53. Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Three
Beau Drewitt
“We Believe You, Elowen.”
The door has already clicked softly behind me as I stand statue-like in the corridor.
Letting the hospital breathe around me, I watch as carts roll by with a faint rattle, shoes whisper over polished floors, and somewhere amongst the nurses’ station, a printer chirps then spits out a page that will go untouched for hours.
I close my eyes and listen through the wall. “Can you tell me your name, again?” the doctor asks, his voice leaning into a practiced calm.
“Elowen Briar,” she answers. Her voice is thin, but it doesn’t tremble.
“What kind of car do you drive?” he continues.
“What high school did you go to?” Then, “Repeat these words back to me: The sky is blue.” He waits for her response.
“Good. Now, show me your teeth. Good. Raise your eyebrows.” She answers each question diligently, performing all the tasks he asks of her.
I hear the small lift of approval in his tone.
Obvious cognitive tests to rule out the biggest maybe diagnoses.
He asks her to follow his light, followed by asking if Elowen can squeeze his fingers.
The paper cuff inflates around her arm, leaving the monitors to shift to match the squeeze and release.
Then her breathing hitches. She speaks quicker now.
“What’s wrong with me?” she asks. “Do you know why I can’t move my hands at all?
I could lift my fingers earlier and now I feel like they aren’t even there.
Beau saw them move earlier. He can vouch that somehow the medicine had worn off and then came back. ”
The doctor’s mind runs amuck with ideas, but nothing I can fully comprehend.
He leans closer and I can hear the fabric of his coat slide.
His pen starts to trace from the tips of her fingers up past her forearm.
“Tell me exactly what you feel.” I walk to the other side of the room window and find a break in the curtain and shades between us where I can see her again.
“It’s completely numb. I can’t feel my hands or arms at all.
I swear.” Elowen says, trying to catch her breath, “Like they belong to someone else. Like I’ve completely lost control of the upper half of my body.
” Her attempt at being strong during yet another one of her scariest experiences breaks my heart.
I wish more than anything that I could swap places with her.
I’d wear this burden for her for the rest of my life to keep her out of harm’s way. This is all my fault.
“And before today,” he questions. “Any pain? Any tingling? Any weakness?”
Elowen takes a deep breath that sounds more like a decision than the beginning of a retelling.
“Months,” she says. “I told a family doctor at an appointment just a few days ago, but it was quickly brushed off. He seemed to think I was having a bout with a case of carpal tunnel. They’ve never been like this though.
This is new and I would remember if I had ever woken up with my arms and hands completely numb. ”
Silence hangs taut between them all, brief and telling.
Then, the doctor speaks towards the team.
“Note prior assessment,” he says. “We will not assume the same.” He rests his hand on her shoulder.
The doctor moves to the foot of her bed.
In the room, I can hear the click of a reflex hammer against his palm.
“Okay. Try to lift your arms for me if you can,” he says.
“I’m going to check your other strengths and responses.
” The bed sheet shifts against her skin, while the monitors kept counting.
“It feels…wrong,” she whispers. “I’m really trying, but they don’t answer. You have to believe me.”
“We believe you, Elowen. Don’t worry about that.
I’m going to have you moved to the side of the bed and use this small hammer to check the other responses.
” The nurses shift the sheets and bring Elowen to a steady sitting position off the side of the bed, removing the cannula from her face.
Thank god her oxygen is back up to standard.
Her shoulders slightly move with her attempt to help, but still nothing from her arms and hands.
From her bicep down it seems she’s lost full control.
“I’m trying to help.” Elowen tears up behind her words to the nurses. They pat her and offer their condolences.
“I hear you,” he says towards Elowen, but gestures a,“We’re going to need to look deeper,” towards his team.
He knocks the hammer against her knees and they both respond accordingly.
He has her follow his light again. He asks her to lift one knee to where his hand is placed a few inches above, then the other.
He requests her to wiggle her left foot then toes, followed by the same on the right side.
The taller of the two nurses adjusts her main line out of the way to lay her back down whilst the other enters data into a very new tablet.
The doctor’s tone turns precise. “Elowen. This is unlikely to be the effect of the paralytic still,” he says, but continues his statement towards one of the nurses.
“Her timeline doesn’t fit. Her system should be clear by now. Get me a full diagnostics workup.”
The words slide through my brain like a splash of cold water in the dead of sleep.
Unlikely. Clear. Plan. None of them fix anything.
Yet, all of them matter. At least it brings us closer to the root cause.
