25
“What do you think is taking so long?” I whispered to Declan, who, overhearing the doctor’s words while still on the line, had immediately rushed to the hospital to offer me some support, and I guessed to figure out next steps based on how things turned out.
Now he sat beside me in silence just outside the imaging room. He turned with a look on his face that suggested he hadn’t really heard what I’d said. “Sorry, what? I was miles away.”
His concern for Rosie was touching and I felt grateful that he was here. He had become a good friend and such a close ally in the last few weeks, and oddly it felt right to have him here now.
I offered him a tired smile. “I said I wondered what was taking so long.” I knew he didn’t have the answers, but it felt somewhat comforting to have someone else to speculate with. If only to break up the tension I was feeling.
But then, as if answering my prayers, the imaging room door opened and Rosie was pushed out on a gurney. Dr. Ryan followed behind and nodded to me when she saw me.
“We can go back up to Rosie’s room now and get her comfortable. The results should be ready shortly.”
I jumped to attention with Declan right behind me. “Doctor, please, what do you think? Is everything going to be all right? Is she OK?”
The look on Dr. Ryan’s face confirmed my worst fears.
“Kate, the MRI will tell us more. But my worry is that during the worst of the seizures, Rosie suffered a hypoxic brain injury. Essentially, her brain experienced a partial lack of oxygen.”
I was already shaking my head. Her words couldn’t be true. “But when she woke up...she said ‘Mama’...she was looking around...she was there. She knew me, she was with me. I could feel it.”
I felt Declan move closer behind me. I wondered if he was preparing himself to catch me when I crumpled to the floor. Surely that must be coming. My legs felt like they were made of jelly. He reached out and put a steadying arm on my elbow.
“Kate, I know this is scary. But Rosie is still in the very best of hands, OK? We are going to do everything we can to take care of your daughter, I promise.” Dr. Ryan turned her attention to a nurse who seemed to be studying me intently. “Breda? Let’s get Kate back to Rosie’s room and maybe give her something to help her calm down.”
“I don’t want drugs,” I snapped, suddenly defensive.
Dr. Ryan looked into my eyes. “You are very pale right now, Kate. And we are all worried about you, too.”
Declan placed an arm around my shoulders. “It’s OK, Kate. Let’s go back upstairs with Rosie. I think it’s best if you sit down and try to take it easy until we know something for sure. Come with me.”
I allowed myself to slump into him—I let him support me as he led me back to Rosie’s room. Maybe he was right, and Dr. Ryan, too. I needed to calm down.
I needed to breathe.
* * *
Back in Rosie’s room, I held my little girl’s hand and watched her. Every now and then she would look in my direction; otherwise, she seemed intent on staring at inanimate objects, like a chair across the room, the blank television screen, a cup of water that rested on a table next to her bed. Dr. Ryan told me this was normal—she was probably trying to recover her sense of self and focus her eyes.
The doctor also told me it was likely that Rosie was experiencing a “fog” of sorts. She still had a lot of drugs in her system.
I kept all of this in my mind, but devoted my energy to the fact that she had indeed muttered “Mama” before. That was a positive, and it wasn’t common for someone with brain damage.
“You know on television, when someone wakes up from a coma, they are always perfect,” I mused. “Smiling and happy, as if nothing happened.” It wasn’t a question or even a declarative statement. Just a simple ironic observation. “Reality is a bitch.”
Declan sat next to me. His gaze, too, was on Rosie.
“But she’s awake, Kate. She’s awake. She wasn’t this morning, and now she is.”
I turned to look at him, and he met my eyes. He was correct, of course. I should be thankful. That thought alone brought me to tears. “You’re right,” I admitted. “You’re right.”
I squeezed Rosie’s hand. She turned her head ever so slightly in my direction and I waited for something more, but nothing came. Taking a deep breath, I worked to encourage myself just to be happy about that. That her eyes were open. That she seemed to know my voice, was aware that I was there.
Hearing light footsteps enter the room, I looked up to find Dr. Ryan approaching the bed with another man in tow. She introduced him—Dr. Franklin. He was from the neurology department, and the pair had been reviewing Rosie’s MRI. It seemed they had news.
“Should we go somewhere else?” I asked, suddenly concerned about what Rosie would hear and what she might think if they were delivering bad news about her condition.
Dr. Ryan smiled kindly. “There isn’t any reason to go somewhere else unless you would be more comfortable.”
