Chapter 16
Collins
I stood a few steps back, letting their voices wash over me, overlapping and colliding in a way that almost made them sound like a married couple arguing about a future that no longer included the woman lying silently between them.
“Come on, Michael,” Veronica said, her voice smooth, patient, almost gentle. “She’s still in a coma. Six weeks now. You have to be realistic.”
Michael didn’t answer. His face set into something unreadable, his hands curled at his sides, eyes fixed on Anna as if he were already measuring how much she was costing him.
“She might never wake up,” Veronica continued softly. “The hospital bills are climbing every day. There’s no guarantee she’ll survive this.”
That was when Michael finally turned toward me, his gaze sharp and demanding.
“Dr. Collins,” he said, cutting through the room. “What is your verdict?”
I met his eyes, steady and calm. “She’s been in this state for six weeks,” he pushed. “Will she ever wake up?”
“I can’t give you a definite answer,” I said carefully. “Some patients regain consciousness after weeks. Others after months. Some years. There’s no way to determine when, or even if, it will happen. But there is a real possibility that she will wake up.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “What are the odds?”
I took a slow breath. “Sixty–forty.”
His face hardened instantly. “That’s not good enough,” he said flatly. “And Anna wouldn’t want to live like this. I say we cut off life support.”
The words hadn’t even finished echoing when the door opened.
“No.”
Her father stood frozen in the doorway, his face drained of colour. He must have heard everything.
“You can’t do that,” he said, stepping inside, his voice shaking. “You have to give her a chance.”
“There is no guarantee,” Michael snapped.
“You want to give up because it’s inconvenient,” her father shot back, his voice breaking, “not because she wouldn’t fight.”
Michael gestured sharply toward me. “The doctor just said it himself—forty–sixty. That’s not clear-cut. This could drag on for months. Years. And the hospital bills will keep piling up while we wait for the inevitable.”
I looked at Anna’s father. His shoulders sagged, his eyes glossy with tears he refused to let fall.
“I won’t be able to afford the medical bills either,” he admitted quietly.
The room fell into a heavy, crushing silence.
“I won’t support ending her life right now,” I said firmly. “Not yet. I’ll keep her on life support while I present her case to the hospital board. They’ll review everything, her condition, her chances, and the ethical side of it.”
Michael frowned. “And if they say no?”
“Then we follow their decision,” I replied. “But until then, she stays alive.”
He studied me, irritated, calculating. “Fine. Please keep me updated.”
My face went still. “Her care comes first. Everything will be handled without harming her future.”
Michael scoffed. “That’s if she has a future.”
He and Veronica left thereafter, their voices fading down the corridor. I stayed behind with Anna’s father, explaining what could happen next, what the board would consider, and what we might face.
Before he left, he leaned close to her, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you think she can hear me?”
“There’s a chance,” I said. “That’s why we talk to them. Sometimes… they hear.”
After he left, the room felt unbearably quiet. I moved closer to her bed, lowered my voice, and whispered, “Hold on just a little longer. I’ll fight for you.”
The boardroom felt colder than any hospital ward I’d ever stood in.
A long table stretched across the centre, polished and impersonal. Along one side sat administrators in crisp suits, senior doctors with folded hands, and legal advisors with open folders and unreadable faces. All of them were waiting for me.
“She’s been in a coma for several weeks,” one of the medical directors said. “What is the chance of waking?”
“Her scans show stable brain activity. No progressive damage. No neurological decline. Based on my experience—and her specific case—her odds are sixty–forty.”
A murmur moved through the room. A few of them exchanged quiet looks.
“Your track record speaks for itself, Dr. Collins,” the chairperson said at last. “You’ve brought back patients others had already written off.”
“I’m not promising a miracle,” I replied. “I’m asking for time. She deserves a real chance.”
They debated for what felt like hours, statistics, ethics, cost, liability, public image. I answered every question, defended every decision, refused to let her become just another number on a chart.
Finally, the chairperson lifted her hand. The room fell silent.
“We’ll go with your assessment,” she said. “Sixty–forty. But this situation needs structure. We can’t leave her future in chaos.”
“I agree,” I said.
“I understand her husband wants to withdraw life support,” she added. “What is his reasoning?”
“He’s lost hope,” I said carefully. “Even after hearing the odds. Financial strain is also a factor.”
One of the legal advisors leaned forward. “Then we replace guardianship. What about transferring it to her father?”
“He doesn’t have the financial means,” I replied. “And full guardianship would make him legally responsible for all costs.”
The chairperson nodded slowly. “Then we appoint a temporary guardian.”
The room went still.
“I’ll be her temporary guardian,” I said, my voice steady even as something twisted low in my chest. “Short term. Strictly to ensure her safety and continued care while long-term decisions are made. I’ll keep her on life support—buying time. A few more weeks. Giving her body a chance to stabilize.”
The chairperson studied me for a long moment. Then she nodded.
“We’ll approve temporary guardianship under you,” she said. “Only until a long-term legal plan is decided. You’ll be responsible for her medical choices, her protection, and her care. The hospital will absorb all costs for the next four weeks while a plan is finalized.”
“I accept,” I said quietly.
I returned to her room with the paperwork in my hand.
For now, she wasn’t just my patient.
She was my responsibility.
I stood beside her bed, watching the steady rhythm of her breathing.
“They gave you a chance,” I whispered. “Sixty–forty. That’s not nothing, Anna. That’s hope.”
I moved a strand of hair away from her face.
“I’ll carry this for you,” I said quietly. “Until you can carry it yourself.”
Just then, Michael entered. “Any update?” he asked.
I handed him the paperwork. He read it in silence, his eyes moving fast, sharp, hunting for advantage. When he finally looked up, his expression was conflicted—but only for a second. Then the calculation slid into place.
“Fine. But if I let you take over, you’ll need to document her condition and prognosis in a way that supports my divorce application.”
My jaw tightened.
“You can’t divorce her,” I said. “That would devastate her.”
“I can. And I will.” His voice was cold, decisive. “How soon can I have the report?”
“If I do that,” I said slowly, “it could affect her legal rights when she wakes up. I can’t compromise her future for your convenience. That’s just wrong.”
“That’s if she wakes up,” Michael said coldly. “But I need to move on with my life. I can’t stay trapped in this limbo forever. So you decide, Doctor, do you want to protect her rights… or keep her alive?”
The question sat between us like a weapon.
I didn’t hesitate.
“Fine,” I said quietly. “I’ll prepare the paperwork.”
A satisfied smile tugged at his mouth. “Good.”
Then he walked away.
After he left, the room felt quieter, emptier.
I went back to Anna.
I turned the small plant on her windowsill so it could catch the afternoon light. When I took her hand, her fingers felt cool against my skin. I adjusted the thermostat and waited until her vitals steadied again.
Then, without thinking, I picked up the brush.
I ran it gently through her hair, slow, careful, as if every strand mattered. It was softer than I expected.
“I guess it’s just you and me now,” I murmured, barely louder than the machines.
I brushed a few more strokes, then set the brush aside.
“I promise,” I said softly, my voice steady even as something tightened in my chest, “I’ll do everything in my power to keep you alive, Anna. I’ll give you the best care possible. I won’t give up on you.”
The monitors answered in their quiet rhythm, indifferent, constant, faithful.
Before leaving, I reached into my pocket, took out a single bead, and let it fall into her jar, adding quietly to the collection of emotions I carried for her.