Not my dad.
A doctor in a white coat steps out, scanning the room.
My heart kicks hard.
And then I recognize him.
The same urologist who did my dad’s surgery.
Dr. Shah.
He spots me immediately.
“Ms. Crawford?” he says.
My mouth is dry, so I swallow once before I answer. “Dr. Shah.”
He walks over and stops in front of me. His expression is calm in a way I want to punch.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
I stand so quickly my chair squeaks.
“Yes,” I say. “What’s happening? Where is he?”
“He’s back there,” Dr. Shah says, keeping his voice low. “They’re evaluating him right now. I wanted to explain what we’re seeing.”
My hands go cold.
“Why? Who’s back there with him? Shouldn’t you be?”
“The ER has an attending, and they automatically take the lead on anyone who comes through the doors. I was brought in for consultation.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “So, what’s going on?”
He takes a breath.
“It looks like your father may have a delayed hemorrhage,” he says.
The words don’t make immediate sense. Hemorrhage. Bleeding. It takes my brain a second to connect them.
“He’s bleeding?” I ask, voice too sharp. “How?”
“It looks like delayed bleeding from his nephrectomy,” he says, switching to simpler language immediately. “One of the blood vessels near the surgical site may have been leaking slowly over time.”
I stare at him.
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
“What do you mean?” I demand. “You told me everything went well. You told me you got it. You told me there were no major complications.”
His face doesn’t change much, but his tone shifts slightly, is firmer.
“Yes,” he says. “At the time.”
“At the time,” I repeat, because it sounds insane.
He nods once.
