I snort.
“Exactly. You can’t go around treating your body like a machine and expect it to keep working for you.”
Scowling, I pick at a string on my hospital sheets. “I work out.”
“That’s good, Ms. Nash.”
“So…what happened?”
“We believe you had a series of TIAs—transient ischemic attacks, also known as mini-strokes—starting with your fall while skiing. Looking back on the concert footage, I’m certain the botched intro to your song was the second TIA. The third and possibly fourth were backstage. You’re lucky to have only broken your ankle on the first one, to be honest. Had you hit your head on a rock as you went down…hm. That would have been a fun surgery.”
“Apologies, Doc. I’ll do better next time.”
“I appreciate that, Ms. Nash. As for the last TIA, I hear that one of your fans backstage saw you were in trouble and finally called in the help you needed.”
I look over at Mason. “Do we know her name?” Taking in the surroundings, I realize I have no idea where I am. “Are we still in Summit Springs?”
Mason shakes his head. “Her name is Kinley Burke, and she had them medevac you to Denver.”
Dr. De León taps her chin. “Burke. Sounds familiar. She’s a nurse or a PA, right?”
Mason nods.
“We were lucky she knew what was happening and acted quickly. Still, I want to ensure I’m setting the right expectations. You were damn lucky, Ms. Nash, but the primary indicator of a full-blown stroke is a TIA.”
“So, what? I’m a ticking time bomb?”
“I wouldn’t characterize it as such. There’s a lot we can do with medication and lifestyle changes to give you the best shot of avoiding a stroke.”
My lip snarls. “I feel fine, Doc.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but you are slurring your words and your vocal control isn’t quite at one hundred percent, which squares with the slight swelling you’re still experiencing.”
“I’m not slurring my words,” I insist, looking at Gene and Mason as I catch the way myS-sound is off.
Gene’s eyes redden, and I hold up my hand. “I hear it. Does this mean I can’t sing? Can I play the guitar?”
A terrible sadness hits the middle of my chest, and something about this conversation starts to feel like a never-ending hallway.
“Mac!” Mason screams, looking horrified.
My world spasms and jerks and then goes suddenly still.
When I come to, Mason is crying, and Dr. De León is consoling him as a tall, severe-looking nurse comes rushing into the room.
“It’s okay, everyone. It’s okay,” Dr. De León says, her voice reassuring. “We’ll run more scans, but that wasn’t a TIA. That was a seizure.”
“Doesn’t sound okay,” I gripe, hating how sluggish and heavy everything feels.
Dr. De León smiles. “Humor is good. I know this is scary. Seizures can sometimes happen in recovery. They can be dangerous, but most are not. And yours was very short, okay?”
Ignoring the fact my body is no longer under my control, I respond the only way I know how. “Okay, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“About singing?”
“And guitar,” I remind her, glancing at Gene, who leans forward in his seat. “Can I play my guitar again?”
She exchanges a glance with the nurse and lets out a sigh. Neither of those is a good sign.
