Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
"This can be a rare complication of anesthesia," he tells me. “There are cases when this happens without much of an explanation...”
His voice begins to fade as he rattles off rehearsed lines about post-op recovery times, organic and metabolic causes of delayed consciousness, non-traumatic causes for comatose patients. The words all start to blend, and I can't follow any of them. It’s too much to process, and there’s only one thing I know for certain.
"Take me to her," I order. "I need to see her. I’m going now, with or without you."
He hesitates and then offers a solemn nod.
32
Santiago
The steady beeping of the monitors in Ivy's room are the only solace I have in the darkness. Those rhythms mean, in some capacity, she's still here. She's still inside her body, even if she's not awake.
It's been three days since the surgery, and she's been transferred to the ICU, where they continue to run tests. Every doctor who arrives inevitably leaves without any answers, offering the name of another colleague who might be able to help. I send for all of them. A constant parade of elite medical professionals come and go without results. There are no concrete answers, only estimations.
Some tell me it's a complication of the anesthesia. Others insist it must be metabolic in nature. One recklessly began to suggest that it was psychogenic, a state of distress so rare the body shuts itself down. They run countless blood tests and imaging scans, interrogating me about any pre-existing conditions or medications she may have taken that day. They are all looking for something, but it's become clear they don't know what it is.
Her brain scans have revealed no permanent damage. No swelling. Her spinal cord is intact. But with every passing hour, I'm beginning to lose hope that anyone can help her.
Between the influx of specialists and nurses, I take to my phone to search for potential causes myself. I read case studies about prolonged comas with unknown causes, deep-diving into the bizarre and unusual. It becomes clear the more that I read, and the longer Ivy takes to wake up on her own, the dimmer her chances are.
In the hall outside the door, the staff has lined up chairs for the other visitors. Antonia, Marco, Eva, Hazel, Michael, and Eli are all keeping vigil there, awaiting their turn to visit. We work in rotations, something that was not my idea, but one I agreed to nonetheless. I thought maybe if she felt their presence, someone she still loved, it might encourage her to come back. But so far, that has proven fruitless too.
Admittedly, when Marco brought Eli here, I was angry. But the moment I saw his face, something hit me. The unshakeable truth that he knew exactly how I felt. The pain in his eyes was a reflection of mine. And once I saw it, I could not send him away.
Marco’s men are combing the city for Abel, and any plan we may have had to lure him out is in tatters now. None of it matters. The only thing that matters is that Ivy comes back, and only then will I leave her bedside to murder her brother.
Many times, I have considered moving her back home. But the hospital staff tells me it would be ill advised. It doesn’t matter if I hire an army of staff and purchase enough medical equipment to outfit an entire hospital. If something goes wrong, this is the safest place for her. It’s a fact I’m still having difficulty wrapping my head around. A defeat I don’t want to accept. She shouldn’t be lying on this bed in this cold, sterile room. Everything about it feels wrong.
"Have you tried talking to her?"
I blink up at the nurse who came to check Ivy's vitals. "What?"
"Sometimes it helps." She offers me a smile.
I glance at Ivy, her face empty. Eyes closed. "Can she hear me?"
"You never know," the nurse answers. "There have been patients who can hear everything happening around them. Either way, I don't think it can hurt to let her know you're here."
I'm still considering her words long after she leaves when I take my wife's hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, and it doesn't feel right. It feels like she's already gone, and I don't know how to bear it.
"I'm here, angel," I rasp. "I've been here the whole time."
I don't know what I'm expecting. A twitch. A change in her heartbeat. Some sign of life. But there's nothing.
"I don't really know what to say to you," I confess, dipping my head and closing my eyes. "I know this is my fault. I put you through so much... and you are tired. So, I get that you want to rest. And I'll still be here when you wake because you have to wake up, Ivy. You can't leave me. Not now. Not ever."