Chapter Twenty-Five
Mindy
"It’s okay, sweetie," I whisper, brushing Sharon’s sweaty hair back.
I’m trying to sound calm, but inside, I’m falling apart. Each little whimper from her feels like it’s tearing me apart from the inside.
The hospital looms ahead of us, all bright lights and stark walls. We screech to a stop, and suddenly, everything’s mayhem. The gurney rattles across the floor, doctors are yelling words I don’t understand, and before I know it, they’re whisking away my little girl.
"Mommy!" Her faint cry echoes as the doors slam shut, leaving me alone in a sea of strangers.
I end up in the waiting room, surrounded by uncomfortable chairs and the smell of bad coffee. There’s no way I can sit still, so I pace. Back and forth, back and forth. Like a lioness in a cage. The clock on the wall seems to mock me with each tick.
I abruptly stop my pacing. There’s no way I can work today. Not even from home. I quickly reach for my phone and type out a text to Christine.
“Hi Christine, sorry, but I need to take the day off. Sharon’s in hospital."
I take a deep breath and hit ‘Send’. Surely, this is my last day with Vision Media, but it doesn’t matter anyway. I sealed my fate last week when I flashed my nudes in the boardroom. And with Sharon in hospital, can’t even bring myself to care about my job. The office feels distant and unimportant. Those spreadsheets, the reports, the deadlines; all of it fades into insignificance. All I can think of is my daughter. My entire world has narrowed down to this hospital corridor and the emergency room where Sharon was taken.
She has to get well.
After what feels like forever, a doctor finally comes out with a thin manila folder in his hand. His serious face makes my stomach drop.
"Ms. Williams," he says. "Unfortunately, your daughter’s condition is more severe than we originally believed. Immediate surgery is necessary." His voice is neutral and professional, but his words knock the breath out of me.
Severe condition?
Immediate surgery?
"I… understand. What’s the problem?" I choke out. It takes all my willpower to not lose balance and pass out from anxiety. "What’s going on with her, doctor?"
The doctor's face remains serious. "Appendicitis. Her appendix is severely inflamed and needs to be operated on immediately." He hands me a piece of paper and a pen. "Could you please sign this?"
Sign what?
"What exactly am I signing?" I ask as my shaking hand fumbles for the pen.
"The agreement for us to perform emergency surgery on your daughter."
My hand stops, hovering above the form. "Is there absolutely no other option?" I have no clue what I’m hoping for but the idea of these doctors cutting my baby girl open feels unbearable.
"I’m afraid there isn’t, Miss Williams," he says. "If Sharon doesn’t undergo surgery, there is a high risk of rupture which can lead to dangerous infections like sepsis," he explains.
I stare at him dumbly. "What does that mean?"
"To put it simply, her life may be at stake."
The corridor spins around me and I have to hold onto something to steady myself. I nod and sign the paper without really understanding what’s happening. My brain has shut down, unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation. The words "Sharon’s life may be at stake" just don’t fit together in my mind.
The doctor senses my fear because he adds, "Try not to worry too much, Ms. Williams."
Yeah, right.
Like that’s possible.
"Sharon is in good hands here," he continues. "Besides, she’s young and strong; kids bounce back from these kinds of surgeries much quicker than us adults."
His words are meant to be reassuring, but they feel hollow in the face of my terror. Still, I cling to them. The paramedics said the same thing. Maybe it’s just what they’re supposed to say in situations like this?
"Can I see her?" I ask quietly. "Before the surgery, I mean."
The doctor nods. "Of course. She’s a bit groggy from the pain medication, but she’s awake. She’s down the hall, being prepared for the operation."
I’m moving before he finishes speaking, my feet carrying me toward my daughter. At the end of the hallway, I spot her small form on a raised hospital bed, dwarfed by the machinery surrounding her. My heart clenches at the sight.
As I approach, her eyes flutter open, struggling against the heavy pull of the pain meds. "Mommy," she murmurs.
I’m at her side in an instant, my hand finding hers. "Everything’s going to be fine, baby," I whisper. "You’re my strong little bunny, remember?" I press a kiss to her forehead, inhaling her scent that is now tinged with antiseptic.
All too soon, a nurse appears. "I need to take her to the surgery room, ma’am."
I watch helplessly as they wheel Sharon away. The double doors swing shut behind them with a finality that leaves me cold. And just like that, I’m alone again.
The hospital corridor suddenly feels vast and empty around me. The loneliness that engulfs me feels cosmic in its intensity. I’ve never in my life felt so powerless. So helpless. Not even in my darkest days, or after Emily’s death.
Emily’s gone.
Mom’s gone.
Maron’s gone.
I can’t lose the one person who means everything to me: my daughter.
I find myself slumping against the wall, my legs barely holding me up. A prayer, rusty from disuse, forms on my lips. "Please, God," I whisper into the uncaring fluorescent lights, "let her be okay. Just let her be okay. I’ll do anything. No matter what it is."
The words hang in the air. They feel hollow, a desperate plea to a deity I’m not even sure I believe in anymore. But in this moment, I’d bargain with the devil himself if it meant keeping my daughter healthy.
As the hours drag on, my body begins to rebel against the stress and the sleeplessness. My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday’s dinner, but the thought of food turns my gut. My throat is parched, crying out for water, yet I can’t bring myself to leave this spot, afraid I’d miss news about Sharon.
The bright neon light of the hospital ward bores into my skull, intensifying the dull throb behind my eyes. Exhaustion begins to weigh on me. I fight it, forcing my eyes to stay open, but I can’t. My eyelids close, then open again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually, a gentle touch on my shoulder snaps me out of my daze. I have no idea how much time has passed. I blink, disoriented, and find the same doctor standing over me.
My eyes snap open, instantly alert, scanning his expression for answers. But before he can even speak, the room tilts, a disorienting whirl that makes my heart drop like a stone. Fear tightens around my throat, sharp and unrelenting, bracing me for the worst possible outcome.
"Ms. Williams, your daughter…" he begins, biting his lower lip, and I’m sure I’m about to pass out.