Page 262 of Before We Were

He monitors the machines as he speaks, watching for signs of distress. I feel frozen, each word settling like frost on already numb skin.

"The swelling required an emergency occipital craniotomy. We had to remove a portion of your skull to allow your brain room to heal without causing further damage. The piece was replaced once the swelling subsided."

Wait, what?

My eyes stretch wide until they burn, panic rising like flood water in my chest. The thought of my skull being opened, my brain exposed—it's too much. I try to maintain composure, but my bottom lip betrays me with its trembling. In this moment, I yearn for Mom's arms around me, her voice promising everything will be okay. Instead, I grip the 'fearless' bracelet tighter, letting its familiar edges ground me in a world that's suddenly too sharp, too real, too full of truths I'm not ready to face.

The machines beside me maintain their steady rhythm, counting heartbeats I almost lost, marking time in a life I nearly left behind. Dr. Aldridge offers a reassuring smile, his hand gentle on my forearm.

"Nora, you responded remarkably well to the surgical intervention. Your cranial integrity is fully restored. We've been monitoring your progress through serial CT scans, and you're showing excellent signs of recovery."

Well, at least there's that, I guess.

"Regarding your other injuries," he continues, consulting his tablet, "while the rib fractures and pelvic injury were severe, we can find some positivity in the fact that you avoided any pleural penetration or pneumothorax." His warm brown eyes scan my face carefully.

"The medically induced coma was initially necessary to manage the cerebral edema. Your body then maintained a natural comatose state, essentially creating its own healing environment."

A tear escapes, trailing down my cheek like a silent confession. Dr. Aldridge notices but continues with gentle precision.

"There's considerable good news too. Your recovery is progressing better than our initial prognosis suggested. In a few days, we'll transition you to a specialized rehabilitation facility for comprehensive physical therapy and recovery support."

I draw in a shaky breath that feels like inhaling broken glass.

"So I'm…I'm going to be fine? I'll be able to walk again and get on with my life like normal?" The words catch in my throat, panic rising despite the fact I've been moving my toes during moments of consciousness.

"Of course, in due time. Recovery is different for everyone, but we'll make a plan, and as long as you trust the process, you're going to be fine," he assures me. "Your spinal column remained remarkably intact. Credit goes to whoever extracted you from the vehicle—they showed exceptional care."

He pauses, studying my reaction.

"Regarding your prognosis, traumatic brain injuries are highly individualized. Memory recovery can be unpredictable in both timing and extent. However, given your current neurological indicators, we're cautiously optimistic about a substantial recovery, though challenges will arise, you just need to take things day by day."

Challenges I can handle. Even if they suck, because I'm a fighter.

"You may experience various cognitive and emotional changes—memory deficits, mood lability, difficulties with concentration and executive function are common post-TBI symptoms. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Now I know I just spewed a whole heap of medical jargon on you but things are good, you're doing extremely well all things considered. How are you feeling right now?"

Physically, it feels like I've been hit with a sledgehammer and then tossed into a cement mixer. And mentally…

"I'm confused," I murmur. "I'm tired." And terrified, I add silently.

"That's perfectly normal," he says with a gentle laugh. "You've endured significant trauma. If you're willing, I'd like to perform a brief cognitive assessment. Would that be okay?"

The anxiety churns in my stomach like a living thing, but I nod.

"Can you state your full name?"

"Lenora Kennedy Wells."

"And your mother's name?"

"Katherine Wells."

"Good. What's the last date you can recall?"

Panic floods my system.

Flashes of emerald green silk. Music. Dancing. The gala.

"July 27th. The Annual Eden Charity Fundraising Gala.”

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