“Hello?” a female voice answers.
Oh hell no.
I roll my eyes. “Is Lincoln okay?” I ask, already annoyed that someone else is picking up his phone.
It sounds like Sarah, but I’m not sure.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Arnoldson. Your husband’s fine.”
Then I hear someone in the background say, muffled, “They’re not married anymore.”
Fucking asshole.
“Apologize for that,” the woman on the phone says quickly. Definitely a nurse. “I’m so sorry. We’re a little busy this morning.”
I exhale, pacing toward the doorway. “Is Lincoln okay?”
“Yes, he’s doing just fine,” she says. “We gave him some breakfast a little while ago. He tolerated it well. He’s alert, oriented, and his numbers look much better today. His temp is back in the normal range, his heart rate has come down, his white count is trending in the right direction, and he’s responding exactly how we’d want someone in early-treated sepsis to respond. So, yes, he’s doing very well.”
I’m smiling from ear to ear. I can’t help it. I’m so damn relieved I could cry.
Where is Morris? Oh. He’s curled up at the foot of the bed, he must’ve been there all night. I didn’t even see him. I must’ve been really tired.
“Do you have any idea when he’ll be discharged?” I ask, heading into the bathroom, pulling my underwear down and sitting to relieve myself while I keep the phone at my ear.
The nurse answers gently, like she knows I’m hanging on every word.
“So with sepsis from a urinary infection that he came in with, we usually keep patients at least 48 hours after their vitals stabilize,” she explains. “He’s been on IV antibiotics since yesterday evening, and we need to complete another round ortwo before switching him to oral medication. Today he’s doing much better, but he’s still on IV fluids, and we want to keep monitoring his kidney function, just to be safe.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me.
“That means he’ll likely stay through today and tonight,” she continues. “If his labs tomorrow morning look good and he continues improving the way he is now, he could potentially go home sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
Tomorrow afternoon.
My whole chest lifts. Relief rushes through me so fast my eyes sting.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she replies. “We’ll keep taking good care of him.”
I end the call and sit there for a moment, underwear around my thighs, heart pounding with relief.
Lincoln’s okay.
He’s really okay.
It’s funny how you think that time and separation would help, but I’m still worried about him.
“Can I speak to him?” I ask the nurse.
She answers gently. “He’s actually sleeping right now. He was trying to reach you before.”
Then she adds, a little sheepishly, “We did have to sedate him again because he got a bit anxious and aggressive.”
My heart starts beating so fast. “What do you mean aggressive?” I ask.
“Oh, you know…” she starts, then explains in the calm, matter-of-fact tone only nurses seem to have. “He has pretty classic white coat syndrome. So, he’s a bit antsy. When he fully woke up earlier, he got confused and thought we were trying to keep him here against his will. He kept asking for you. His blood pressure spiked, and we needed him calm so his body could finish fighting the infection, so we gave him a light sedative. He’s resting really well now. Sleeping a lot. He’s comfortable.”
