“You’re kidding. This has to be a mistake.”
She looked up from where she was sitting on the hospital bed. The nurse was pushing some medication in the catheter in her hand. She placed her other hand over it: it itched. A lot. But at least there were sensations. She could feel it itched and hurt.
Her husband sat by the bed, his fingers resting on her thigh, a comfort she needed. She was so thankful for his presence.
“It’s no mistake Mrs. L. Your symptoms are clear.”
“I know you’re young. But it happens; and it happened to you. So you’re going to take some time off and relax.”
He gave her a bunch of papers: truly a bunch. Recommendation letters for a neurologist and a cardiologist; prescriptions for meds preventing cholesterol, blood clotting; a medical leave letter; a prescription for a cerebral MRI and for a holster-EEG. And blood tests: a lot of them. She was now considered a risk patient. There was no mistake.
There must have been 10 sheets of papers in that bunch; but somehow, as the emergency doctor left, it felt as if it weighed a ton. A ton of worry, a ton of fear and question marks. Oh and the pregnancy they were planning: forget it. Being pregnant now would put her and the child at risk.
She tried to cry; she wanted to. But she couldn’t. She looked at her husband: worry was written all over his face. For her. He’d come here, as soon as they called.
“You’re ok honey?”
“I don’t know.”
She didn’t. How was she supposed to feel? She felt her life trickle away a few hours before. Had an instant when she thought “I’m having a stroke.” What had she done with this life? Not much. Maybe she could do more. Or at least more significant.
“I love you,” she said leaning into her husband. She needed to say that. Often. That meant something.
She had to reconsider her priorities. Maybe the medical leave would give some time to do just that. Or not. She was too tired to think.