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“Go ahead, Doctor,” Monroe’s mom replies softly.
“How is your marriage?”
“Perfect,” I answer immediately. “What does that have to do with my wife’s condition?”
“It’s protocol to ask these types of questions.”
“They’re happy,” Emerson speaks up. “Anyone who knows them knows they’re happy.”
Doctor Hamilton nods. “Was she taking anything that you’re aware of? Has she been acting funny or outside of her usual demeanor?”
“No. She was taking the antibiotics that were given to her six days ago at urgent care, but they didn’t seem to be helping. My wife is not a drug addict.” I’m pissed off, and I don’t care who knows it. My tone is more asshole than anything, and right now, I don’t give a flying fuck.
The doctor looks me up and down as his eyes flash to the other guys.
“What? You think because we have tattoos, we’re immediately into something illegal? Let me tell you something. My skin and what I decide to do with it is my choice. Why don’t you stop being so fucking judgmental and go do your job and take care of my wife?”
“You don’t know us,” Monroe’s dad speaks up. “But I can assure you these men are honorable, and I know my daughter. She’s not using drugs.”
“You have to understand we hear this same story with almost every case, and it’s about fifty-fifty that we’re being told the truth.”
“That might be, but this time it's fact. Now, are you going to tell us what’s wrong with my daughter, or do we have to demand a new physician?” he asks. He steps beside me, placing his hand on my shoulder while sliding his arm around his wife’s waist. We stand together as a solid unit, fighting for our girl.
“Tell me a little about her illness,” the doctor asks.
“She’s been feeling bad for going on two weeks. Six days ago, she went to urgent care and was diagnosed with bronchitis. The meds they gave her didn’t seem to be helping, but she was determined to finish the prescription before going back. She’s had low energy and a deep, raspy cough. She gets out of breath easily, so she’s not been moving around a lot. She’s young and healthy and vibrant when she’s not sick.”
The doctor nods. He taps on the tablet in front of him and reads the screen before looking up at us. “We’re still waiting on the toxicology report. Not that we don’t believe you, but it’s protocol. She’s had chest X-rays and a CT scan, and we’re just waiting for radiology to read them. She’s intubated, which means the tube in her throat is helping her breathe. Mr. Raines, it’s my understanding you were the one to call 9-1-1.”
“Yes.”
“Five more minutes, and we would be looking at a very different outcome. She wouldn’t have made it, according to her vitals that were documented by the paramedics. You saved your wife’s life tonight.”
He goes on tapping at the tablet in his hand as the breath leaves my lungs, and I drop down to a chair, burying my hands in my hair.
She would have died.
If I’d waited to leave work even a second longer. If I would have stopped to get her flowers like I sometimes do, I would have lost her. Tears leak from my eyes, and a sob gets caught in my chest. I hear the doctor asking about allergies and other medical history, but I can’t pull myself out of my own grief to answer. Luckily, Emerson and her parents pick up the slack for me.
I feel a presence in front of me. Looking up, I see Forrest standing there with tears in his eyes. He drops to his knees and pulls me into a hug.
“I got you, brother. I got you.” His hug is firm as we both cry. Him for the little sister she is to him, and me for the love of my life.
We compose ourselves, and Forrest stands, taking the seat next to me as I tune back into what the doctor is saying. I need to keep it together for her.
“Her fever is high, 103.4. We’re running tests and cultures to rule out every possibility,” the doctor explains.
“When can I see her?” I ask. Even I can hear the brokenness of my voice.
“We currently have her in a medically induced coma. She’s on a strong level of IV antibiotics, fluids, and anti-viral medications. Her blood pressure was extremely low, so we’re giving her medication for that as well. We’ll know more when all the tests have come back.”
“When can I see her?” I ask again.
“We’re moving her to the ICU, where she can be closely monitored. Normally, it's two at a time, but we can do three as long as you agree to not get in the staff’s way. We want her better as badly as you do, and you need to let us do our jobs.”
“Understood. I just need to be with her.”
“Visiting hours—” he starts, but I cut him off.
