Chapter 14 | Heather #2
Cole nodded, setting his medical bag down on the small table beside the bed with movements that were economical and practiced.
"Good. The IV fluids probably helped clear some toxins that were building up.
" He looked down at Mom's sleeping face, his expression softening with something that looked like genuine concern. "May I examine her?"
I shifted my chair back to give him space, watching as he opened his bag and withdrew the familiar tools of medical assessment—stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, a small flashlight that he tested with a quick click before approaching the bed.
Mom stirred as he placed the blood pressure cuff around her arm, her eyes opening with the slightly unfocused look that came with waking from medication-aided sleep. But when she saw Cole's serious face hovering above her, she smiled with surprising warmth.
"The mortician," she said, her voice still thick with drowsiness but carrying a note of teasing that I hadn't heard from her in months. "Come to check whether I'm ready for your services?"
Cole's lips quirked upward in what might have been the beginning of a smile, though his expression remained professionally composed. "Not quite yet, I hope," he replied, his tone dry as autumn leaves. "Though I have to say, your timing would be terrible. I'm completely booked through next Tuesday."
Mom's laugh was barely more than a wheeze, but it was genuine, and I felt something tight in my chest loosen at the sound. "Well then," she said, "I suppose I'll have to stick around a while longer."
"I'd appreciate that," Cole said, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around her thin arm with movements that were gentle despite the clinical nature of his task. "Dead patients are much easier to work with, but they're terrible conversationalists."
I found myself smiling despite the macabre nature of his humor, understanding instinctively that this was Cole's way of making a frightening situation more bearable.
Death was his daily profession, but instead of making him callous, it seemed to have given him a unique perspective on the value of the time we had left.
The blood pressure cuff inflated with a soft hissing sound, and Cole watched the gauge with the focused attention of someone reading vital information. "Ninety-seven over sixty," he announced after a moment. "Better than I expected, actually."
He moved on to the stethoscope, warming the metal disk between his palms before placing it against Mom's chest. The room fell quiet except for the distant sounds of construction work, and I held my breath while he listened to her lungs, which had been failing her for weeks.
"Deep breath," he instructed, moving the stethoscope to different positions on her chest and back. "And another."
Mom complied as best she could, though I could see the effort each breath required. Cole's expression remained neutral throughout the examination, giving away nothing about what he was hearing or what it might mean for the trajectory of her illness.
"The fluid buildup is definitely reduced," he said finally, coiling the stethoscope with practiced efficiency.
"The hospital medication is doing its job.
" He paused, studying Mom's face with the careful attention of someone accustomed to delivering hard information with compassion.
"But I can see you're still experiencing significant discomfort. "
Mom nodded, her hand moving to her chest where I knew the constant ache had been growing worse despite the improvement in her breathing. "It's manageable," she said, but the tightness around her eyes told a different story.
"It doesn't have to be just manageable," Cole said, reaching into his medical bag again.
"I brought stronger pain medication. Something that will help you rest more comfortably.
" He withdrew a small vial and a syringe, handling both with the careful precision of someone who understood how powerful the contents were.
"This is morphine. It will help with both the pain and the anxiety that comes with struggling to breathe. "
I watched him prepare the injection with movements that were both efficient and reassuring. The needle was tiny, hardly visible against his dark clothing, but I could see Mom's apprehension as he approached with it.
"Just a small pinch," Cole said, his voice gentler than I'd heard it before. "And then you should feel much more comfortable."
The injection took only seconds, but its effect was almost immediate.
I watched the lines of pain that had become so familiar in Mom's face soften, her breathing becoming deeper and more regular as the medication took hold.
Her shoulders, which had been hunched with chronic tension, gradually relaxed against the pillows.
"Better?" Cole asked, disposing of the syringe in a small sharps container he'd brought with him.
"Much," Mom replied, her voice carrying a note of wonder, as if she'd forgotten what it felt like to exist without constant discomfort. "Thank you."
Cole packed his supplies with the same methodical precision he'd used to prepare them, but his eyes remained fixed on Mom's face, monitoring her response to the medication with professional attention.
"This should help for several hours," he said.
"I'll leave additional doses with Heather, along with instructions for administration. "
As he closed his medical bag and prepared to leave, I found myself overwhelmed by gratitude that felt too large for words.
"Thank you," I whispered, the words feeling inadequate but carrying all the emotion I could pack into them.
Cole turned toward me, his dark eyes meeting mine with understanding that went deeper than professional courtesy. "It's nothing," he said simply, but there was warmth in his voice that suggested it was everything to him.
As I followed him toward the door, he paused in the hallway, his hand coming up to rest on my shoulder with surprising gentleness. The contact sent awareness shooting through my entire system.
"She's comfortable now," he said, his thumb brushing against the fabric of my shirt in a gesture that felt both professional and personal. "Let her rest as long as she can."
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady, and watched as he turned to walk away.
Before Cole could disappear down the hallway, and before I lost my courage entirely, I reached out and caught his hand in mine.
His skin was cold and rough from years of working with his hands, and the contact sent that familiar jolt of recognition through my system that I was beginning to associate with all four members of their pack.
"Cole," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Wait."
He turned back toward me, his dark eyes scanning my face. "How long?" I asked, the words coming out smaller and more broken than I'd intended. "I need to know. How long does she have?"
Something shifted in Cole's expression, a sadness so profound it made my chest ache in sympathy.
