Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Good idea.”
I dialed Dr. Harris’s emergency number—“Any time, day or night,” he’d promised us—and the answering service took all our information. He called me back within twenty minutes and told me he was on his way.
“Do you want me to go get you anything? Coffee?” Mom asked once I hung up.
I shook my head. “I don’t see any around here, anyway.”
“They’ve got some at the nurse’s station,” she said, and I had no doubt she would just pull out her hospital confidence and strut right over there to get me some.
“Nah, I’m keyed up enough as it is.” I leaned my elbows on my knees and dropped my head into my hands. Now that we were inside, my coat was starting to feel oppressive, but I hadn’t had the common sense to change out of my nightgown. I couldn’t exactly sit in the hospital waiting room in a silky chemise.
I don’t know how long we waited. I didn’t check the clock on my phone, and there wasn’t one in this waiting room. I didn’t pace—it would have only made me sweatier—but I did shred quite a few kleenexes while we waited for news. It seemed like forever before a doctor came in.
“Mrs. Elwood?” the woman in light blue scrubs and a white coat said, addressing Mom.
“No, I’m Mrs. Elwood. Or, um, Ms. Scaife. Sophie.” My stuffy nose made me sound like a five-year-old with a bad cold. “Sorry. I’m Neil’s wife.”
She nodded, looking down at her chart. I was used to the shock thing. When he’d been in the hospital before, people had often assumed I was his daughter. When she looked up again, it was with a sympathetic but reassuring smile. “I’m Doctor Patel. I saw your husband when he came in. Let me give you the good news, first. Overdoses on a medication like Valium are rarely fatal. The dose he was on, and the quantity that was prescribed, are enough that we would worry about his breathing becoming impaired, but so far, he hasn’t shown any signs of distress. We did perform a gastric lavage—”
“I thought you didn’t do those as often, anymore,” Mom interrupted, her face creased with worry. Then, she added, “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“No, it’s not a problem.” Dr. Patel waved her hand. “You’re right, we don’t do them as often, anymore, but given the time frame Ms. Scaife estimated, we thought it might be the best course of action, because it can stop the medication from having a chance to absorb. And we did get quite a few chunks of pills that hadn’t been digested, yet.”
They’d pumped Neil’s stomach? I wanted to vomit. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Does that hurt? I mean, what you did to him?”
Dr. Patel’s lips clamped briefly. “It’s not comfortable. But it was the best course of action.”
Neil had been through enough hospital pain. And I couldn’t bear the thought of him going through more.
“That was the good news,” Mom said while I pushed down my sobs. “What’s the bad news?”
“The bad news is that, because this was an intentional overdose, we need to keep him for a psych evaluation, and possibly inpatient treatment.” Dr. Patel looked between the two of us. “We’re also going to need to keep an eye on him to make sure his respiration isn’t affected, so he’s going to need to stay on a general floor for observation tonight. So, we’re looking at a couple of days, minimum.”
“He sees a psychiatrist,” I told her, my mind still stuck on the psych evaluation part. “He’s on his way here. Can he do the evaluation?”
“I think so?” Maybe the ins and outs of the psych ward weren’t part of her job. “He would know better than I do. That’s something he’ll have to work out with our people. Either way, he needs to stay overnight so we can monitor his breathing.”
“Can she go in and see him?” Mom asked for me.
“Soon. The nurses are going to get him cleaned up. They’ll let you know when you can.” The doctor tapped her fingers on the edge of her clipboard. “If you think of any other questions, just let the nurse know. I would be happy to help.”
“Thank you, doctor,” my mom said.
“No problem. And we’ll keep you updated if anything changes, but his prognosis is good.”
After she left, I shook my head and stared hopelessly at the floor. “Honestly, I don’t know if I want to see him. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him for this.”
“That’s not something you need to worry about tonight.” Mom reached over to the end table, to the nearly empty box of tissues, to hand me a fresh one. “Right now, let’s just be thankful that he’s going to be okay.”
There was a knock on the door before it opened, and Dr. Harris stepped inside. He’s the kind of guy you’d expect to see running for a senate seat. He has blindingly white teeth and a square jaw right out of an old Superman comic. Being woken up in the middle of the night didn’t suit his complexion; he was as pale as a saltine cracker.