“Anne’s been very persuasive in helping me think through this,” Adam said, glancing at me. “I’m confident it’s the right thing to do.”
“I’m very lucky,” Rick said, looking at me fondly. “She’s a keeper.”
As Rick and Adam continued to talk, I pulled out my phone to text Larry. With a start, I saw that I’d missed seven calls from Lauren. For a moment, I thought it must be a mistake. Lauren was in the Bahamas, and she’d already warned everyone that she’d be off the grid for at least a week. Maybe she’d butt-dialed me? But seven times?
Seeing my face, Adam asked, “Is everything OK?”
“I don’t know,” I said uncertainly, dialing Lauren’s number. “I guess Lauren’s trying to reach me.”
Lauren picked up on the first ring. “Where have you been?” she screamed. “I’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour!”
“What’s the matter?” I said, feeling dread in my stomach. “Are you OK?”
“It’s Daddy,” Lauren said, sobbing.
“What happened?” I asked, suddenly chilled.
“He’s had a stroke.”
“What?” I gasped. “When? I just saw him! Where is he?”
“Fairfax Hospital. I’m trying to get a flight back now. They wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone—but it’s bad. I know it.”
“Oh my God,” I whimpered. “Is he awake? Is he breathing? Is he alive?”
“I told you! I don’t know!” Lauren wailed. “Don’t ask me! I’m just trying to get off this goddamn island!” She broke into tears. “I can’t do anything from over here. The reception sucks.”
“OK,” I said, forcing myself to stay calm. “I’m heading to the hospital now. I’ll call as soon as I find out anything.”
I hung up the phone, then dropped it because my hands were shaking so hard.
“What happened?” Adam asked, looking at my stricken face. “Do you need to sit down?”
“I have to go,” I cried, scrambling on all fours to pick up my phone. “My dad’s in the hospital.” I stood up and headed for the door, then stopped uncertainly.
“I don’t have my car,” I said in a dazed voice. “I walked here.”
“Where’s your car?” Rick asked.
“At home.” I looked around, frantic. “Can I borrow someone’s car?”
“You can’t drive like this,” Adam said, putting his hand on my arm. “You’re shaking.”
“He’s right. I’ll get my motorcycle,” Rick said.
“No, I’ll drive you,” Adam said firmly. “My car’s right outside.”
“Hold up, mate,” Rick said, turning to Adam. “I’ve got this.”
“She’s in no condition to ride a motorcycle. She can barely stand.”
“I’m fine,” I said, but I wasn’t fine. I felt my legs buckle beneath me. Adam caught me before I could fall.
“She clearly can’t hold onto you while you’re driving,” Adam was saying to Rick. “Listen—just meet us there. We just need to hurry.”
“Jellyby,” I blurted. “Someone needs to feed Jellyby. Rick—you have my keys. Could you check on her?”
Rick looked at me, then at Adam.
“Better bring her a change of clothes, too,” Adam said to Rick. “In case she needs to spend the night at the hospital.”
“OK,” Rick said, backing off. “I’ll see you at the hospital.” He gave me a quick kiss and dashed off.
I followed Adam blindly to the parking lot, feeling like the world had gone topsy-turvy. A group of students were lazily kicking a soccer ball around the quad, and someone was practicing the tuba in the music building. I stared at them. How could they keep going on with their daily lives when my life had just been upended? In a haze, I got into Adam’s car. The college radio station was on, but Adam quickly turned it off. “It’ll be OK,” Adam was saying as we sped through campus and onto the freeway. “Fairfax has a great hospital.”
“He was complaining about his leg this morning,” I said, struggling to hold back tears. “He said it felt strange. I should’ve listened.”
“Shhhhhh,” Adam said. “There’s no way you could have known.”
