Page 110 of All I Have Left

Now that I’m alone with him, I don’t know what to say to him, or even if I need to say anything. Reaching for his right hand, I touch my fingertips to it first. His other hand is in what looks to be a splint and I’m assuming it’s broken. I feel horrible having dragged him to try to get him to the truck.

At the first touch of his skin, I notice how warm it is. Blinded by tears, I fumble with words. My chest hurts so bad that pain radiates through me as I drag in each labored breath. Regret fills me next, for letting this happen to him.

“I’m so sorry,” I cry, knowing it’s not enough. “I’m here for you and I’m not going anywhere. I will be here when you wake up, and every day after that, no matter what.”

My eyes drift to his face for the first time. He has a neck collar on and there’s a tube running from underneath the bandage on his head down to the floor. There are more tubes attached to his mouth and it’s in that moment I see his face more clearly. He doesn’t look the same. Extremely pale, his face is swollen with deep black marks underneath both his eyes.

I look up at the heart monitors and then back at his face. “Please fight, Grayson. Fight for us. I can’t lose you again.”

I know it’s selfish of me to want him here with me, but after everything we’ve been through, is it? Is having him healthy and in my life too much to ask?

51

EVIE

The rest of Tuesday night goes by slowly. Unbearably slow. I’m more aware of my injuries now. Lance had broken my right hand, I have a blood infection from the cuts and a nasty urinary tract infection that spread to my kidneys. It’s not awesome. None of it. Despite all of this, the staff at the University of Alabama in Birmingham take care of me and give me as much time as they can next to Grayson.

I spend hours beside Grayson, holding his hand, praying. I stare at the machines he’s hooked up to and pray that they keep him alive. The IV pumps, the ventilator, the cardiac monitor, the chest tube, all of it, I beg and plead for them to work and keep him alive while he heals.

“Fight for us,” I whisper to him, gripping his hand that’s tethered to the bed, around his wrists, cuffs to keep him from moving. My eyes drift to his face, his black eyes swollen to the point his eyelids look like they’re going to explode. The left side of his head and ear is covered in a thick white bandage. On the top of his shaved head is a tube connected by a screw drilled into his skull. It’s a horrifying thought to imagine what his body has gone through in the last two days, yet here he is, holding on.

In reality—though I have no concept of reality at themoment—I have a lot to be thankful for. Miracles are happening around us. Grayson’s neurosurgeon is rated number one in the nation and he just so happened to be in the area consulting on another case the night of the accident. He was paged during the Life Flight and had the OR on standby to get him right away.

That’s a miracle I’m hanging onto because without their quick action and getting him in surgery when they did, even fifteen minutes later could have resulted in him being brain dead. So I cling to those tiny miracles. They give me hope.

Until around midnight when Grayson’s heart rate increases radically.

“What’s happening?” Startled by the sudden alarms flashing and beeping in the room, I look to Grayson and he remains motionless, the only sound his ventilator. He’s covered in big blue pads on his torso, arms and legs. They tell me they’re cooling pads to regulate his temperature. He spiked a fever about an hour ago and something felt off to me, as if it was an indication something was wrong. I guess, maybe this is it.

A nurse I haven’t seen before reaches for my wheelchair. “We’re concerned about the pressures so you’re going to have to leave.”

“What?” I panic. “No. I want to stay. I won’t bother you. I just want to stay.”

“You can’t,” she snaps, gripping the edges of my chair, and it’s then I notice the panic in her tone, the rattle in her demeanor. He’s not okay. “You have to leave. Every second you’re in here is another one lost for us to help him. He needs us to save his life and we can’t with you here.”

I’m rushed out, the door closing behind me. Another nurse takes a hold of my wheelchair and IV. “I’m going to take you back to your room for now. They’ll come talk to you when they know more.”

The thing is, I want to know every single detail about what they’re doing. It can’t be any worse than I’m already imagining.

But I’m left with nothing.

No hope. No reassurance.

Alone in my room again, I’m holding on. Barely. As I fear the worst, time moves slowly. Minute by minute, hour by hour, and the waiting seems unbearable. I want answers. I want to know that he’s going to make it, but they don’t know.

After a four-hour surgery,I’m able to see Grayson again early Wednesday morning before the sun comes up. His room is dark, the only lights the glow of the monitors. He’s unresponsive, heavily sedated, the bruising in his face worse. He looks like a raccoon.

“What happened?” I ask, confused as to what went wrong. Julia stands next to my chair, holding my hand. “I mean, he was doing better, wasn’t he?”

Dr. Nehls, his neurosurgeon, sits next to me, his words soft. “These things happen sometimes, but we noticed his hemodynamics changed and were able to act quickly. I’m hopeful that we evacuated the bleed and cauterized the area to prevent another bleed.”

I don’t know what that means, but I understand the word bleed. “Is that normal for there to be a new bleed? Or is that bad?”

“It happens sometimes.” His eyes drift to Grayson. “Now we just need to wait and see. Give him some time and keep an eye on everything. We’re monitoring him very closely.”

“Is the pressure going down now?” I ask. Beside Dr. Nehls is his nurse, Leigha, who I’ve come to love over the last twelve hours. She’s sat with me explaining every procedure and step along the way, even though I’m not related to Grayson. His parents should be getting this information but thankfully, they’ve allowed me to be present through all of it. Maybe because I might possibly have a mental breakdown.

“It’s not coming down yet, but I think it will. Swelling that’s persistent and doesn’t show any improvement means the area of the brain affected needs to be explored further. We do a series of CT scans and compare them over time and that gives us a better understanding. Almost like a timeline to go off.”

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