kill her to the high possibility she’ll never wake up and the very real problems she may face if, miraculously, shedoesopen her eyes. Speech troubles, memory loss, visual issues, muscle weakness.
