I keep my head down and my pace steady. A few cameras swivel in my direction, hungry for a quote, but no one stops me. To them, I’m just another person walking into the hospital, and I intend to keep it that way.
After changing into my scrubs, I made my way to the conference room. I’m about to meet with the team regarding Teddy’s treatment plan, the responsibility feeling oddly personal.
Dr. Carl Royce, one of the senior doctors, looks up from a tablet and smiles when I enter the room. He’s a well-known neurologist who has worked with many high-level athletes during his thirty-five-year career. His expertise is exactly what Teddy needs on his road to recovery.
“Ivy,” he greets, his voice warm. “We were waiting for you. Have a seat.”
I nod, offering him a tight smile, and pull out the nearest chair. The scrape of it against the floor is too loud. Sitting down, I fold my hands on the table in front of me, trying not to fidget. A female neurologist clicks a pen beside me. A fellow neuro nurse scribbles into his notepad.
Dr. Royce clears his throat. “Alright. We’re here to discuss the case of Theodore Seaborn, also known as Teddy. As you all know by now, the patient was brought in after consecutive hits to the head during a hockey game four days ago, resulting in a brain injury. He’s stable after two separate surgeries, but the situation remains critical. His vision is severely affected, and we’re still assessing the full extent of the damage.”
He pauses, his eyes briefly flicking to every member present. “We’re dealing with Terson’s Syndrome. It’s a rare complication where intracranial bleeding leads to eye hemorrhages. We’ve started treatment to reduce the pressure, but we should be realistic. His vision may or may not recover. We won’t know the full scope until the blood reabsorbs or he undergoes further treatment. His best option is another surgery in a few months.”
Dr. Royce turns to me, his brown eyes assessing. “Nurse Campbell, you’ve been in contact with the patient recently. What’s your read on him? How’s he handling this?”
Every head around the table shifts toward me. Meeting his gaze, I take a measured breath. I can’t tell if I’m meant to be objective or allowed to be human, so I aim somewhere in the middle.
“He’s scared and still in partial denial of his injuries. He’s trying to act normal, but the fear is there. I don’t think he’s completely ready to admit how much this is affecting him, but he’s a fighter,” I answer.
“He’s a tough one, isn’t he?”
I nod, smiling wryly. “But I don’t think toughness alone is enough to get him through the next several months. He needs more than the medical care we can provide for his brain injury. I suggest we find him a therapist. Ideally someone who’sworked with athletes and understands what it means to lose not just your health, but your identity linked to the sport.”
Dr. Royce nods in a silent agreement. “I’ll reach out to Dr. Philip. She’s worked with a few of my former cases. She might be able to help Teddy while he’s staying here. Let’s continue monitoring him closely in the meantime. Until further notice, we’ll reassess his condition every few hours. Nurse Campbell, I’ll need you to be extra vigilant. If there’s any sign of regression in his movements, we must act immediately.”
“Agreed. What about the press?” I ask hesitantly. “Any advice on how to handlethem?”
Dr. Royce exhales through his nose and sets the tablet down on the table with care. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better,” he admits. “The statement from the Woodpeckers confirmed his location, which was careless and reckless on their part. So let me be absolutely clear: under no circumstances are we to engage. No comments, no speculation, not even a hint of recognition if they ask about him by name. Every inquiry goes straight to the hospital’s communications office.”
A few people nod and scribble down the reminders in their notes. Dr. Royce’s eyes sweep the room, steady and firm. “We protect our patients first. That includes shielding them from circus acts on the sidewalk. If anyone feels pressured or harassed by the media, report it immediately. The administration will handle it.”
No one says it out loud, but we’re all thinking the same thing: this isn’t just another case. Our patient is a man whose face has been on many billboards, and now his recovery is playing out under a microscope none of us asked for.
By the time we wrap thirty minutes later, Teddy’s long-term treatment plan is firmly in place. His sight may never come back and he might have other long term side effects such as migraines and mood swings. Having his care plan in hand, I’m reminded that there’s only so much we can do. The rest is up to him.
7
TEDDY
DECEMBER 6
Waking up groggy, it feels like I’ve slept for days. For a few seconds, I can’t piece together where I am. The pillow smells faintly of bleach and the sheets are rough against my skin. I blink my eyes open, waiting for the light to come through.Nothing. Blackness greets me. A slow ripple of dread works its way through me. I blink again, harder this time, then again, until my eyes ache. Still nothing.
The truth slams back in pieces through the haze. I got hit on the ice and now I’m stuck at the hospital without my vision. A ragged breath jerks out, panic clawing its way up before I can stop it. My hand fumbles until it closes around the call button clipped to the side of the bedrail.
I press it once, twice, holding the button down as if it’ll somehow pull me out of this black hole.
The door opens, footsteps rushing in. “You called for help more than once,” Ivy says. “What’s going on?”
“I woke up and—” My throat tightens, voice breaking apart. “I can’t see. It’s all gone.”
“Remember what we talked about yesterday? The bleeding in your eyes? Nothing has changed, but you’re stable.”
Stable. The word rattles in my skull, empty and heavy all at once. “Make it stop, Ivy.”
“I can’t.” She squeezes my arm. “But you’re not alone. Breathe with me.”
With her help, I get my breathing under control. The door clicks open and shuts again, the sound soft but impossible to miss in the confined space. A new set of footsteps cross the room, their weight noticeably heavier than Ivy’s.