“I should’ve called a nurse. What the hell was I thinking? What if he was having a stroke right then and there? And I just left?”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m the worst daughter ever,” I said, dissolving into tears. “All I was supposed to do was keep an eye on him and I can’t even do that. I live down the street and I’ve barely seen him the last month, I’ve been so busy working on my damn book!”
Adam reached over and took my hand. “Stop,” he said. “You have to stop blaming yourself.” I held onto his hand like an anchor, trying to steady myself and swallow my racking sobs.
We pulled up to the emergency room, and Adam escorted me into the building, flagging down an orderly to help me locate my father. I was passed from one person to another, told to wait in the waiting room, then brusquely informed that my father was getting a CT scan and that I could wait for him in his hospital room.
“So he’s alive?” I asked, breathless with relief.
The hospital staffer looked at me blankly. “I’m just telling you what our system says. The imaging department should know more.” She handed me an ID badge, which I pinned to my shirt. “Is your partner coming, too?” she asked, looking at Adam. “If so, he also needs a badge.”
“Um, no—he’s just a friend,” I said. “Or actually, more like my boss.”
“I’m happy to stay,” Adam said to me. “At least until Rick gets here. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone.”
“Are you a family member?” the woman asked Adam. “If not, I’ll have to ask you to wait in the lobby. Hospital policy.”
“It’s OK,” I told Adam. “You have your donor meeting. You can’t stand them up.”
“That can wait. This is an emergency. I can stay in the waiting room if you want.”
“No, you have to go. It’s important. Please. Rick will be here soon.”
“Have we made a decision?” the woman asked, looking at us impatiently.
“I’ll let you know if I need anything,” I said to Adam. “And thank you—for everything.”
“Promise to call me, just so I know you’re doing OK?”
“I promise.”
Adam gathered me to him, and I pressed myself against his chest, feeling his arms holding me close.
“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” With a final squeeze, he let me go.
I turned to follow the employee to my father’s room and was halfway down the hall before I realized I couldn’t call Adam even if I wanted. I didn’t have his phone number.
chapter sixteen
WHILE I WAITED FOR my father to return from his CT scan, I sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs in his hospital room and talked to the nursing home’s medical director on the phone. I’d only spoken to the director once before, when my father had fallen over the holidays, and she sounded considerably more somber this time around. She told me that soon after I’d left that day, my father had complained of fatigue and asked an aide to help him to his bed so he could lie down. Even with the cane, my father kept listing to one side, as if his left leg could no longer support his weight. Alarmed, the aide had called over a nurse, who arrived just as my father crumpled to the floor. They’d called an ambulance and gotten him to the hospital quickly, where he was evaluated and given drugs.
“Will he be all right?” I asked.
“The doctors will have to see what the scan says,” the director said. “They won’t know the full effects of the stroke until then.”
“But he should recover eventually, shouldn’t he? I mean, he might need rehab but that’s to be expected . . .”
“Ms. Corey, I can’t give you a prognosis based on the very limited amount of information I have. You’ll have to wait and see what the neurologist says. I’m sorry—I know you want answe
rs, but that’s the best I can do right now.”
I hung up and immediately started reading up on strokes online. The information was confusing and discouraging. What kind of stroke had he had? What part of the brain? Was it big or small? As I was reading through a stroke recovery discussion board, my phone buzzed. It was Rick.
“I’m in the ER waiting room,” he said when I picked up. “Where are you?”
“In my dad’s room—I’ll be down in a minute.”
I retraced my steps through the rabbit’s warren of hospital corridors, to a bank of elevators that chimed morosely every few seconds, depositing medical personnel, cleaning staff, and visiting family members. I took the elevator down several floors and stepped out into the main lobby, then crossed to the emergency wing of the hospital.
Rick was standing along one wall, a shopping bag full of clothes and toiletries in one hand and his motorcycle helmet in the other. It was a relief to see a familiar face in the anonymous and antiseptic surroundings, and I practically ran into his arms.
“Anne! Is your dad OK?” Rick asked, giving me a hug.
