I should be horrified. Appalled. This isn't how things are supposed to work. But I've been here too many times. Sat in too many waiting rooms. Watched too many people suffer while numbers are called and forms are filled out. I'm not proud of what's happening, but this is my mom. I'd do anything for her.
And this? This speed. This immediate attention. As wrong as it is, I can't help it. I'm impressed. Within seconds, people move. Fast. A gurney appears. Hands reach for my mother.
"Ma'am, we've got you?—"
Gabe doesn't let go immediately. His eyes lock on the doctor rushing toward us.
"She's having a stroke," he barks in a cold, controlled voice. "Right side weakness. Slurred speech. Pain."
The doctor nods, already working. "Get her in a room. Now."
They transfer her. I follow. Barely aware of anything except her voice, "Au… au… it hurts…"
"I'm here," I whisper, gripping her hand tighter. "I'm right here."
We're moving again. Down a hallway. Through a door. And suddenly, we're in a private room. Just like that. Machines and monitors sit there, ready to be connected to my mom.
I remember one time I hit my head rollerblading. Mom drove me to the ER. While a compassionate nurse handed me a towel to press against the bleeding, Mom filled out form after form. Handed over her credit card. It seemed like hours before I was shuffled into a hallway. I was nine.
Here, a nurse is already wrapping a cuff around her arm. Another preps a needle.
"Blood pressure is high," the first nurse announces. "210/125."
"Let's get labs. Full panel. Neuro consult," the doctor orders. "Prep imaging."
Everything moves at once. My mom cries out as they tighten the cuff. "Au! It hurts—It hurts?—"
"I know, I know," I whisper, brushing her hair back. Used to her complaints. "It's okay?—"
She jerks when the needle goes in. Screams. "Stop! Stop?—!"
"Hold her steady," the nurse demands.
"I've got her," I say quickly, even as my own hands tremble. Gabe steps closer. Too close. Towering. His presence fills the room in a way that has nothing to do with size.
"Do not hurt her," he warns.
The nurse freezes for half a second.
Then nods quickly. "We're being as gentle as possible."
"Be better," he replies.
No raised voice. No theatrics. Just… expectation.
They move faster. More carefully. More aware. I look at him. Really look at him. At the way the room bends around him. At the way people respond without question. At the way he stands there like nothing—Nothing—is out of his control. And I?—
I hate that a part of me is relieved he's here.
The room settlesinto a controlled kind of chaos. Machines hum. Monitors beep. People move in tight, efficient patterns. They've hooked her up to everything: EKG leads, IV, blood pressure cycling every few minutes.
She looks smaller in that bed. But not weak.
"I'm cold," Stacy says, her voice is thin but insistent.
A nurse is already moving. "I'll get you a blanket."
She returns within seconds, wrapping it around her carefully. Stacy tugs at it immediately, adjusting it to her liking. "No, higher. My shoulders."
