“Your mother is in with him now. We’re expecting the neurologist soon.” She stopped outside a room with a sliding glass door and a pulled curtain. “It’s always a little shocking for family members to see their loved ones in the ICU for the first time, so let me tell you a little about what you can expect.”
“Uh, okay, thanks.” Maybe a heads-up would keep me from freaking out when I walked in there.
“He has a breathing tube in his throat, but that is temporary. The neurologist will explain it more. Several machines are monitoring him right now, so don’t be startled by the wires, IVs, and tubes. He is stable right now, and the neurologist will explain the plan when she arrives in a few moments. Are you ready?”
Was I ready? Hell no. Did it matter? Apparently not.
“Yes, I am.” My right palm tingled. I’d give anything to have Alex there beside me, holding my hand and bleeding his strength into me.
She slid open the door and stepped into the room, pushing the curtain aside for me. The second I entered the small room, my gaze zeroed in on my father lying still in the mechanical bed in the center of the room. There wasn’t anything else to capture my attention.
Though I’d been warned what to expect, my loud gasp ripped through the room. Avery squeezed my upper arm before moving to a computer mounted on the left wall.
My father lay on his back, completely still but for the rise and fall of his chest. A tube ran from his mouth to a loud machine, which I assumed pumped oxygen into his lungs.
Jesus.
Wires seemed to come from everywhere, leading to a screen mounted near his bed. Multiple lines fed into two separate IVs, one in each hand. Another tube extended beneath the covers toa bag hanging on the side of the bed. It was halfway full of dark yellow liquid.
He looked small and vulnerable, nothing like the business mogul who ran a billion-dollar empire. Nothing like the man who disapproved of my choices and had no problem telling me.
He’d hate anyone seeing him this way. If a photo were leaked to the press, he’d ruin the life of the whistleblower. Strange as it was, he’d probably hate being seen in a gray hospital gown with the horrid geometric pattern more than anything else. The man hadn’t left the house in anything but a bespoke suit or golf outfit in decades.
What now? Was I supposed to talk to him? Touch him?
A delicate throat clearing had me jerking my gaze to the right, where my mother sat in a high-back chair against the wall. She looked terrible—mussed hair, red-rimmed eyes, hands clenched on her lap. I couldn’t think of a time I’d seen her looking anything less than perfect. She didn’t even let her children see her without a full face of makeup and coiffed hair.
My father was—shit, is—her life.
“Mother—”
The curtain slid open, and a tall, willowy woman in a long white coat stepped into the room. “Good morning,” she said in a soft tone. “I am Dr. Travers, one of the neurologists here on staff. Are you here to see Mr. Calloway?”
I glanced at my mother, who seemed near catatonic at this point. She didn’t respond, so I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Yes, I’m Ryder, his son. And this is my mother, his wife, Sylvia. My sister is out of town, but I’m sure she’ll be coming straight back.” God, had my mom even called Vera?
Dr. Travers shook my hand. “Very nice to meet you, though I’m sorry about the circumstances.”
“Thank you.”
“Mr. Calloway suffered an embolic stroke, which means a blood clot in his brain restricted blood flow, causing damage. We currently have him sedated to give his brain a rest and plan to remove the breathing tube in the next few days. Until then, we won’t know the extent of the effects.”
While I appreciated her no-nonsense competence, my head felt too stunned to process what she was saying. Later, I would probably think of a hundred questions, but for now, only one came to mind. “What do you mean, the effects?”
She nodded. “So, we can see on CT imaging that he experienced a profound stroke. Based on where the damage is, we can expect significant weakness or possible paralysis to his right side. He will most likely have difficulty speaking, which we call aphasia, and some level of cognitive impairment. It’s impossible to know the severity until he’s awake, and our speech, occupational, and physical therapists can then evaluate him. I will say, though, he most likely has a long road of recovery ahead of him. This is not to scare you, but I do want you to have realistic expectations.”
Paralysis?
Aphasia?
Cognitive impairment?
Did that mean he wouldn’t be able to walk and talk? What about feeding himself? Or even going to the bathroom on his own?
I wanted to ask, but was too terrified to hear the answer.
“I know this is extremely overwhelming. I’m going to give you guys a chance to process and think of some questions for me. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
She disappeared as quickly as she’d appeared. Maybe she wasn’t the warmest and fuzziest when it came to her bedside manner, but I’d take her straight talk over coddling any day.
