Chapter 3 - What the Doctors Found
The next morning, Dr. Patel came into my ICU room carrying a tablet and a face too serious to be reassuring.
My mother sat stiffly in the chair beside my bed. Daniel stood near the window with his arms crossed. Caleb had been taken home by a neighbor so he could sleep before school.
Uncle Ray was nowhere in sight.
That was not surprising.
He had texted Mom once during the night.
Let me know when Emma stops making this into a whole thing.
Mom had read the message twice.
Then, for the first time I could remember, she did not defend him.
She blocked his number.
Dr. Patel pulled up a chair.
“Emma, your condition is stable now,” he said. “The medication is working, and your oxygen levels have improved. But you had a significant pulmonary embolism.”
I swallowed. “How bad?”
“You were very sick,” he answered honestly. “If you had waited longer, the outcome could have been very different.”
My mother covered her mouth.
Daniel placed a hand on her shoulder, but she did not look at him.
“What caused it?” I asked.
“That is what we are investigating,” Dr. Patel said. “You may have an inherited clotting condition called Factor V Leiden. It can make someone more likely to develop dangerous blood clots.”
I stared at him.
“So I was born with it?”
“Possibly. We need blood work to confirm it.”
Mom finally spoke.
“Her father’s sister had something like that.”
Dr. Patel nodded. “That could be relevant. We will contact family members if Emma approves.”
I did not answer immediately.
I had not spoken to my biological father, Mark Parker, in almost six years.
Not because I did not want to.
Because my mother and he had separated when I was twelve, and the distance between us grew larger every year. There were calls at first. Birthday cards. A few summer visits.
Then those stopped.
Mom said he was busy.
Dad said Mom made things difficult.
I never knew which version was true.
Eventually, I stopped asking.
“I’ll call him,” Mom said quietly.
I looked at her.
“You still have his number?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.”
That hurt more than it should have.
For years, I thought Dad had forgotten me.
But apparently, Mom had always known exactly where to find him.
Dr. Patel left us with more instructions. More tests. More warnings. I would need blood thinners, follow-up appointments, and time to recover. No strenuous activity. No stress. No ignoring symptoms.
No stress.
It was almost funny.
Mom waited until the door closed.
Then she looked at me.
“I should have listened.”
I stared at the blanket over my legs.
“Yeah.”
“I should have taken you to a doctor the first time you complained.”
“Yeah.”
“I should have asked more questions.”
“Yeah.”
Her face crumpled.
I wanted to comfort her. That was what I had always done when she cried. I had learned early that if I became too upset, she would fall apart, and then somehow I would be the one apologizing.
But I was too tired.
So I let the silence sit between us.
Daniel spoke quietly from the window.
“She’s allowed to be angry, Lisa.”
Mom wiped her face. “I know.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think you do.”
She turned to him, wounded.
He took a breath.
“I should have said something sooner too.”
I looked at him.
Daniel had been my stepfather for only three years. He was not perfect. He was quiet, worked long shifts as a truck mechanic, and often avoided conflict with Mom and Uncle Ray. But he had called 911.
He had seen me on the floor and believed me.
That mattered.
“I saw things,” he continued. “Not everything. But enough. Ray making comments. You brushing off Emma’s symptoms. Me telling myself it wasn’t my place.”
Mom looked down.
Daniel’s voice shook. “That was cowardly.”
For the next few hours, nurses came and went. A social worker checked in. A specialist took blood samples. The hospital served me gelatin that tasted like sweetened plastic.
By afternoon, my phone had forty-three notifications.
Most were from friends who had heard I was hospitalized.
One was from Uncle Ray.
Your mom told me what the doctors said. Sorry you got sick, kid. But don’t let this become an excuse to act helpless.
I stared at it.
Then I handed the phone to Daniel.
His jaw clenched.
“He sent that?” he asked.
I nodded.
Mom read it over his shoulder.
Her face went very still.
For years, Ray had been part of our lives. He came over every Sunday. He drank beer in our kitchen. He told stories about his old jobs and complained about “soft kids” and “lazy people.”
Mom always laughed at his jokes.
Sometimes she repeated them.
Now she took my phone, typed a reply, and showed it to me before sending.
Do not contact Emma again. Do not come to our house. You are not welcome in our lives until you understand what you did.
Ray answered almost immediately.
Seriously? You’re blaming me? She’s been dramatic since she was little.
Mom read the message.
Then she blocked him too.
That should have felt like victory.
Instead, I felt hollow.
Because it should not have taken nearly dying for people to care.
That evening, a nurse entered my room and said someone was asking to see me.
“A man named Mark Parker,” she said.
My heart stopped.
My father stood in the doorway a few minutes later.
He looked older than I remembered. His hair had gone mostly gray at the temples. He wore a wrinkled flannel shirt, work boots, and an expression of pure terror.
For a second, he just looked at me.
Then he crossed the room and broke down.
“I’m here, Em,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
May you like
And for the first time in years, I believed he meant it.
---
