39. Help Action
Chapter thirty-nine
Help Action
Griffin
It takes almost forty minutes before anyone comes back for us.
I know that's not long.
I know exactly what happens during those forty minutes.
Transfer from the ER stretcher to the ICU bed.
New monitor leads. New assessment. Medication reconciliation.
Lines traced from insertion point to pump because nobody on a critical-care unit trusts somebody else's tubing until they've put their own eyes on it.
Repeat blood work. Orders verified. Insulin infusion checked. Fluids adjusted.
Forty minutes is nothing.
Forty minutes is also long enough for Dex to pace a groove into the waiting-room carpet.
Four of us sitting here, no initiative order, no action available except wait.
When the ICU nurse finally walks through the doors, all four of us stand.
Her eyes go first to me. “Griffin?”
“Yeah.”
“She's settled. She's more awake than she was downstairs, and her numbers are moving in the right direction. I can take you back first.”
First.
Likely not because Cami picked me, but because the chart says, “spouse.”
“What about them?” I ask.
She looks at Ronan, Micah, and Dex without any judgment or confusion. “She told us they're her partners and that she wants all three of them to be able to visit and receive updates. I've documented that.”
Some tension leaves my shoulders.
“But right now we’ll limit it to one. Normally we're stricter about hours and visitors overnight,” she continues, “but tonight we'll let you rotate through while we're getting her settled.
Two at the bedside at a time. Starting tomorrow night, we'll go back to our regular overnight policy, which is one support person.”
Her attention returns to me.
As her husband.
I nod. “Okay.”
The room is quieter than the ER.
Still full of equipment, but organized differently. Controlled differently.
Cami is awake when I walk in.
Barely.
Her head turns toward me on the pillow, and her eyes track down before they come back to my face.
“You have blood on you.” Her voice is stronger than it was downstairs.
Not strong, but stronger.
Relief hits hard enough to make my knees feel unreliable for a second.
I look down at my uniform. “Good news. None of it is mine.”
Her mouth twitches. “That's reassuring.”
“Thought you'd appreciate the update.”
I pull the chair closer and sit beside her. For the first time since the ambulance arrived, I don't look at the monitor first.
I look at her.
Some color has returned to her face. Her lips aren't quite as dry. Her breathing is still deeper than normal, but it no longer looks like every breath is dragging itself out of her.
I take her hand carefully. “How do you feel?”
“Like shit.”
“Excellent clinical description.”
“My brain isn't working well enough for medical terminology.”
“That's okay. Mine is working enough for both of us.”
Her expression changes. “That's gonna be a problem, isn’t it?”
I stare at her.
Even sick, she knows me too fucking well.
I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. “They're doing exactly what they should be doing.”
“I know.”
“The fluids are helping. The insulin is running. They're checking labs frequently.”
“I know, Griff.”
I stop.
Right—she doesn't need the report. She has nurses for that.
For several seconds I just hold her hand.
Her thumb moves weakly over mine. “Where are the guys?”
“Waiting.”
“All of them?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes close briefly. “Dex okay?”
“No.”
She opens one eye. “Honest.”
“You married me for the honesty.”
“I married you for health insurance.”
“There she is.”
The tiny laugh costs her enough that I immediately regret making her do it.
She sees that too. “I'm okay.”
“I know.”
This time I say it as her husband.
Not as a medic making an assessment.
Her gaze drops to my shirt again. “You really do look horrifying.”
“I know.”
“Like you killed somebody and then came to visit me.”
“I had a very bad call before you decided to create a second one.”
“Sorry.” The word comes out too seriously.
I tighten my hand around hers. “No.”
She looks at me.
“Don't apologize for this.”
“I ruined your shift.”
“Cami.”
“I know.”
Apparently neither of us is particularly good at taking our own advice.
I glance toward the door. “I need to go home for a little bit.”
Fear moves across her face so quickly I hate myself for the sentence.
I lean closer. “Only to shower and change. I smell like blood, diesel, and probably several other bodily fluids, and if I stay in this uniform much longer, infection control may personally escort me out.”
Her mouth twitches again.
“The others need to see you. Micah and Dex can come back together while I'm gone. Ronan already got more time with you than anybody but me tonight. He can come back when they’re done.”
She nods. “And then?”
“When I come back, I’ll stay.”
Something in her expression loosens.
“All night?”
“All night.”
“You worked.”
“Don't care.”
“Griffin.”
