Chapter 15 #2
Meanwhile, Hunter watches me with a hooded expression, his eyes roaming over the many cords snaking around my body. He admitted to hating hospitals too. Now that I know he blames himself for his sister’s death, I wonder how hard it is for him to be here.
“It’s probably going to be a while before we get any answers, and it’s pretty boring around here,” I say before I can second--guess myself. “You can totally go. I’ll text you when I hear anything.”
Surprise and a shadow of something else—something I can’t quite identify—flickers across Hunter’s face. “Oh . . . if you’re sure.”
“My mom is right—you’ve done more than enough today.” I force a smile. He has endured plenty of suffering. I don’t need to add to it.
His eyebrows pull together. “If you’re sure,” he repeats, and I can only clamp my teeth together and nod.
His eyes roam over my face, intent, searching. The corners of his mouth tighten. “I probably should go finish up some work. I’ll check in with Lou in a bit if I haven’t heard from you.”
After the door closes behind him, my mom softly comments, “It seems I was right after all.”
I shove the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing myself to get it together before asking, “About what?”
“You and Hunter.”
“There is no ‘me and Hunter.’”
My mom snorts delicately. “You mean that young man who bent over backward to help you all week, then completely changed his entire schedule to take care of you today, and then rushed you to the hospital and didn’t want to leave your side until you told him to go?”
“You forced him to stay with me today, and you told him to go first!”
“Only because I was testing him,” Mom says. “Finding out if he really wanted to stay or only felt obligated to be here. He passed, by the way.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I let my head fall back against the hospital bed, still covering my face with my hands.
And of course, Dr. Thorup chooses that moment to knock and then bustle into the room.
Even though Dr. Thorup is a brilliant, world-renowned heart surgeon, I still miss Dr. Nielsen and his kind bedside manner.
After I graduated from high school, I couldn’t go to a pediatric doctor any longer.
He recommended Dr. Thorup, and that was that.
Now my doctor is shorter than I, fifty-something, and about as friendly as a bristle brush.
“Well, these results are not ideal, but not as bad as they could be,” he says without preamble.
No, “Hey, Olivia, it’s been a while,” or anything; Dr. Thorup goes straight for the jugular, so to speak.
Which I supposed is an effective time--management strategy.
But it does make for jarring visits. “Your white blood cell count is at 17,200, so there’s clearly an infectious process happening.
Your influenza test came back negative, but you tested positive for strep.
The good news is that we can get you on an IV antibiotic and hopefully nip this in the bud.
Of course, we’re going to have to keep a very close eye on that WBC and any other infectious markers to see if there’s something viral going on here too.
As far as your heart goes, everything else is currently holding steady. Initial telemetry reports look solid.”
I blink, trying to take in the rapid fire of information.
“Winny will be back in to start the IV and get the anti-biotic going. We’ll also give you some fluids to try to bring your fever down.
I’m going to have her do a few more blood draws over the next few hours to make sure your WBC is dropping.
You know the drill if it doesn’t. As long as everything holds steady, I’ll check back on you in a few hours.
If things take a turn, I’ll be back sooner. ”
I barely have time to say, “Thanks,” before he turns and marches back out, already making notes on the notepad he holds. “I miss Dr. Nielsen,” I say.
Mom sighs. “Not all brilliant surgeons can also be as thought-ful as he was. What matters is how good your doctor is at keeping you healthy and alive, not his personality.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I look out the window, at the cloudless sky visible through the double-paned glass. “You should probably go back to the ICU, stay with Farmor now that we know it’s not that serious.”
“You’re not in the clear yet,” Mom argues. “That WBC wasn’t great.”
“I don’t want her to be alone,” I say to the blue sky that is out of my reach—at least for now. I don’t finish my thought: in case she doesn’t make it.
No one should die alone.
“I’ll go back to check on her once your IV is started and I know you’re stable.”
I know it’s the best I’ll get from her.
“Your brothers are also worried, so you might want to text them.”
I groan. “You told the boys?”
“They have a right to know if you’re in trouble.”
“They should be enjoying college, not worrying about me, especially when they’re already upset because of Farmor. It’s just strep throat, something most people take less than a day to heal from once they get antibiotics.”
“Well, you’re not most people.”
“Don’t I know it.” I exhale. “Can you please text them and tell them I’ll FaceTime them later tonight? I want to rest for now, if I can.”
I’m not even lying—I feel awful. My head pounds, my throat burns, my body aches, and I’m alternating between being chilled and too hot, yet I still have a flash of guilt when my mom jumps to her feet.
“Oh, of course, honey. I’m sorry. You know how I get. I’m not even thinking. I just like being near you. But you rest. I’ll let everyone know how you are and go find a drink or something. I’ll be back in a bit.” She leans over to press a brief kiss to my forehead.
“Thanks, Mom.” She’s almost to the door when I add, “I hope you know how much I love you.”
“Always, sweetie.” She smiles, a tired but relieved upturn of her lips, and then she’s gone, softly closing the door behind her, leaving me in this hospital room that’s as familiar as the scar on my sternum.
Alone for the first time, I stare unseeingly at the wall in front of me. I put my hand on my chest.
Keep beating. Keep me alive.
A prayer, a plea—and a command.
Please, God, don’t let me die.
I’m not ready to be done. But then again, will I ever be? At what point will I think: There, that’s it. This is the moment when I’ve lived enough to be ready to go?
I’ll never see eighty. Sixty would be another miracle when I’ve already snatched more than my fair share of them.
I’ll never have a normal life expectancy.
No matter how much I wish I could look at my future and hope for marriage, children, grandchildren, for white hair dusted with cinnamon and aching feet from seventy years of holding me up, that’s not in the stars for me.
And I hate it. I’m so grateful to be alive, and I absolutely hate that I will never have an entire lifetime to look forward to.
I hate that if I want to live longer than my mid-thirties, someone else will have to die for me again. How can I possibly hope for that?
I hate that every guy I’ve ever started to love has broken up with me because this is my reality.
I hate that Farmor wanted me to make a promise I can’t keep because no one should spend a shortened life with someone who is fundamentally broken.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears still leak out, slipping down my cheeks. Anxiety as familiar as this room surges, and my heart rate jumps, threatening to set off the alarms and send my medical team rushing into the room.
I clutch my medical gown and will myself into the here and now. I’m on my hospital bed. My fever is coming down. The antibiotics are working. It’s not my time—yet.
And for now, that is enough. It has to be because it’s all I have to cling to.