It takes a half an hour to get Shade to the trauma center in Madrid Spain.
Another three hours and we know nothing. Just that he’s on life support until they can assess the amount of damage done.
I sit. I stare at the door where doctors come in and out of. They emerge from the doors, occasionally and go to families, offering them good news, and some bad news.
But still, we’re offered nothing.
Do you see me there in the waiting room next to Tiller? Can you feel my heart and lungs working for the sake of working, but offering me nothing in the way of calming me down?
I can’t think of anything but the way his body hit the ground and flopped to the side. I can’t unsee the devastating image I now have of him unconscious.
It’s nearing the four-hour mark when Tiller stands, pacing the room for a moment and then tugging at his hair, as if he can’t take it anymore. “I’m going to get some coffee.” He nods up the hall. “Want some?”
I shake my head and reach for my phone in my lap. I text Willa and Ricky, and Mila, anything to keep my mind from retreating to the darker thoughts. The ones where he dies and I’m never able to tell him to his face that I love him and have him respond.
Willa deals with the press as the rumors are already flying. One news station reported him as being dead.
I’m learning pretty damn quickly the media will do anything for a story. I had no idea I’d be in the middle of it.
Yes, people want to know what’s happening with Shade, the world’s greatest freestyle rider, but making things up or failing to do even the most basic due diligence or fact checking, and posting fake news for commercial purposes. . . ?
Did these news organizations even consider the effect their fake news has on the family and friends and true fans of Shade?
They didn’t.
It’s me, Tiller, Roan, Reece, and a bunch of other riders with the X Fighters, all gathered in the waiting room of the hospital. Do you see them all? Do you see the way Tiller won’t sit still? The way he’s constantly sitting, then standing, and pacing and tugging at his hair? He’s nervous.
Do you see Roan? Do you see the way he’s pale. . . his hat pulled down low shading his eyes and his hands clench and unclench? Do you notice him on the phone, yelling at the reporters calling him for a story, or the ones trying to discretely invade the waiting room?
He’s protecting his brother’s privacy.
Do you notice the other guys? Reece, Parker. . . all the guys Shade competes with are waiting on the news of their fellow competitor.
Looking at the blank faces around me is when it hits me that every one of these guys in here is experiencing the same mind-numbing thoughts I am. They’re all hoping and praying for an outcome that won’t break them.
My eyes move from them to others in the waiting room. Like the guy across from me requesting ice cubes in his water bottle and his wife nodding, but her focus is on their medical insurance benefits probably wondering if their policy covered their daughter’s surgery.
Near the back wall, across from Roan, a younger woman with a child asleep on her lap, knits a blanket.
All of these people are waiting. Just like us.
Suddenly, the door opens and a doctor comes out, seeming to know exactly who he’s looking for.
A man sits next to us, looking to Roan and then Tiller. “Are you his brothers?”
They nod but say nothing, still wearing their riding pants and jerseys.
“Mr. Sawyer being sedated. He’s stable and in intensive care where we can continue to monitor him. He’s okay, has a concussion for sure, a broken right clavicle, but that’s the least of our worries at the moment. His neck is a concern. When he arrived here, he was able to feel his legs, but over the course of an hour, he lost feeling in the lower half of his body and arms. We performed a CT scan and MRI and found he’s fractured his C6 through C7 vertebrae. C6 is twisted and pressing on the spinal cord. I believe that’s putting pressure on the nerves and why he’s experiencing what we call temporary paralysis. We need to perform surgery to stabilize the area around the spinal cord damage. The nerves around the damage will then decompress in hopes of relieving some of the symptoms. We’ll then fuse the vertebrae and insert rods to give him more support.”
“Will he be able to race again?” Tiller asks, because he knows that would be Shade’s first question.
The doctor looks at him as if he’s crazy, shaking his head. “While I can’t understand why he’d risk his life for the sake of an adrenaline fill—”
Tiller interrupts him. “I didn’t fucking ask you your take on our sanity and what we do or don’t do for adrenaline. I asked you if he’ll be okay to race again.”
My mouth drops open at Tiller’s harsh words, though I didn’t expect anything less of Tiller. This is Tiller we’re talking about.
The doctor clears his throat, his hands twitching on his knees. “I’m confident in my ability to perform a successful surgery. He’ll need proper recovery time and physical therapy, but his range of motion in his neck will be lessened with the fusion.” He glances at me, then back to Tiller. “Was he wearing neck support at the time of the wreck? Like a brace?”
I shake my head, as does Tiller. “He has one, but he wasn’t wearing it tonight.”
I don’t know why Shade didn’t have it on. But I remember he was wearing it when he attacked Jaime. Had it fallen off?
Could that have made a difference?
“I had it,” Roan tells him. “He ripped it off when he got into a fight with Jaime.”
The doctor makes some notes on a pad he pulls from his pocket. “He was in a fight before the crash?”
We all nod.
“Is that where the black eye and abrasions on his face came from?”
Again, we nod.
The doctor stands, our eyes follow. “You can see him in a few minutes.” He waves to the nurse standing behind him. “My nurse will have the forms for you to sign and take you back to see him.”
And then he walks away.
Sometimes, without you knowing it, your life slows down.
When the doctor retreats behind the doors where Shade is lying, fighting for his life, mine slows down in the face of tragedy.
Tiller elbows me. “You go see him.”
“Why me?” I gasp. “You don’t want to?”
“No, I’ll probably punch him in the face for pullin’ this bullshit, so you go.”
The next ten minutes are nerve-racking. I’m convinced he won’t want to see me. Why would he?
The moment I step foot into his room and see him strapped to a back board, a brace around his neck and his arm in a splint, I burst into tears, my hands over my mouth. “Oh my God,” I breathe, the door shutting slowly behind me.
Do you see him there? Do you notice the swelling in his eyes and the bruises forming? Do you feel the pain in the room, his and mine? Is your heart in pieces?
Mine is. A million scattered tiny shards of what this could mean.
He’s not awake, his eyes are closed, his breathing slow and steady. He’s wearing a neck brace, his arm in a sling and laid flat on his stomach, his body still underneath a thick white blanket.
My watery eyes move around the room and the various machines, but remain focused on him, as if there’s nothing else I can physically focus on.
It’s somewhat strange to see him so calm, not moving when I’ve only ever seen the side of him that’s full of life, laughing and twirling locks of my blonde curls around his fingers and whispering dirty words to me.
I don’t know whether to leave him alone or reach out and touch his hand.
I hesitate before taking a seat, but eventually I do. And I cry, slow tears streaming down my hot cheeks and I do reach for his hand.
It doesn’t move when I hold it. Nothing. No reaction.
Pain hits my chest, immediately. He can’t be paralyzed. He just. . . can’t.
“You’re going to make it through this, Shade,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his cold hand. “You are.”
I wasn’t sure if he would, but I had to hold out hope. For the both of us.