In all honesty, I just wanted to be by my daughter’s side. So I told them it was fine to stay put. “So, what did the scans reveal?” I asked, steeling myself for the worst news.
Dr. Ryan turned to Dr. Franklin and communicated something with her eyes. Then she turned back to me. “Kate, I realize that this has been a challenge since day one—”
I put up a hand to stop her. “Really, I can handle this. Please don’t sugarcoat things for me, tell it to me straight. This isn’t the first time I have been through a living hell.” I swallowed hard. There was no reason right now to be anything but brutally honest—and I knew that this wasn’t the first time that Dr. Ryan had to deliver tough news, either.
The neurologist cleared his throat. “Well, Ms. O’Hara, it appears that Rosie’s brain was denied some oxygen during her seizures, which in turn caused some brain cells to die. This usually only takes a few minutes. Ultimately, when the brain is denied oxygen, there is a disruption of the transmission of electrochemical impulses, which impacts the production and activity of neurotransmitters. These regulate many cognitive, physiological and emotional processes. So while Dr. Ryan’s original concern about Rosie having experienced a hypoxic brain injury is true, her brain wasn’t completely denied of oxygen, so that’s a positive.”
I nodded, trying to digest his words. “So what does that all mean, now that she’s conscious? Can we correct the damage that has occurred?”
I knew a little about closed head injuries and brain injuries. Just a little. I knew that you could work toward recovery, but it was hard and a very long process. And there were no guarantees. I remembered several cases throughout my career: some brain-injured patients had been working to regain their full faculties for years.
Dr. Ryan took a deep breath, but Dr. Franklin stepped in again.
“Unfortunately, it’s hard to predict at this early stage. It simply comes down to a waiting game to see what functions Rosie recovers and what progress she makes.”
I ran my hands through my hair and considered this. “But we at least know that she’s responding, talking, even?”
Nodding his head in agreement, the neurologist said, “Yes. That’s part of it. But this is about more than simple cognitive functions like speech or vision. We also have to consider that Rosie may suffer some...physical disability.”
This caused me to swallow hard. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that she might not gain full function of her arms and legs and may even experience spastic movement or rigidity. Additionally, because of the correlation between cognitive function and coordination or learned movements, she may well have forgotten everyday tasks, like tying her shoes or how to brush her teeth.”
In that moment, I had a burst of memory of Greg and me teaching Rosie how to tie her shoes, only a few short years ago. She had learned to do that once; I knew I could help her learn how to do it again. I was determined to be positive.
“So just relearning some skills. I understand.” I nodded thoughtfully. That didn’t sound so bad. My girl was a tough cookie; I knew she could handle that much.
Dr. Ryan, however, was looking at me hesitantly. “Kate, we need to stress it might not be that simple.” I started to speak, to assure her I understood. This might not be simple, but we would deal with it. We would get through it. She and I had survived so much already.
But I was quieted from offering further commentary when I heard the physician’s next words.
“Until we know the full extent of Rosie’s injuries and have the chance to monitor any potential progress she makes from here on, I need you to understand that there is a strong possibility that Rosie will have special needs. She may never recover all of her cognitive function, she might not be able to walk again, and it’s highly likely she will need specialist care. This is the reality, and I’m sorry that it’s not better news. Our rehabilitation team here at the hospital will work with you through everything and address issues as they occur. You have to be ready to look at this from many perspectives—medical, emotional, financial...”
I was listening to every word, but I found myself hung up on the phrase “special needs.” I tried to picture Rosie in a wheelchair, needing assistance with simple things, like feeding herself and walking. Somehow I couldn’t picture it, and I suddenly also couldn’t picture my future. How would I ever return to work? And specialist care... Where was the money for all this going to come from? What was going to happen to us?
I had been so foolish, thinking that if she would just wake up life could get back to normal. If Rosie opened her eyes, then bam! Everything would be OK.
I squeezed my little girl’s hand again. I pleaded with her to give me something, anything, that showed she—my tough-cookie five-year-old—was still there. That she was present with me, ready to fight with me.
What I was rewarded with was the smallest twitch of her fingers. It could have been anything, but I was going to take it as a good sign.
I looked at Declan then. His gaze was sympathetic, but there was something else in there, too. And, suddenly, he offered me his hand. His grasp was firm, communicating something: I will help you.
And, right then, I knew I had to push on. I had to be strong.
This thing wasn’t over—not by a long shot.