"He is." The doctor's face softened slightly. "It was touch and go for a while. We lost him on the table; his heart stopped for nearly two minutes. But we got him back."
Two minutes.Two minutes where he was gone. Two minutes where the man I loved, and saw our future together, was not here.
"The injuries were significant," he continued. "Subdural hematoma?—"
"Bleeding between the brain and skull," I said it automatically. I'd seen a dozen subdural cases. I knew the drill. What I didn't know was how to apply that clinical knowledge to the man I loved.
"Exactly. We relieved the pressure and stopped the bleeding. He also had splenic trauma. We managed that without removing the organ. His right humerus is fractured in two places, now setand cast." He paused. "His vitals have stabilized. He's breathing on his own."
Relief washed through me, so intense it was almost painful. Breathing on his own. No ventilator. That was good. That was better than I'd dared to hope.
"But I need to be honest with you about the road ahead."
And there it was. The pivot. The moment when good news became complicated news.
"His chart indicates early-onset Parkinson's disease," Dr. Okonkwo said.
I nodded. "Diagnosed five years ago. Carbidopa-levodopa, well-managed until…"Until a car ran a stop sign, and I couldn't warn him in time.
"Head trauma and Parkinson's don't play well together." His voice was gentle but unflinching. "The shock to his central nervous system could accelerate his symptoms. We won't know the full extent until he wakes up."
"When will that be?"
"That's the other thing." He set down his notepad. "There's been some swelling. It's not uncommon with this kind of trauma, but combined with his pre-existing condition... we're looking at potential complications. Motor function. Memory. Cognition."
Memory. Not that please. Miles was already terrified of forgetting, of looking at me someday with blank, unrecognizing eyes. Of becoming like his father in that final, terrible year.
"You're saying he might not remember me."
"I'm saying we don't know yet." Dr. Okonkwo met my gaze steadily. "The brain is remarkably resilient. But I want you to be prepared for possibilities."
I thought of this morning. The way he'd hummed off-key while making coffee, some song from the nineties he insisted was a classic. The focused furrow between his brows as heconcentrated on not burning the eggs. The way he'd looked at me over the kitchen counter like I was what he’d been looking for his whole life.
What if he woke up and all of that was gone?
"Can I see him?"
"He's in the Surgical ICU. Still heavily sedated." Dr. Okonkwo hesitated. "Visiting is restricted, but?—"
"I'm not leaving." The words came out stronger than I expected. "I'll sleep in this chair. I'll stay out of the way. But when he wakes up, I'm going to be here." I held his gaze. "He needs to know he's not alone."
Something shifted in the doctor's expression. Understanding, maybe.
"I'll let the nurses know," he said quietly. "They'll come get you if anything changes."
"Thank you."
He left, and the silence rushed back in, thick and suffocating. The muted TV flickered in the corner, some cooking show, a woman smiling as she drizzled something over a cake. The normalcy of it felt obscene.
I pulled out my phone and called Beth.
She answered on the second ring. "Charlie? What's wrong?"
"Miles was in an accident." My voice cracked on his name. "A car hit him. He's out of surgery, but?—"
"Where are you?"
"Riverside General. Surgical waiting room."