He glanced back toward Mom's room, where we could hear the steady rhythm of her improved breathing, then looked at me with eyes that held too much knowledge about death and dying and the cruel mathematics of terminal illness.
"Days," he said quietly, his voice gentle but unflinchingly honest. "A week at most."
The words hit me like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs and making the hallway tilt sideways around me.
I'd known, somewhere deep in the part of my mind that I'd been trying to ignore, that this was coming.
But hearing it stated so plainly, with such clinical certainty, made it real in a way that all the careful observations and whispered fears hadn't accomplished.
My knees went weak, and I felt myself swaying as if the floor beneath my feet had become unsteady. The walls seemed to press closer; the air grew thin. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision, and I realized I was about to faint.
Cole moved with the quick reflexes of someone accustomed to medical crises, his hands finding my shoulders to steady me before I could collapse entirely. "Easy," he murmured, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. "Let's get you sitting down."
His palm pressed against the small of my back, steering me toward the hallway where the old wooden chair sat beneath a pile of half-folded sheets.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
He caught my elbow when I stumbled, his fingers leaving impressions as he eased me down onto the seat.
The chair creaked. My fingers fluttered against my thighs like trapped birds, and each breath whistled through my teeth, leaving my chest hollow and my vision sparkling at the edges.
Cole knelt in front of me, bringing himself down to my eye level. His toffee scent wrapped around me, mixing with the cold antiseptic smell that clung to his clothes, creating something that was oddly comforting despite the devastating news he'd just delivered.
"The morphine will help," he said, his voice steady and sure despite the emotion I could see in his dark eyes. "Her passing will be pain free. The medication will keep her comfortable, keep her from struggling for breath the way she was at the hospital."
I tried to process what he was saying, tried to find comfort in the promise of a peaceful death, but all I could think about was how little time we had left, how many things I'd been planning to say and do when she got better, when we had more time, when the crisis had passed.
"But she looks so much better," I protested, my voice thick with tears that were already spilling down my cheeks. "She was awake, talking, laughing at your jokes. She ate almost half the bowl of risotto. How can she be dying when she seems so much more alive than she has in weeks?"
Cole's expression grew even gentler, if such a thing were possible, and I saw recognition in his eyes that suggested this was a conversation he'd had many times before with families struggling to understand the cruel mathematics of terminal illness.
"It's called a rally," he said softly, his hands coming up to rest on my knees in a gesture that anchored me to something solid while the world shifted around me.
"Often, patients will have a period of seeming improvement right before the end.
Their pain decreases, their breathing becomes easier, they become more alert and able to engage with the people they love," he paused, studying my face with infinite compassion.
"It's the body's way of giving families a chance to say goodbye. "
The tears were flowing freely now, running down my face in hot streams I made no effort to wipe away.
Everything he was saying made terrible, perfect sense, explaining the false hope that had been building in my chest all afternoon as I watched Mom become more like her old self than she'd been in months.
"She should have warned me," I whispered, though even as I said it, I knew that wasn't fair. How could Dr. Patterson have predicted something that sounded more like a cruel miracle than a medical phenomenon?
"Most people don't know to expect it," Cole said, his thumbs brushing against the fabric of my jeans in small, comforting circles. "Even medical professionals can be caught off guard by how dramatic the improvement can seem."
I leaned forward, burying my face in my hands as sobs shook my entire frame.
All the strength I'd been trying to maintain for Mom, for the children, for everyone who depended on me to be steady and capable, crumbled at once.
I cried for the conversations we'd never have, for the milestones she'd never see the children reach, for the empty space she'd leave behind in a world that already felt too fragile to survive another loss.
Cole's arms came around me then, pulling me against his chest with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his usual serious demeanor. His embrace was warm and solid, his toffee scent mixing with the salt of my tears and creating something that felt like safety in the middle of devastation.
"You won't be alone through this," he whispered against my hair, his voice so quiet that his words felt like secrets shared between us. "We'll be here. All of us. Whatever you need, whenever you need it."
I clung to him. His heartbeat was steady against my ear, a reminder that life continued even in the face of death, that there were people willing to stand beside me when everything felt like it was falling apart.
"What do I tell the children?" I asked, my voice muffled against his chest.
"Whatever feels right," he replied, his hand stroking my back with gentle repetition. "They're stronger than you think, and they deserve the chance to say goodbye too, if that's what you think is best."
I pulled back slightly to look at his face, seeing compassion there that went far beyond professional obligation. "How do you do this?" I asked. "How do you deal with death every day and still care so much?"
Something flickered across his expression, too quick for me to identify, but when he spoke his voice was steady. "Because life is precious," he said simply. "Every moment matters, especially the last ones. And no one should have to face those moments alone."
He helped me to my feet, his hands steady on my arms until he was sure I could stand without swaying. "Go back to her," he said gently. "Spend whatever time she has left by her side. Say the things you need to say, listen to whatever she wants to tell you. We'll handle everything else."
I nodded, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand and trying to gather enough composure to return to Mom's room without falling apart.
"Thank you," I said, the words feeling insufficient for everything he'd given me—honest answers, gentle comfort, and the promise that I wouldn't face the coming days alone.
Cole nodded, with the ghost of a smile.
As I made my way back toward Mom's room, I could hear him walking down the hall in the opposite direction, his footsteps confident despite the difficult conversation we'd just shared.
The sounds of construction work continued around us, the productive noise of people working to repair what had been broken, but now it felt like a soundtrack to loss rather than hope.