Even though I had Hannah, we never traveled anywhere out of Scotland. Thinking about it, I realize she hasn’t even been on a plane. That’s a situation that needs to be rectified. The cabin doors close, and I relax back in my chair. My son’s quiet snoring is soothing on my chest. As I kiss the top of his head, the woman in the seat next to me beams.
“I love to see a father with his son,” she whispers. “He’s beautiful. What’s his name?”
We chat for the duration of the flight, and the time passes swiftly. David wakes occasionally to be fed but falls quickly back to sleep. A few trips are made to the onboard changing facilities after a nappy explosion stinks out the plane. But overall, the flight goes smoothly, and we land in New York on time.
After collecting David’s car seat from the hire desk. I catch a cab directly to the hospital, even though it’s the middle of the night. The lights of New York whisk past the window, but I don’t take the time to view my surroundings, fully focused on getting to Katie.
The driver pulls up outside the hospital. It looks exactly like the buildings I’ve seen in American TV series. A large overhang extends from the front door of the building with the wordsNY COMMUNITY HOSPITALwritten across the front. The square brown building stands proud; I wonder how many lives the heroes in this place have saved over the years.
I hope they can at least save one more.
The one most important to me—Katie.
Neon signs to the intensive care department blink as I walk along the corridor. My vision blurs under white light as I scurry with a baby in my arms and pulling a suitcase. Perhaps I should’ve gone to the hotel first, but I had to see her. Every mileI watched disappear on the airplane flight tracker only made me more nervous, my desperation to be by her side more severe.
A man sits behind the reception desk, dressed sharply in a suit with a tie. He flicks through papers on the desk, ignoring me. I clear my throat. His gaze wanders upward.
“Can I help you?” he asks. I bite my tongue, the rage rising in the back of my throat.
“I’m here to see Katie Clark,” I tell him, aiming for polite, obtaining barely civil. “She was brought in overnight after a car accident.”
“Are you family?” He looks away to paperwork in front of him.
“She’s my...” I pause. What is she? Deciding not to take a chance on being rejected, I lie. “She’s my partner.”
“Room 348.” He looks up. “She’s still unconscious but stable. You can go in and see her.”
“Can you say that again?” I whisper. His eyes narrow.
“You can go…”
“No, the stable part.” My voice catches. Relief blooms in my chest. The receptionist smiles for the first time since my arrival.
“She’s stable, sir.” He points down the corridor. “You can go sit with her.”
The hospital room is old but clean. Katie’s lying on the bed, propped up on pillows in a half-seated position. Her eyes are closed, and from here she looks perfect, not a bump or scrape in sight. It’s almost impossible to believe she was in any collision at all.
I stand next to her, placing one hand on her arm as I press a kiss to her forehead.
“I love you, Katie Clark. Please come back to me. I miss you,” I whisper, hoping she can hear me.
My ass aches after sitting in the hospital chair for what feels like hours, praying she wakes up. Nurses and doctors come and go, giving me basic updates on her condition, but telling me notto expect her to open her eyes any time soon. It could be days or even weeks. The trauma her body has taken will take months to heal.
A traumatic brain injury, that’s what the doctor called it.
“But there’s no visible bruising on her head?” I said.
“There doesn’t have to be. Katie’s head was forced backward and forward violently. Her brain was shaken inside her skull.”
He paused then, giving me a moment to consider his update. It seemed unreal.
“The good news is we don’t see signs of structural damage.” He glanced to the notes on the clipboard in his hands. “We’re confident she will wake—and heal. Her memory should come back. But it’ll take time. The brain essentially has put itself into a protective shutdown while it gets better.”
“So, she’ll be okay?” I asked for what felt like the thousandth time. His mouth almost turned into an encouraging smile before catching himself. Doctors are trained for realism, not false hope.
“There’s no guarantees. And when she wakes, she may be disoriented. Repeat herself. Struggle to focus.”
“Of course…” Not that I knew anything about brain injuries, but it seemed the right thing to say. Even though what he was saying was positive to a degree, the uncertainty was still terrifying.