“Do you remember anything?” I asked her. I had no idea what she could do. Was it possible she didn’t even know how to talk?
Her eyes met mine. I wanted to do something, anything to let her know I was on her side.
“You had a seizure,” I said. “In your apartment. You and I had just had dinner. I’m your boyfriend. We’ve been together for several years. You’re twenty years old, same as me. Your birthday was only a few weeks ago.”
Her eyes watched me with fear and suspicion.
“Your name is Ava. It’s tattooed on your hip in case you lose your memory. There’s also a tattoo on your wrist.”
Her gaze immediately dropped to her arm, and my anxiety eased that she understood me.
She pushed up her sleeve. Her eyes widened at the words.Trust only this handwriting. Find the book. Remember your life.
So she could read. We could do this.
“I’m Tucker,” I said. “I love you. I’m here to help you through this.”
We were interrupted by the arrival of a tall man in a white coat, a stethoscope slung around his neck.
“Hello there,” he said, lines crinkling around his eyes as he smiled. “I’m Dr. Jensen. I heard your new anti-seizure med might not be quite right.”
I took in the deepest breath since this ordeal began. This man seemed reasonable.
“What’s your name?” he asked Ava.
Her eyes darted from me to the doctor. “Ava,” she said.
“Good, good.” He pulled a metal object from his pocket. “Can you look at me, Ava?”
He shined a light in her eyes. At first, she shied from the brightness, but he moved it aside and grinned. “Just seeing how pretty your blue eyes are.”
She let him look.
“Very good. How old are you, Ava?”
She glanced at me. “Twenty.”
“Very good. Can you touch your nose?”
He ran her through all the neurology checks we’d both done a thousand times. Touching fingers. Sticking out your tongue.
“You look good, Ava,” he said. “You seem recovered. How often do you have seizures?”
Ava glanced at me. In our short time, she seemed to understand I had the answers.
“Every few years,” I said, but before I could explain the additional problem, he interrupted.
“Then I will release you to the care of your usual neurologist, so he can determine what adjustments to make. Call him in the morning.”
And before I could say another single thing, he was gone.
The nurse came in right on his heels. “Here’s theibuprofen,” she said. “Looks like you’re being released. Let me get some papers, and we’ll have you on your way home.” She passed the small cup of pills and a bottle of water to Ava. “Dr. Jensen will send a report to Dr. Clark for the follow-up.”
“Wait,” I said. “She can’t go home. She needs testing.” I remembered all the things Ava told me about her hospital stay when we met. “Her memory. Her skills. We need to know where she’s at so we can help her through this transition.”
The nurse’s smile became plastic, like it had been carved onto her face. “I’m sure her regular doctor can manage all that. I’ll send someone in with your release papers.”
Then Ava and I were alone again. Maybe this was the difference between a children’s hospital and an adult one. They probably didn’t even have an epilepsy center here.
