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My lips curve up slightly. “I’m not pregnant anymore.”
“You still need to eat,” he whispers.
“I don’t want to eat here. I want to go home, but I want to know what’s going on first.”
Katie pushes out of her chair. “I’m going to find someone useful. Rest.”
I open my mouth to tell her she doesn’t have to, that I can do it, but I don’t. “Thank you,” I murmur, then shift in my chair, leaning against Miles.
Katie walks out of the room, and I close my eyes for a few minutes. The obnoxious doctor’s words twist around in my brain, and I don’t know how much to believe. Is this the start of the end-of-life phase for my mother? I’m not ready. I don’t know how to handle this.
Flashing my eyes open again, I look at her. She’s frail. She can’t move half her body. She may have lost most of the rest of her communication skills. This is barely a life for her now.
Loss is devastating, but watching someone you love wither away first is so much worse.
Katie strides back into her room, a different doctor nearly jogging to keep up. I’m not sure if Katie put the fear of God in him or if he’s not as uptight as the last guy, but his demeanor alone is calmer.
“Ms. Davis?” he says, a polite smile on his face.
“Please, call me Amelia. This is my fiancé, Miles. You’ve already met his mother, Katie.”
“Yes. I understand you had some questions about your mother’s care and prognosis.”
Do I ever.
So I ask, and this time, get some clearer answers. She’ll likely be sleepy the rest of the night. Therapy will be in first thing in the morning to evaluate her and come up with a plan.
“You should think about how extensive you want the therapy to be. Speak with the head nurse of your mother’s unit at the nursing home as well. After a stroke, we prioritize recovery, however for someone who was starting to struggle with movement and speech, we work with where she is, too.”
“So I shouldn’t expect her to get back to where she was before?”
“It’s not impossible, but it’s unlikely. That doesn’t mean her situation will be grave, but she’ll likely require more assistance than before. There’s a good chance she’ll use a wheelchair frequently or even be wheelchair bound. If you’d like to be here for the screening tomorrow, the therapists will be able to answer more questions for you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He nods. “Go home. Get some rest. She’s stable and in good hands here.”
With that, a sigh of relief slips out of me. “Okay. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
Then he’s gone.
Turning back to the bed, I walk over and look down at my mother. She looks fragile, and that’s not a word I would’ve used to describe her. She was always so alive. Bold. Fearless. She had a zest for life and let it lead as we traveled around the world. She was never worried when we didn’t have a hostel booked. We’d find a place. And we always did. We had the best time living our lives. At the time, it was a trip to help heal after my dad’s death, but now I see it as more than that. It was our last big adventure. It was goodbye to that version of her. It was only a couple years later when she was diagnosed. I wonder if she felt it coming. I wonder if she held on for me.
Leaning down, I brush a kiss over her forehead. “I love you, Mom.” Then I turn to Miles. “Let’s go home.”
I’m wrapped against him in an instant, him protecting me like a bodyguard as Katie takes point leading us out of the hospital. Guilt hits as we walk out of the building. There’s nothing I can do, and she won’t even know I’m there, but I still feel awful.
“Maybe I should stay,” I whisper.
Miles stops and spins me around, looking into my eyes. “All you’ll do is burn yourself out. She’s going to need you there tomorrow. We’re going to go home and you’re going to get some food and as much rest as you can, then we’ll be back here first thing tomorrow morning.” When I don’t say anything, he says, “Put your own oxygen mask on first, Ames.”
I blink a couple of times, then nod. “Okay. I’m so tired.” The words come out in a choked sob.
“Then let me take some of the weight for you.” And then he sweeps me into his arms and carries me the rest of the way to the car. Because of course he does. This is Miles at his most protective. There’s no question this man would do anything for me. Literally anything. While normally I’d fight him, tell him to put me down, or call him ridiculous, tonight I don’t have the energy. I give in, relishing this tiny amount of safety amid the chaos.
The car ride home rips that safety away though, as my mind slowly unpacks everything that’s happened in the last few hours. All the things the doctors said. The harsh words about my mother possibly dying soon. The idea of her being wheelchair bound. And the realization that the previous version of her has slipped away in an instant. Whatever recovery she has from this stroke, she won’t get back to where she was. My mother is slipping away from me. The only question is how long it’ll take before she’s gone.
