My stomach drops, and I fist my hands at my side to stop them from shaking. Graham steps up to my side, like he is lending me his strength.
The Dr. continues gently. “Given her history of lupus, there are a few things we’re concerned about. A neurological event. Severe electrolyte imbalance. Lupus cerebritis is rare, but it can cause sudden loss of consciousness. We need imaging. Bloodwork. Possibly a lumbar puncture if the scans indicate inflammation.”
I swallow. “She’s been having more flare-ups and getting weaker. More tired. Dizzy sometimes.”
He nods. “Has she been seeing any specialists?”
“No. We’ve been on a waitlist for Dr. Teller.” The words feel small and pathetic coming out of my mouth. “There’s an inpatient trial...”
Dr. Nguyen straightens at that. “Yes. I know the one. It’s very competitive.”
I know it is. But hearing him say it with that look on his face makes my stomach ache.
“She’s been on prednisone and hydroxychloroquine for years,” I add quickly. “And a low-dose immunosuppressant, but it isn’t on her hospital chart. We get it filled at a specialty pharmacy.”
He types it in. “That helps. Thank you.”
Emily is clutching the edge of her chair like it’s the only thing holding her upright.
“Insurance?” the doctor asks.
“She’s been here before. It should be on file.”
He nods. “Good. We’ll start with imaging and labs. A nurse will come in shortly to go over everything.”
Then his voice softens. “You can go in and see her now.”
Emily lets out a choked sob that sounds like it’s been trapped in her throat for hours.
Graham stands immediately. “Go,” he says. “I’ll be right here. I’ll make a few calls, get you anything you need.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. I can't say more, can't look up at his kind and caring face.
I need to focus on my mom, not on whatever this night has been or hasn't been.
My heels sound too loud as I walk across the hall and into her room.
It takes everything in me not to join Emily in her tears. But I need to be strong. They need me.
My eyes go to her the second I am in the room. Mom looks impossibly frail in the hospital bed. Too still. Too pale.
The machines hum around her, numbers blinking in a language I hate, not knowing. Her hair is spread across the pillow, thinner than it was last month. Her lips are slightly parted, as if she were about to say something and didn’t get the chance.
Emily climbs into the chair beside the bed and curls in on herself, clutching my coat around her like a cocoon. Within minutes, exhaustion drags her under, her breathing evening out as sleep claims her.
I sit on the edge of the bed and take Mom’s hand.
It’s warm.
That helps.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m right here.”
I rub slow circles into her palm, the way I always do when she’s in pain, when she’s scared, when she’s drifting too far away from me.
What if I’m not enough?
What if I can’t do this?