“I’m still waiting to find out,” I said, pausing a moment just to breathe in the smell of cigarette smoke and diesel that clung to his clothes. “Thanks for bringing me my stuff.”
As I took the bag from Rick, he looked around nervously. A woman with a bandaged head walked past, a child cried out in pain somewhere, and the automatic sliding doors kept admitting and expelling waves of hospital staff and paramedics. Rick fidgeted with his motorcycle helmet, transferring it from one hand to another.
“It’s not the most uplifting place,” I said, seeing him grimace as an old man gave a tubercular cough and spat into his handkerchief.
“I feel like I’m going to contract some disease just standing here,” he said.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I said. “I can try to get you a visitor’s pass.”
“That’s OK,” Rick said, backing away slightly. “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not imposing. You’re keeping me company until my dad gets back.”
Rick gulped, and I realized he’d gone gray. “You know, I think I should leave,” he said, pushing his hair back. His forehead was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. “I’m sorry. These places make me nervous. I think I might still have some residual PTSD from the war.”
“Of course,” I said, taking his hand. It was clammy. “Do you need to sit down?”
“No, no—I should be OK,” he said. He put his motorcycle helmet on. “I should go, though. Otherwise I’ll be joining the ranks of the ill and infirm here in the ER.”
“Yes—go home,” I said, walking him out. “There’s nothing to do here anyway.”
“I’ll call you,” Rick said. He dipped into the parking lot, and I lost sight of him in the darkness.
I trudged back upstairs and unpacked the bag Rick had brought. I brushed my teeth, changed into pajamas, and curled up in a chair with a blanket, dimming the lights so I could get some rest. I’d just begun to doze off when the room was flooded in harsh light and my father was wheeled in on a rattling gurney. I sprang up from my chair, light-headed and disoriented as my father was transferred to the hospital bed and hooked up to several machines.
“Dad?” I asked, looking at his slack face. His eyes were closed, and his nose and mouth were covered by a ventilator. He didn’t respond, and for a second I wondered if he was asleep.
“He’s unconscious,” a nurse said as she went through a checklist on a clipboard and then dropped it into a slot at the foot of the bed.
“Is he OK?” I asked her, trying not to hover while she yanked the safety rails in place.
“The doctor will be here shortly,” she said, barely pausing in her routine. Seeing my face, she softened slightly. “Do you need some water? I can get you a cup.”
I shook my head no and she left, closing the door behind her.
Sitting beside my father, holding his hand, I looked at his eerily still face and wondered whether he would ever wake up. The machines beeped monotonously beside me. I texted Lauren again.
“Dad’s in his room. Still waiting to talk to doc,” I wrote.
Lauren didn’t respond. She was probably asleep or, hopefully, on a plane. My phone was almost out of battery, and I wondered if I could buy a charger in the gift shop but didn’t want to risk leaving my father’s side while I checked, so I laid my head on my father’s bed and slept.
After what felt like hours, I was woken up by a brisk knock at the door and the gravelly voice of the neurologist on call. I leapt up, feeling my neck twinge painfully.
“Are you the patient’s daughter?” he asked, reaching out to shake my hand. He was dressed in blue hospital scrubs and New Balance sneakers, and he had a black exercise band around his wrist. On his head was a bandana-style surgical cap that made him look like Hulk Hogan.
“Yes,” I said, taking his hand. “I’m Anne. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“It was a busy night,” the doctor said. “Six-car pileup on the 10, plus a drive-by shooting in West Covina.”
“Oh,” I said.
The doctor pulled up some slides on the computer.
“What does it say?” I asked, staring at the illuminated slices of my father’s brain, gleaming like the surface of the moon.
“It doesn’t look good, I’m afraid,” the doctor said gruffly, putting on his glasses. “This is the site of the most recent bleed.” He pointed to a dark spot shaped like an ink spill. I blanched at its size. “But there are also several other areas that are cause for concern.” Now he pointed to some faint smudges I could barely make out in comparison.
