Page 49 of Ripple Effect

“Well, given your recent symptoms and your past medical history, it’s not ideal. We’re detecting some abnormal rhythms on your monitor—ones that indicate a serious underlying condition.”

“What kind ofcondition?”

“Well, Dr. Foster suspected some sort of arrhythmia at your original appointment but wanted to rule out other causes first: stress, anxiety, other physical conditions that could’ve led to your symptoms. But based on what we’re seeing now, it looks as though you’re experiencing episodes of nonsustained ventricular tachycardia.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” I ask.

“In simpler terms, your heart’s experiencing episodes where it beats much faster than it should. ‘Ventricular’ refers to the lower chambers of your heart, where this is all happening. Imagine your heart’s normal rhythm is like a steady drummer in a band, keeping a consistent beat. But for short periods, that drummer decides to go off on a wild solo, playing much faster than the rest.

“This isn’t dangerous in the short term, especially when it stops on its own—that’s why we call it ‘nonsustained.’ But it’s still not normal, and it can make you feel faint, dizzy, or short of breath. Over time, and particularly if these episodes were to get longer or more frequent, it could put extra strain on your heart.”

“Extra strain, like . ..”

He gives me a tight-lipped grimace. “Like loss of consciousness, fibrillation, sudden cardiac death.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

He clears his throat and carries on. “That is to say, if all this goes untreated, the consequences could be serious,” he tells me. “There are ways to mitigate and treat the diagnosis, and it will depend on how chronic and severe your condition is.”

“So, are we talking surgery here?”

“They’d likely start you on some medications and go forward from there. But that’s something you’re going to need to discuss with Dr. Foster at a follow-up appointment.”

I take a deep breath, processing what he’s saying. It sounds serious but manageable, and it’s something I may be able to mitigate with medications. That’s not too terrifying on its own.

But there’s something else that sets off bigger alarms: admitting me to the hospital for the night.

The thought sends a wave of dread through my body. Hospitals and I don’t have the best track record. It’s not the sterility or the smell of antiseptic or even the fact that being here means something is seriously wrong with me.

It’s a feeling much deeper than that. More personal. It’s a memory—painful and vivid—that’s stayed with me for the last five years.

As with many of life’s problems, it all goes back to Jackson fucking Ford, who once felt like everything to me but turned out to be one of my biggest regrets.

When he was admitted after an overdose, I stayed by his side, forsaking sleep, food, and my own sanity. And when I woke up the next morning in the reclining chair, exhausted and terrified, he was gone. Discharged himself Against Medical Advice, the nurses said.

And I never fucking saw him again.

That day, that loss, marked the beginning of my worst downward spiral. It was the depth of that spiral that eventually led me to rehab and recovery. But the hospital, this place of sterilized linoleum and the relentless beep of monitors, still holds the ghost of that trauma.

“I understand what you’re saying, but I—I don’t want to stay overnight,” I tell the doctor, my voice a ragged whisper. I see Daisy beside me, her brows furrowed with worry, her hands clenched in her lap.

“I can monitor him at home,” she says suddenly, her voice steady, her gaze unyielding as she looks at the doctor. “I’ll stay beside him all night, and if anything changes, I’ll bring him back in immediately.”

There’s a tense moment as the doctor considers, and then finally, he sighs. “Alright. Given you’re stable right now, we’ll permit you to continue your monitoring at home. But you need to see Dr. Foster on Monday morning without fail. And if your symptoms persist or worsen, return to the emergency department immediately.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief, tension uncoiling in my gut. It’s not the best news, but at least I get to sleep in my own place tonight, away from the ghosts. And with Daisy by my side, I think I’ll manage just fucking fine.

The doctor leaves us then, and I’m left sitting on the edge of the emergency room bed, Daisy standing beside me, her hand finding purchase on my shoulder. Her touch is comforting, grounding, a lifeline in this confusing sea of medical jargon.

“Thank you,” I whisper, leaning my head against her knuckles. “I owe you one.”

She gives me a small, brave smile. “You lean on me, I lean on you. Remember?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I remember.”

20

DAISY

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