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“How old was he?”
“Twenty—a college kid.”
“What was his name?”
“Jeezuz, Aria!” I scowled. “His name is insignificant. You’re in this hospital bed because of that selfish idiot.”
“But it was an accident.”
“No, it wasn’t. It could have been prevented. He didn’t need to get behind the wheel while drunk.” I tried to calm down. I didn’t want to upset her with my loose-cannon temper.
“Did anyone else get hurt?”
“No.”
“What happened when I was brought here?”
“You went straight to the intensive care unit,” I replied. “Your injuries were internal: a collapsed lung, and your head was badly hit from the whiplash.” It was hard to say these things out loud, but she had to know the truth. “Aria, you suffered a traumatic brain injury. You weren’t conscious when they pulled you out of the car.”
“I see my patient is awake!” said a voice from the doorway.
Dr. Patrick Peters had arrived. He’d been a long-time client at my firm, and was also a good friend of mine. Standing only a couple inches shorter than me, he had salt and pepper hair thatwas cut short, with brown eyes and a dimple in his chin. Rick was in great shape for a man in his late forties.
“You’re a lucky young woman, Aria,” he said. “Every time I’ve stepped in here, your dad’s been sitting in that chair, praying for you. He loves you a lot. I’m Dr. Peters, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you.” She politely shook his hand.
“That’s a nice firm grip you’ve got there.” He chuckled. “I see you’re gaining some of your strength back.” Rick beamed at her before he looked at me. “How are you doing today, Noah?”
“Much better—relieved that she’s finally opened her eyes.”
“It’s a miracle,” he said.
“How come I’m still hooked up to all this machinery?” Aria asked.
Rick took off his stethoscope and hung it around his neck. “You suffered a brain injury, which caused you to slip into a coma once they rushed you into the ER. We’ve had to intubate you to help you breathe. There was extensive injury to the cerebral cortex of your brain, as well as the reticular activating system in the brain stem. You scored a three on the Glasgow Coma Scale.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you were unresponsive, despite strong, painful, and verbal stimuli,” Rick explained. “Your ribs are severely bruised, and there’s internal damage to your kidney.”
“My kidney?”
“Yes. You have acute kidney failure caused by the impact of the collision. Your right kidney was necrotic because of the trauma—completely gone. The other one has also suffered infarction.”
“What’s that?”
“Tissue death. A lack of proper blood supply and oxygen will cause it.”
“What about my other kidney? Will it recover?”
“Well, if you’re not aware already, you only need one kidney to survive. But since your other kidney is in a failing functioning state…”—he wavered a bit—“you’re gonna need a kidney transplant.”
I watched her expression to see if she would panic, but she stayed quiet and seemed to absorb everything the doctor had shared.
“We’ve been trying to introduce liquids back into your body,” Rick said. “Diuretics were used to stabilize your blood pressure. But your case is so severe that dialysis was required to cleanse your body of toxins.”
“Has that been helping at all?” she asked.