“I will sleep in that terrible chair if I have to. I will complain about it tomorrow. Tonight I'm staying.”
Her fingers curl around mine. “Okay.”
I kiss her forehead. “You're in good hands.”
“I know.”
“And if anything changes while I'm gone, they'll call me before I make it out of the parking lot.”
“I know.”
I stand, but she doesn't let go immediately.
Neither do I.
Finally her fingers slip free. “Tell them I'm okay.”
“I will.”
She thinks for a second. “Don't tell Dex I'm okay like medical people say okay.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “I'll be specific.”
“Good.”
I kiss her forehead again. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
This time, when I leave the room, I'm choosing to.
Somehow that makes it easier.
Not easy. Just easier.
Ronan
Griffin looks cleaner when he comes out of the ICU room emotionally than he does physically.
Which is admittedly a low bar.
If I did not know where he had been before Cami arrived, I would find his appearance deeply concerning.
Dex is on his feet before the door fully closes behind him. “Well?”
Griffin does not tell him she is okay—I notice that immediately.
“She is awake. She's talking. She knows where she is and what happened, mostly. Her glucose is coming down, her blood pressure is better, and the ICU team is happy with the direction she's moving.”
Dex's shoulders drop.
Not completely.
Enough.
“That's actual okay?”
“That's actual better.”
Dex nods.
Micah's hand settles between his shoulder blades.
Griffin looks at the two of them. “You guys can go see her together.”
Dex blinks. “What?”
“They're allowing two at a time tonight. Cami wants to see you both.”
Micah looks toward me.
The question is silent.
I shake my head. “I was with her in the ambulance and downstairs. Go.”
There is no sacrifice in the statement.
Not really.
I want to see her again.
I also know exactly what she looked like up close after the fluids began working.
Dex does not.
Micah does not.
They need the version of her who can speak.
Griffin catches my eye. “When I get back, or they’re done, you go.”
I nod.
He turns toward the elevator.
Dex looks after him. “Where's he going?”
“Home,” Griffin answers without turning around. “I'm showering before someone calls the police because I look like I murdered a family.”
Dex's laugh is abrupt and shaky.
Good.
The doors close behind Griffin.
A nurse returns a moment later and takes Micah and Dex through the secured doors.
That leaves me alone in the waiting room.
For approximately thirty seconds.
Then the same nurse comes back carrying a clipboard. “Can I get a little information from you?”
“Of course.”
She sits across from me.
“Cami gave us verbal permission to speak with all of you about her care, along with names, but I want the spelling of names and phone numbers in the chart.”
I give her mine.
Micah's.
Dex's.
She writes them down.
“And relationship?”
I hesitate only because there is no efficient word.
“Partners.”
She nods and writes that without reaction. “Okay. Griffin is her legal husband?”
“Yes.”
“If she's unable to make her own decisions, he would be the default person we'd go to unless she has other legal documents specifying something different.”
“I understand.”
I do.
That is the problem.
Not a problem with Griffin.
Not a problem with the nurse.
Not even really a problem with the policy.
A fact.
Griffin does not have to explain himself.
He does not have to be added to the chart as someone Cami permits staff to speak with.
No one asks whether he is important enough to receive information.
The marriage certificate answers those questions before anyone thinks to ask them.
I have been very clear that I do not want the type of primary partnership Griffin and Cami have or Micah and Dex have. I do not want legal enmeshment for the sake of proving love. I do not want a hierarchy imposed simply because conventional relationships come with one.
I still believe all of that.
Feeling the distinction is different from understanding it.
Tonight I rode in the ambulance with her.
I held her hand while a paramedic started an IV.
I answered questions because she could not answer them herself.
And if she had arrived unable to tell the hospital who I was, I would have become a man in a waiting room while Griffin became family with one word.
Husband.
There is no resentment attached to the thought.
Only weight.
The nurse closes the chart and her voice turns to a tone I can tell is meant to be very reassuring. “She's been very clear that she wants all of you included. We'll do what we can within unit policy.”
“Thank you.”
“And because it's so late and she just came in, we're being flexible tonight. Tomorrow we'll be back to two visitors at the bedside during visiting hours, and one overnight support person that can be here after visiting hours.”
I nod.
I already know who that person will be.
Not because Griffin deserves more time with her.
Because that makes the most sense.
The strange thing is that I am glad the answer is Griffin.
I trust him.
I trust him with her.
That does not make the reality less sharp.
We get a text from Griff that he is on his way back.
About fifteen minutes later, the ICU doors open.