6. Meredith #2
It’s already been an exhausting day, and saying anything that could be misconstrued as antagonistic will only make things worse.
If June wants to sit in silence, who am I to stop her?
She’s got enough to deal with right now without entertaining small talk and reassuring me that she’s not somehow secretly mad at me. I’m just being insecure.
The only thing that matters right now is that Mom is lying somewhere beyond those doors.
When the doctor finally steps into the waiting room, clipboard tucked under one arm, every head snaps up at once.
“Grant-Holloways?” she says as she looks up, offering a slight nod as she recognizes Richard and me. “Thank you for waiting.”
We all move to stand, but it’s Sophie who speaks up first. “Is she okay?”
The doctor folds her hands over the clipboard and offers a practiced, reassuring smile. “We’ve confirmed that Eleanor has aspiration pneumonia. Given her age and preexisting cognitive impairment, this isn’t unusual.”
Sophie tucks Trent under her arm.
“What does that mean exactly?” Richard asks, voice gruff.
“It means some food or liquid entered her lungs instead of her stomach,” the doctor explains. “This caused an infection. But the good news is we caught it early. She’s already responding to antibiotics, and with oxygen support and monitoring, we expect her to improve.”
Sophie nods vigorously. “So, she’ll be okay?”
“For now, yes,” the doctor says. “We’ll likely keep her here for a few days to make sure the infection clears and her oxygen levels stabilize. Once she’s steady, she’ll be discharged back into your care.”
Trent sags into his sister in relief, shoulders dropping. Sophie pulls him in tight, whispering something into his hair.
It is good news. Objectively.
But there’s something about the doctor’s posture that sets off alarms in my head. I’ve spent enough time in hospitals with Eleanor to recognize when a doctor is warming us up for something else.
“For now, you said?” I ask quietly.
She meets my eyes. And that’s all the confirmation I need.
Something cold slides into my stomach.
“Let’s sit somewhere more private,” she says gently.
Sophie stiffens. Trent straightens. Richard rises, jaw set. We follow the doctor into a small consultation room. I barely register that June is following until she closes the door behind us with a soft click.
The doctor gestures for us all to sit as she takes her seat behind the desk. “Eleanor’s aspiration pneumonia is completely treatable, and she will very likely recover from this episode. But, given the progression of her dementia, this won’t be the last time something like this happens.”
Sophie’s breath catches. “But if we catch it in time, she can recover from it, right?”
“She may bounce back from this,” the doctor says gently. “But as dementia advances, the swallowing reflex weakens. Confusion increases. Mobility decreases. Infections become more frequent and harder to recover from.”
Trent pulls Sophie toward him as the weight of the implication begins to settle on us all.
I grip the arms of my chair so hard my fingers go numb.
Richard leans forward. “So what are you saying? That we’ll be in here every few months?”
“I’m saying it’s time to start thinking about palliative planning.
” It’s almost kinder that she doesn’t hesitate but presents this earth-shattering news as fact.
“Not because Eleanor is at the end right this moment, but because her condition is declining. And you’ll want a plan in place before you’re forced to make decisions in a crisis. ”
Silent tears slip down Sophie’s cheeks as she buries her face in Trent’s shoulder. He’s stroking her hair, his own eyes wet but blinking rapidly.
It hurts to look at them. It hurts to acknowledge what’s being said at all.
And the problem is that it’s just…very inconclusive, isn’t it? There’s not enough detail. If we knew all the details, maybe we could figure it out. The whole picture is incomplete, but if we could just get the facts in line, maybe I could…
“What kind of timeline are we talking about?” I ask too quickly. “Months? A year?”
“Meredith!” comes Sophie’s miserably wet outcry.
“No, she’s right.” Richard shakes his head, surprisingly supportive. “This isn’t the time to be clutching our pearls. Do we need a specialist to come in, give a second opinion?”
I nod along, grateful that someone seems to be on the same wavelength. “And we can upgrade our equipment at home. Get a better monitoring system in place. Do you think she’ll be up and walking? We don’t have rails in the hallway yet. But we can put those up tonight.”
Regardless of how manic or specific our questions become, the doctor answers each with a calm, methodical manner that ensures my hastily scrawled notes will be legible later.
I don’t notice anything is wrong until the door slams. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot, and I jerk around, finding June’s chair empty. My heart stutters. Of course she’s gone. Of course this is too much for her. I should’ve checked on her. I should’ve noticed she wasn’t speaking.
Sophie pulls away from Trent long enough to glance at the doorway. “Where did she?—”
“I’ll go,” I say immediately. “You guys go sit with Mom. I’ll find her.”
None of them argues as I push through the door, into the too-bright hallway.