“What are those?” I asked, my mouth dry.
“Based on the image, it looks like your father has been having ministrokes for quite some time.”
“He’s had strokes before? Are you serious? How could we miss that?”
“They’re easy to misdiagnose. Has your father been acting oddly? Any personality changes?”
“We were worried he might be suffering from dementia,” I said. “That’s why we moved him to an assisted-living facility this past fall.”
“The symptoms are often similar,” the doctor said. “Has he been falling?”
“He had a bad fall over Christmas, bruised his leg pretty badly. He told us he tripped. We’ve been trying to get him to use a cane ever since.”
“Those might have been triggered by the ministrokes. It’s hard to know. Weakness, loss of balance, confusion and paranoia—those are all signs.” He took off his glasses and put them in a chest pocket, then rubbed his eyes.
I took a shaky breath. “How long will he stay like this?” I asked, motioning to my father on the bed.
“It was a pretty severe bleed. We’ve got it under control now, but he’s in a coma. There’s no way of knowing when he’ll come out of it or what complications he might face if and when he does. You have a sister, yes?”
“She’s flying in now.”
“When she gets here, we can discuss next steps. Does your father have a living will?”
“I have no idea.”
“You should discuss with your sister what your father’s wishes would be—if he doesn’t improve.”
I swallowed. “And in the meantime?” I asked. “What do we do?”
“In the meantime?” the doctor said, closing out the slides and standing up. “In the meantime, there’s nothing to do but wait.”
*
THE NEXT DAY, LARRY came over with more clean clothes, my phone charger, and takeout Thai food.
“You’re the best,” I said as he handed me a bright orange Thai iced tea. “I’ve been eating crap out of the cafeteria vending machine.”
“You have to keep up your strength,” he said, dishing out some curry and pad see ew.
“You doing OK?” I asked. “Any news from Jack?”
“No,” Larry said, scrunching his nose. “But forget about me. My problems are stupid compared to what you
’re going through.”
“How are my students doing?” I asked. Larry, the godsend, had offered to cover my classes so I wouldn’t have to leave my father’s bedside.
“You should’ve seen their faces when I showed up today. I told them you had a family emergency and that I was the sub, and people actually groaned. Groaned!”
“They were probably hoping class would be canceled.”
“Oh, no,” Larry said. “Not on my watch. Spring break’s not for another week. They will finish Daniel Deronda, even if it’s really the same novel as James’s Portrait of a Lady—just half as good and twice as long.”
I rolled my eyes. “You know what? Maybe I should just cancel class.”
My sister arrived at the hospital two days later, frazzled and unkempt, ranting about the bad weather that had caused her to miss her connection in Atlanta. Tossing her overnight bag onto the floor, she marched over to my father and stared at him for a moment as if waiting for him to greet her. She was looking at him so intently that I half expected him to open his eyes and comply. When he didn’t respond, Lauren took a step back and her face contorted. But she didn’t burst into tears, as I thought she would. She got angry.
“How could this happen?” she asked the doctor, berating him as if he were the one who’d caused the stroke. “I just talked to him the other day!”
“There’s often no warning until it’s too late,” the doctor said, his voice preternaturally calm and clinical.
“Someone should’ve warned us this could happen,” she cried. “We could have taken steps to prevent it. Aren’t there medications he could have taken? Things he could have done?”
I tried to calm Lauren down, but she shook me off, firing off more questions at the doctor and listening bitterly to his responses. For the next few minutes, I stood silent as she cross-examined him, asking about his training, bringing up information she’d read online, mentioning ideas her doctor friends had shared. To each of her questions, the doctor gave cool, measured responses, and Lauren’s fury quickly spent itself. She suddenly looked lost and exhausted. I reached out to her again, and this time she didn’t shake me off but sagged heavily against me.
By the Book Page 20