Read Online Compass (Siren Songs Book 2) by Stephie Walls - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephie Walls
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There’s no point in trying to communicate; she doesn’t understand anything I’m trying to tell her. My tongue feels swollen and useless. The frustration is becoming overwhelming.
Stopping in a little triage room, she leaves me with another nurse telling her she’s going to get a portable EKG machine. I can’t manage to even tell, Heather—her name is Heather—my name. Nothing intelligible is coming from my mouth. I give up as a tear streaks down my cheek. Her dad hands me a handkerchief and starts answering the questions he can for me, but he doesn’t know much either.
Where the hell is Piper? I need my wife! It can’t possibly take this long to park a goddamn car. My inability to communicate, the loss of function on my left side, is all scaring the fuck out of me and the only person I need with me, isn’t fucking here.
Pam has returned with a machine that has what appears to be one thousand wires hanging from it, and sticky circles on the end of the wires. She doesn’t waste time having me put on a gown; she simply strips my shirt from my body after confirming I have no physical wounds. With nothing to do but read name tags and watch, I memorize the names of the women around me, those trying to help me. The chirps of the machines and sounds of squeaky wheels on moving hospital beds will forever be etched in my brain.
In less than two minutes, Pam has the screen lit up, monitoring my heart, slipping a plastic clip on my finger that she tells me is to measure my oxygen levels. Finally, a blood pressure cuff, and with the press of a button, the cuff starts to inflate. The familiar sounds of the motor have never been cause for anxiety before. I watch, waiting for the little box to show the numbers everyone is anxiously waiting for. When they fill the screen, Piper gasps behind me. Turning to look at her, unaware she had come in, I see the terror in her eyes, her hands covering her mouth. One lone tear escapes her eye. Quickly wiping it away along with the fear I saw, she puts on her game face, taking my hand in hers. She knows what’s wrong, but for whatever reason, she’s not telling me.
T he numbers on the screen don’t mean anything to Moby, but two hundred and twenty-one over one hundred and sixty, my husband is actively stroking. I have never seen it firsthand, but my mother educated me for years after watching her mother die from repeat strokes. It never dawned on me those constant reminders of visual clues would come in handy—the slurred speech, facial distortion, motor function loss—I knew but hoped I was wrong. I wish now I was oblivious to the reality we’re about to face, but I’m not. I’m all too aware of just how bad this truly is.
In an instant, there’s a flurry of people and alarms going off on the machines tracking my husband’s heart. They quickly transfer him to a bed and start an IV. With only one of us allowed to go back to the room, my dad turns to leave.
I grab his arm in panic. “Daddy, will you keep trying to call Moby’s parents and Cam? She doesn’t know I’m going to be late, so at this point, I think it’s safe to tell her I won’t be in at all. Be prepared for her to blow a gasket but don’t give her any information. Let Moby’s parents know where we are and tell them he’s having a stroke. They need to get here sooner than later.”
No one had made that proclamation, but the nurse didn’t correct me either. I handed my dad Moby’s cell phone thinking his parents would be more apt to answer a call from their son than my dad this early in the morning. Checking my watch, I realize it’s 7:30 am. It’s likely we missed the twelve-hour window for tPA. My heart seizes at the notion we might have been able to stop this if Moby had told me what was going on last night. No point in worrying about that now.
I follow the nurses carrying all the machines and pushing the blood pressure monitor to a secluded room. I sit silently watching my husband as he watches the
Stopping in a little triage room, she leaves me with another nurse telling her she’s going to get a portable EKG machine. I can’t manage to even tell, Heather—her name is Heather—my name. Nothing intelligible is coming from my mouth. I give up as a tear streaks down my cheek. Her dad hands me a handkerchief and starts answering the questions he can for me, but he doesn’t know much either.
Where the hell is Piper? I need my wife! It can’t possibly take this long to park a goddamn car. My inability to communicate, the loss of function on my left side, is all scaring the fuck out of me and the only person I need with me, isn’t fucking here.
Pam has returned with a machine that has what appears to be one thousand wires hanging from it, and sticky circles on the end of the wires. She doesn’t waste time having me put on a gown; she simply strips my shirt from my body after confirming I have no physical wounds. With nothing to do but read name tags and watch, I memorize the names of the women around me, those trying to help me. The chirps of the machines and sounds of squeaky wheels on moving hospital beds will forever be etched in my brain.
In less than two minutes, Pam has the screen lit up, monitoring my heart, slipping a plastic clip on my finger that she tells me is to measure my oxygen levels. Finally, a blood pressure cuff, and with the press of a button, the cuff starts to inflate. The familiar sounds of the motor have never been cause for anxiety before. I watch, waiting for the little box to show the numbers everyone is anxiously waiting for. When they fill the screen, Piper gasps behind me. Turning to look at her, unaware she had come in, I see the terror in her eyes, her hands covering her mouth. One lone tear escapes her eye. Quickly wiping it away along with the fear I saw, she puts on her game face, taking my hand in hers. She knows what’s wrong, but for whatever reason, she’s not telling me.
T he numbers on the screen don’t mean anything to Moby, but two hundred and twenty-one over one hundred and sixty, my husband is actively stroking. I have never seen it firsthand, but my mother educated me for years after watching her mother die from repeat strokes. It never dawned on me those constant reminders of visual clues would come in handy—the slurred speech, facial distortion, motor function loss—I knew but hoped I was wrong. I wish now I was oblivious to the reality we’re about to face, but I’m not. I’m all too aware of just how bad this truly is.
In an instant, there’s a flurry of people and alarms going off on the machines tracking my husband’s heart. They quickly transfer him to a bed and start an IV. With only one of us allowed to go back to the room, my dad turns to leave.
I grab his arm in panic. “Daddy, will you keep trying to call Moby’s parents and Cam? She doesn’t know I’m going to be late, so at this point, I think it’s safe to tell her I won’t be in at all. Be prepared for her to blow a gasket but don’t give her any information. Let Moby’s parents know where we are and tell them he’s having a stroke. They need to get here sooner than later.”
No one had made that proclamation, but the nurse didn’t correct me either. I handed my dad Moby’s cell phone thinking his parents would be more apt to answer a call from their son than my dad this early in the morning. Checking my watch, I realize it’s 7:30 am. It’s likely we missed the twelve-hour window for tPA. My heart seizes at the notion we might have been able to stop this if Moby had told me what was going on last night. No point in worrying about that now.
I follow the nurses carrying all the machines and pushing the blood pressure monitor to a secluded room. I sit silently watching my husband as he watches the
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