her forehead. “You are warm. Let’s go inside.” Sitting her on a chair in the living room, Tanner went to get the thermometer.
Natalie was rubbing her calf when he returned. She’d had a little rash there since the trip to the park. She thought she’d rubbed against some thorny bushes. It didn’t look like poison oak; it was a minor irritation from something.
“Does that bother you?”
“Just itches a little. I think it’s getting better.” Natalie rested her head against the padded chair and closed her eyes.
“Here,” Tanner said, slipping the thermometer in her mouth.
Natalie dozed and the sound of Tanner’s voice sounded far off. “You have a temperature. I’m calling the doctor.”
What happened next was all so fast that later Tanner couldn’t even remember it clearly. He reached for his phone, never taking his eyes off his wife. Her eyes were closed, but when Natalie slumped in the chair like a rag doll, he panicked.
“Baby, are you okay?”
No response.
Tanner’s heart pounded. He put his palm on her cheek, which was burning with fever. Even with his hand on her, Natalie didn’t stir.
“Honey? Natalie?”
No response.
Tanner lifted her in his arms and tried to wake her but could not. A feeling of terror struck his heart. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Holding Natalie in his lap, Tanner called emergency services. “My wife is unconscious. Please come right away.”
Carrying his dear wife, her arm dangling lifelessly, Tanner went down to the lobby. Nothing seemed real.
The attendant looked alarmed. “Should I call for help?”
“I did,” Tanner managed to say.
The whirlwind that transpired was a nightmare; an awful, agonizing nightmare. The ambulance seemed to take forever to arrive, and every second that ticked by left Tanner stricken with fear that his wife would die in his arms before they arrived.
Once the paramedics were on the scene, they took over. Tanner asked a barrage of questions to which they had few answers. He resorted to saying repeatedly, “Hurry. Please hurry.”
Thankfully, they allowed him to ride in the ambulance with her. Tanner didn’t think he could have let her go. Sitting in back, appalled at seeing Natalie with an oxygen mask, pale and fragile, Tanner held her hand. Her wavy hair splayed over the stretcher underneath her in dark contrast to the white—the white of the sheet, the deathly white of her skin.
Once at the hospital, Natalie was whisked away, and Tanner was directed to the front desk to take care of the paperwork. He answered the questions and gave them identification. “When can I see my wife?” he barked, frustrated with the process.
“Have a seat, sir. The doctor will call you.”
Tanner sat in the waiting area, seeing nothing, hearing no one. Natalie had to be okay. She had to be. This couldn’t be happening. What was wrong with her?
22 – The Diagnosis
Tanner paced the waiting room, fuming, distraught. He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. If only he knew how Natalie was, that she was okay. When was the doctor going to come out? It seemed to take an eternity.
Several times he went to the desk, only to be told he’d have to wait. “The doctor will be with you as soon as he knows anything. Your wife is receiving emergency treatment. I cannot interrupt him.” Emergency treatment . The words hung in the air offensively.
Not his wife. Not Natalie. Unable to envision what had taken her so suddenly, Tanner’s stomach was in knots and his mind in a haze. It didn’t occur to him to call anyone, to let the family know. The concept that she wouldn’t make it was foreign to him. Thus a responsibility to alert those she was closest to wasn’t part of his thought process.
A doctor in a white coat, looking serious—his lined face and graying hair only adding to the image—came to stand by Tanner.
“Are you Tanner Clarke?”
“Yes, I’m her husband. Is she okay?”
The doctor didn’t
Natalie was rubbing her calf when he returned. She’d had a little rash there since the trip to the park. She thought she’d rubbed against some thorny bushes. It didn’t look like poison oak; it was a minor irritation from something.
“Does that bother you?”
“Just itches a little. I think it’s getting better.” Natalie rested her head against the padded chair and closed her eyes.
“Here,” Tanner said, slipping the thermometer in her mouth.
Natalie dozed and the sound of Tanner’s voice sounded far off. “You have a temperature. I’m calling the doctor.”
What happened next was all so fast that later Tanner couldn’t even remember it clearly. He reached for his phone, never taking his eyes off his wife. Her eyes were closed, but when Natalie slumped in the chair like a rag doll, he panicked.
“Baby, are you okay?”
No response.
Tanner’s heart pounded. He put his palm on her cheek, which was burning with fever. Even with his hand on her, Natalie didn’t stir.
“Honey? Natalie?”
No response.
Tanner lifted her in his arms and tried to wake her but could not. A feeling of terror struck his heart. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Holding Natalie in his lap, Tanner called emergency services. “My wife is unconscious. Please come right away.”
Carrying his dear wife, her arm dangling lifelessly, Tanner went down to the lobby. Nothing seemed real.
The attendant looked alarmed. “Should I call for help?”
“I did,” Tanner managed to say.
The whirlwind that transpired was a nightmare; an awful, agonizing nightmare. The ambulance seemed to take forever to arrive, and every second that ticked by left Tanner stricken with fear that his wife would die in his arms before they arrived.
Once the paramedics were on the scene, they took over. Tanner asked a barrage of questions to which they had few answers. He resorted to saying repeatedly, “Hurry. Please hurry.”
Thankfully, they allowed him to ride in the ambulance with her. Tanner didn’t think he could have let her go. Sitting in back, appalled at seeing Natalie with an oxygen mask, pale and fragile, Tanner held her hand. Her wavy hair splayed over the stretcher underneath her in dark contrast to the white—the white of the sheet, the deathly white of her skin.
Once at the hospital, Natalie was whisked away, and Tanner was directed to the front desk to take care of the paperwork. He answered the questions and gave them identification. “When can I see my wife?” he barked, frustrated with the process.
“Have a seat, sir. The doctor will call you.”
Tanner sat in the waiting area, seeing nothing, hearing no one. Natalie had to be okay. She had to be. This couldn’t be happening. What was wrong with her?
22 – The Diagnosis
Tanner paced the waiting room, fuming, distraught. He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. If only he knew how Natalie was, that she was okay. When was the doctor going to come out? It seemed to take an eternity.
Several times he went to the desk, only to be told he’d have to wait. “The doctor will be with you as soon as he knows anything. Your wife is receiving emergency treatment. I cannot interrupt him.” Emergency treatment . The words hung in the air offensively.
Not his wife. Not Natalie. Unable to envision what had taken her so suddenly, Tanner’s stomach was in knots and his mind in a haze. It didn’t occur to him to call anyone, to let the family know. The concept that she wouldn’t make it was foreign to him. Thus a responsibility to alert those she was closest to wasn’t part of his thought process.
A doctor in a white coat, looking serious—his lined face and graying hair only adding to the image—came to stand by Tanner.
“Are you Tanner Clarke?”
“Yes, I’m her husband. Is she okay?”
The doctor didn’t
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