I carry hope that the doctor will soon know Elowen’s true diagnosis.
He lists necessary tests: bloodwork, imaging, an additional consult, if needed, etcetera.
This is the first time I look at his badge since he has been taking care of Elowen.
Dr. Storms is his name. And Dr. Storms wants the set of labs he requested now.
He wants scans scheduled today, too. He keeps his voice even, but I hear the edge beneath it.
Curiosity and concern bending into an accepted form of discipline.
His worry holds everything in place. “Any other symptoms?” He asks.
“Neck pain? Trouble swallowing? Speech changes? Cramping? Anything at all you notice? Even if it’s something you thought you should dismiss, it will really help me here, Elowen. ”
Elowen takes her time. I see her eyes close as she searches her own body for old clues.
“Sometimes, I get something like a tremor at night,” she responds.
“Sometimes, my grip slips and my wrists ache in the morning. I’ve only ever caught myself slurring a few times, but I have anxiety, so that could explain that.
The slurring comes and goes. That probably really is anxiety. ”
He makes a note and his papers move. The reflex hammer clicks again as if he was using it as a fidget toy to stay calm. “Tell me about your family history,” Dr. Storms asks. “Parents, grandparents, any known neurological conditions, diseases?”
Her answer comes quietly. “If I’m being honest, I don’t know much,” she says.
“My grandmother raised me. She kept most stories locked up tight. She’s dead and gone now.
My chart might be more helpful than I can be—I’m sorry…
” Tears flood her eyes and my immediate instinct is to kill the guy, but we need him.
“I understand,” he replies. His voice softens for the first time.
“In the meantime, we’ll proceed with what we have.
We will most likely do an EMG, maybe a spinal tap too.
Just to rule everything out.” A printer starts somewhere in the nurses’ alcove leaving the faint scent of warm toner to drift into the hall.
Once I come to terms with the torture they’re about to submit Elowen to, I force my hands to unclench.
I pull my phone from my pocket. The glass feels foolish in my palms. I’ve lived long years without this stupid thing.
Since Elowen, I've been teaching myself to use it more fluently.
For once, it might actually help me for my own reason.
I fill the search bar with: Hand numbness.
Acute onset. Not drug related. Carpal tunnel ruled unlikely.
I scroll as the search engine offers a thousand reasons, but not a single response feels right or really aligns with all of her symptoms. 1000 links and I cross them out, one by one.
Syndromes with an alphabet list of letters.
Diseases that eat away at your nerves. Injuries that don’t match a restrained body.
Each possibility is a door that doesn’t fit the frame of Elowen’s problems. The search bar steers like an eye that doesn’t blink.
I try again. Again. Again. Again. Bilateral hand weakness.
Loss of fine motor. Post accident but not trauma limited. EMG. Spinal tap.
The results multiply, the sense does not.
Behind the door the doctor explains the plan once more.
Carrying his voice so hers could borrow that steadiness.
“We’ll start with labs today,” he said. “We will run everything imaging wise as soon as a slot opens. You are top priority right now. The medication from earlier is no longer in your system. We’ll be prepared to treat whatever we find.
” Treat whatever we find. The phrase sits heavy on my tongue. Hope remains.
I look up from my phone. The white board at the end of the hall holds a grid of names. Each name is a future trying to hold on. Elowen has no room on a board.
The brunette nurse steps out of the room with a tray of vials.
Her gaze doesn’t meet my eyes. The nurse’s pace is brisk, almost urgent.
She turns left, disappearing from my sight.
Setting my shoulder against the wall places me closer to the door.
I want to break it down and be beside her.
I want to let the humans work without me, but both desires pull until I feel as if the bones in my chest might make a clean break in the center of my sternum.
The phone lights up in my hand. I change the search again.
Hands numb. Weak wrists. Carpal tunnel misdiagnosis.
Early signs. I read until the words blur.
I force myself to stop before I start to believe every page.
Inside the room, the door now open, the doctor lowers his voice.
“We’ll discuss options with the team and return soon,” he says.
Dr. Storms steps into the hall with two nurses in his wake.
His eyes pass over me for a brief second.
Already thinking forward. He doesn’t speak, or worry about throwing me even a simple nod.
The team walks right past him and turns toward the central desk.
I watch them go and the hall feels longer than it had a moment ago.
The monitor in Elowen’s room keeps ticking against a timeline that not one of us can control.
I put the phone away and face the door again.
Time is of the essence and I’ll be damned if they don’t find a solution soon.