I stop talking when he commences convulsing without warning. His back bends harshly off the asphalt as his eyes roll into the back of his head. As he shakes through the pain no doubt rocketing through his body, I grip his hand while pleading on repeat for him to fight.
“Hold on, Noah. Please.”
“We’re losing him!” yells one of the paramedics as she jabs him with a needle.
As another attaches a portable defibrillator to Noah’s chest, I'm grabbed unexpectedly from behind. I fight with all my might to be freed from the person dragging me away from Noah, but they’re too strong. Not even my nails digging into their arm weakens their grip.
With my fight not giving me the outcome I want, I seek help from the man I always go to when I’m troubled. “Noah! Help me, please!”
When Noah’s head lolls my way, I outstretch my arm, vainly trying to reach him. He does the same, but we can't get close to one another. We’re being cruelly torn apart—again.
The scene is as gut-wrenching as the sob that rips from my throat when I'm pulled behind a police cruiser that steals Noah's eyes from my view while also cracking my heart beyond repair.
4
My foot taps up and down as I impatiently wait for news on Noah. Not long after I was dragged away from him, Noah was placed into an emergency helicopter that landed on a field opposite the crash site. He’s been in the emergency department of Parkwood University Hospital for the past several hours, but we’ve not yet been given an update on his condition. By we, I’m referring to the man who pulled me away from Noah at the crash site.
Once Noah was airlifted to the hospital, the detective told me his name is Ryan, and that he recognized me from when he took Noah’s statement after I was roofied at Mavericks. He was the officer who helped Noah stay out of jail.That confession instantly depleted my anger. Ryan didn’t drag me away from Noah to hurt me. He simply wanted Noah to get the best treatment possible. I can’t be angry at him for that.
My eyes shoot to the side when a doctor dressed in scrubs exits the flapping doors of the emergency department. While taking in the extensive red stains on his work attire, my stomach gurgles. Its flips double when he makes his way to me. I search his eyes for any indication on if Noah is alive. His face is as hard as stone, and as solid as the wall my heart built the past four hours.
“How is he?”
The surgeon smiles, but it gives no indication of Noah's condition. He seems well-rehearsed on keeping his emotions in check. "We stopped the internal bleeding by removing part of his spleen, but Noah has a cerebral edema to his brain. We succeeded in draining the hematoma pooling there—"
I swipe my hand through the air, interrupting him. I don’t understand the medical jargon he’s using. “What does that mean?”
His eyes lock with mine. The sympathy in them has my knees quaking. “We can repair the damage done to Noah’s body, but he hassignificanthead injuries. His brain suffered a substantial bleed that caused it to swell. We released the pressure in his brain by draining the blood pooling around it, but we won’t know the full extent of his injuries until we conduct further tests.”
I nod, not fully comprehending what he’s saying, but confident Noah will fight to come back to me.
“Can I see him?”
The surgeon gives an unassured shrug. “We’re in the process of transferring him to the intensive care unit. Once he’s stabilized, I'll have someone come collect you.”
When I dip my chin in gratitude, a handful of tears drip down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you better news. It’ll be touch and go for Noah the next few hours, but he’s fighting to hold on. We can’t ask much more from him than that.” After a final smile, the surgeon spins on his heels and walks back through the flappy plastic doors.
A second later, a deep voice on my left shouts my name. When I crank my neck, Jacob quickly spans the distance between us. “Is he okay?”
I shrug, genuinely unsure. "I don't know. The doctor said it's touch and go, but he's fighting. His brain is swollen.” I sound confused. Rightfully so. I am. I like to present as an intelligent woman, but today, I feel like a brainless idiot. "He's being transferred to the ICU. Once he's there, we'll be allowed to see him."
Nodding, Jacob guides me to the plastic chairs lining the walls of the emergency department, as untrusting of my wobbly legs as I am.
* * *
Approximately four hours later, a nurse from the intensive care unit collects us from the emergency department waiting room. Ryan, Jacob, and I follow her weave through numerous long white corridors. When we reach the entrance of the intensive care unit, Jacob curls his hand around mine. His heart is racing as fast as mine, his hand just as sweaty.
When the middle-aged African American nurse turns to face us, her remorseful eyes expose her sympathy. “I’m sorry, but we can only allow one visitor at a time in the ICU.”
Jacob shoves me forward. “You go first, Em. Noah would want to see you first.”
Through shaking legs, I shadow the nurse into the cold, sterile hub of the intensive care unit. Once we break through the double doors, she gestures her head to a handwashing station on my right. “We need to keep the environment as sterile as possible, so you must wash your hands thoroughly every time you enter these double doors.”
Nodding, I follow the instruction tacked above the vanity. Once my hands are void of bacteria, I dry them with the paper towels supplied before shadowing the nurse through another set of double doors.
The beat of my heart turns crazy when my eyes float around the sanitary smelling space. Numerous doctors and nurses are wearing blue surgical scrubs. Although they're not stained with blood like the one who updated me hours ago, they are a stark reminder about the grave situation I'm meandering toward.
