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Laying my head back, I sigh. “Four months now, Den. It doesn’t seem possible,” I mumble to the ceiling. “Four months without you.”
Usually at these times, I try to distract myself, but it won’t work. I hear the quiet of the empty house tonight. It’s louder than the TV or any music I could play. It comes from inside, trapped in my chest.
The ring of my phone startles me, and anxiety blooms in my stomach when I see it’s from Oliver’s rehab. Oliver would call from his cell. Something’s wrong.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Ella?”
“Yes.” I recognize Freya’s voice. She’s been Oliver’s night nurse since he was admitted. “What’s going on Freya? Is he okay?”
“He’s threatening to sign himself out against medical advice and leave. Dr. Gable is in with him now, trying to reason with him. I’m not sure he’ll be successful. I thought he might listen to you.”
“I’m on my way.”
Fuck.
Thankfully, it’s only a fifteen minute drive to the rehab center. I make it in ten.
Oliver sits in the chair in the corner of his room. He’s already gathered his belongings and is fully dressed.
Dr. Gable regards me. “Hi Ella, we were just discussing Oliver’s options. He’s not too happy tonight.”
“Don’t talk about me like a misbehaving child,” Oliver says through gritted teeth. I can’t say I blame him. It did sound patronizing.
He stands up and stalks across the room. He’s regained his balance and grown so much stronger in the six weeks he’s been here. He begins to pace, and the look in his eyes is that of a trapped animal in a cage. His sudden glare pins me.
He juts a finger toward Dr. Gable. “He says you make my medical decisions. That I need your signature to leave, or they’ll contact authorities to force me to return.”
Thanks for throwing me under that bus, Dr. Gable. I could’ve told him threats wouldn’t work. He takes my silence for confirmation.
His chest heaves on a deep breath and he strides over until we’re face to face. “I don’t want your signature to leave. I want your signature releasing the medical proxy. I can make my own decisions now.”
It’s time to be strong. Despite how I hate to see him hurting and angry, I have to do what’s best for him. But what’s best? How much progress is he going to make here if he’s forced to stay? He’ll view it as a prison and either become completely uncooperative, or he’ll take off anyway. He’s not insane or unable to know what he wants just because he hasn’t regained his memory. He can think logically and does when his emotions aren’t overwhelming him like they are now.
Keeping my voice calm, I reply. “You think you’re capable of making the best decisions for yourself, right now?”
“Yes. I’m not a child who needs to be told when to go to bed, when to get up, what to eat, or when to rest. I’m fucking done with it.”
“So, that would be the first decision you’d make? To leave here.”
His jaw hardens. “I am leaving. I don’t give a fuck what any paperwork says.”
“If you want to go, ultimately no one is going to be able to stop you.” That’s not strictly true. I’m sure they could sedate him. But I’m not sure how it actually works. When I became his medical power of attorney he was still in a coma. He couldn’t make those decisions for himself. Arguably, he could take me off that document himself. It’s not like he’s been found incompetent and committed or anything.
He looks vindicated at my words, until I continue. “Just tell me, Oliver, where are you going to go?” He blinks as if he hadn’t even considered it.Away from hereseemed to be his only goal. “When you walk out of here, where are you headed? Home? Do you know where you live? Do you know where you work?”
His expression melts from anger into distress. I hate it but he needs to face reality. “Are you going to be able to get your medications, take them on time, get yourself to therapy? Can you make your own meals, drive yourself where you need to go? What are you going to do if you have another seizure, or when your migraine is so bad you can’t open your eyes?”
“Fuck!” he shouts and begins pacing again. He drops into the chair and leans over with his head in his hands. “I don’t have a home. I don’t have anything.”
I kneel in front of him. “You do. You absolutely have a home. You have friends and a successful business. You have a wonderful life to return to, Oliver. That’s what you’ve been working so hard toward. You’ve done an amazing job, and I’m so proud of you.”
I’m not sure if my words are getting through. He remains silent, holding his head. Stress brings on a lot of his symptoms and he’s probably barreling toward a migraine.
“Dr. Gable, the therapies and treatments he’s receiving now, could they all be accomplished on an outpatient basis?” I ask.
It isn’t a question he expects. “I can’t say I’d advise it at this point.”
