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‘Do you need to get consent for this?’ I asked, perfectly aware that ‘Next of kin’ on Finn’s hospital form was tellingly blank.
The doctor shook his head. ‘Not in cases where an incapacitated patient requires emergency treatment to save their life. Then it becomes a medical decision.’
Suddenly, I was very glad of the wall I was leaning against. I’d known Finn’s condition was serious, of course I had, but I’d had no idea that the threat of actually losing him was this close. Every dreadful moment of the last six days was suddenly eclipsed by this one.
The doctor’s eyes flicked towards the wall clock and his sense of urgency was obvious.
‘I’m sorry but I need to go. I will get word to you as soon as we have news.’
I watched the man who held Finn’s life in his hands hurry away, before sliding slowly down the wall with a helpless cry.
*
Finn was in surgery for six hours, and I spent most of that time pacing the hospital corridors and then the perimeter of the waiting room I was eventually led to. I shared the space with two other families, and although we didn’t introduce ourselves, I felt a bond with those strangers whose lives, like mine, had been put on pause as we waited for news of our loved ones. Outwardly, we had little in common, yet we tensed in unison whenever the door swung open and someone received an update. Eventually, both families got good news and left the room with sympathetic smiles that were tinged with survivor’s guilt.
By 1 a.m., my phone had finally fallen silent. The endless stream of messages and texts from friends and family would no doubt resume in the morning, but by then I would hopefully have something to tell them. For now, I relished the quiet.
I trod a path to the nurses’ station repeatedly throughout the night, desperate for news. But each enquiry was met with the same response: ‘Mr Douglas is still in surgery.’ Finally, too exhausted to stand, I lay down on the uncomfortable waiting-room chairs, my face turned towards the door. My eyes felt hot, gritty and dry, which was curious given the quantity of tears I’d shed.
I would have sworn I was too overwrought for sleep, but somehow it caught up with me anyway. My eyes drooped to a close, and the dream immediately reached out and grabbed me. The plastic seats beneath me became the twisted wreckage of the Gran Torino as my subconscious chillingly reconstructed the conditions Finn had endured. Floodwater was thundering into the vehicle, but, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t reach Finn, for I was entangled in the folds of my wedding dress, which, bizarrely, I appeared to be wearing.
‘I can’t get to you,’ I cried desperately.
‘It’s all right,’ Finn replied with a quiet, almost eerie calm. ‘I’m here. I’ll always be here. I love you, Gemma. Please don’t ever forget that.’
It sounded horribly like a goodbye, and my involuntary cry of protest was lost somewhere between slumber and reality as a sound jerked me awake.
The door to the waiting room was open and within its frame stood the surgeon from earlier, who looked every bit as exhausted as me. He was still wearing his surgical scrubs.
His eyes met mine, and I died a thousand times over as I waited for a sign that Finn’s surgery had been successful. Finally, he nodded and slowly smiled. The green-gowned medic shimmered behind a fresh wave of tears, but this time they were happy and hopeful ones.
‘It was a long and complicated procedure, and in the end we needed to remove his spleen.’
I had no idea what that even meant, but I nodded happily as if it were an entirely superfluous organ.
‘The dislocated shoulder and fractured arm were an easy fix, but he might require further surgery on his leg. But the good thing is that we managed to save it.’
I gasped softly, realising how close Finn had come to having life-altering injuries.
‘It’ll be a slow road to recovery, but he’s a strong and healthy young man. He should get there.’
It wasn’t a conscious decision, but I suddenly launched myself at the surgeon who’d saved the life of the man I loved, hugging him so tightly he was probably fearful for his ribs.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I gasped between hiccupping sobs.
He patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and I got the sense this wasn’t the first time he’d been on the receiving end of such effusive gratitude.
‘Someone will come along shortly to take you to him,’ the physician said, gently extricating himself from my bear hug.
I was still thanking him as he backed silently out of the room.
*
I got to Finn’s room before he did. It looked odd with an empty space where the bed was meant to be. There was a window that looked out on to a view I suspected was better by night than by day. The harsh grey contours of the multi-storey car park were softened by its lighting. I had no idea if Finn would be in hospital long enough to grow tired of this view.
A trundling of rubber wheels on linoleum had me spinning around from the window. Four people entered the room – five if you counted Finn, and, truthfully, he was the only one I was looking at. I was like a runner on the starting line, itching to race across the room towards him, but I forced myself to wait patiently as they carefully manoeuvred his bed into position and then ensured that the drips, monitors and other paraphernalia that had travelled with him were where they needed to be.
And then, finally, there was just one nurse left. She ran her hand professionally over Finn’s forehead, but he didn’t flinch or even react to her touch. She looked up and smiled at me across the room, where I was still hovering hesitantly.
