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The Hospital Visit

Song : Rock And A Hard Place - Bailey Zimmerman

I must ’ ve drifted off somewhere around episode four of our Blue Bloods binge, tucked under the weight of Jon ’ s arm and Ranger ’ s tiny snoring body wedged between us like a stubborn breadstick.

The room was dim, and quiet, just the faint blue flicker of the TV reflecting off my bedroom walls—the same ones still covered in old paint and a “ Live, Laugh, Love” decal my mom had insisted on sticking above the closet. Everything was calm. Until it wasn’t.

A white-hot pain exploded in my left side so sharp and sudden it ripped me out of sleep like someone had stabbed me awake. I jolted upright, clutching my stomach, my mouth open in a silent scream. I couldn’t breathe. I literally couldn’t breathe .

“Babe?” Jon sat up immediately, blinking in the low light. “What’s wrong?” I couldn’t get the words out. The pain was consuming, pressing against my ribs, radiating across my entire torso like a fire had been lit under my skin.

“I—my stomach—can’t—” I managed to gasp, hunched forward, my hands digging into my side as if I could pull the pain out with my fingers.

Jon jumped out of bed and turned on the lamp, flooding the room with soft yellow light.

My face was slick with sweat, and I could feel myself trembling uncontrollably.

Before Jon could even move toward the door, it flew open.

My dad stood there like he’d sensed the disturbance in the force from two floors down. Pajama pants, white shirt, military precision in his posture, eyes darting from me to Jon, to me again.

“She’s in pain,” Jon said, voice firm but panicked. “Like, bad pain.”

Without missing a beat, my dad said, “We’re going.

I’m driving. I’ll take her to my urgent care—they’ll get her stable and transfer if needed.

Jon, help her dress. Monica!” he bellowed over his shoulder, “Pack a bag in case they keep her!” The house ignited into chaos.

My mom’s voice echoed from down the hall—“I’m coming, I’m coming!

”—followed by the sound of drawers opening, zippers unzipping, and Nacho barking in confusion, like why is everyone shouting at 2 a.m. and where’s my snack?

Jon helped me into sweatpants and one of his oversized hoodies as gently as he could, his hands steady even though I could see the worry in his eyes. I could barely stand upright. Every step felt like a gut punch from inside my body.

Outside, the air was muggy and thick, the Texas night pressing against my skin like a damp towel. My dad’s Tesla was already running in the driveway, headlights on, ready for launch. Jon buckled me into the passenger seat like I was made of glass.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered, brushing a kiss against my temple.

“I’ll see you soon.” And then we were off.

My dad drove like a man with military clearance and no patience for red lights.

The city blurred past us—empty intersections, gas stations glowing like islands in the dark, the occasional 18-wheeler humming by on the highway.

I clutched the seatbelt with one hand and my stomach with the other, trying not to cry, trying not to scream.

The pain had settled into something fierce and constant like someone was trying to wring out my insides with a hot iron.

Every bump in the road felt like a thunderclap in my ribs.

We reached the urgent care in record time.

My dad parked right at the door, jumped out, and had me wheeled inside before I could even process what was happening.

The inside of the clinic was cold and sterile, the kind of place that smelled like alcohol wipes and freshly printed insurance forms. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, too bright, making everything feel surreal.

They got me into a room almost immediately—one of the perks of having a father who was also a frequent flyer at that very urgent care. Nurses swarmed like bees: checking my vitals, inserting an IV, taking blood, asking rapid-fire questions I could barely answer between gasps of pain.

“On a scale of 1 to 10?” the nurse asked.

“Fifteen,” I hissed.

“Maybe twenty.”

I saw her eyebrows raise slightly, but she didn’t argue.

Morphine was in my veins five minutes later, and I could’ve kissed her right on the forehead if I wasn’t too busy trying not to pass out.

Then came the doctor—late forties, brisk and polite, with the tired eyes of someone who’d seen too many worst-case scenarios in one shift.

“It’s pancreatitis,” he said, scanning my chart.

“And it’s not mild. We’re arranging an immediate transfer to Memorial Hermann. You’ll be admitted tonight. You’ll need fluids, rest, and close monitoring.” I blinked at him.

“Pancreatitis?” I whispered.

“Like… the organ?” He nodded.

“It’s inflamed and angry. You’re lucky you came in when you did.”

An ambulance was already en route. I heard someone calling ahead to the hospital, coordinating my room, my records, and my arrival.

It was all happening so fast—too fast—but also not fast enough, because my body still felt like it was punishing me for existing.

The morphine started to take the edge off.

I could feel it slipping through my veins like a warm wave, numbing the pain just enough for my brain to catch up.

I lay there staring at the ceiling tiles, breathing slowly, waiting for the next wave of panic or nausea or pain to hit.

The paramedics arrived with calm, practiced movements.

They strapped me onto the stretcher like I was something precious but breakable.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” one of them said. He had a kind voice, which felt rare at 3 a.m.

As they wheeled me outside into the humid night air, I caught a glimpse of my dad pacing beside his car, talking rapidly into his phone. I knew he was calling ahead to my mom and Jon —coordinating, advocating, and managing the crisis like only a Trini dad with Caribbean training could.

As the doors closed and the siren began to wail, I let my head fall back against the stretcher and took a slow, morphine-laced breath.

This was not how I imagined the week ending.

Not with an IV in my arm, and my pancreas throwing a fiery tantrum in my abdomen.

Not with Jon’s first visit to my parents’ house ending in a medical emergency and a hastily packed overnight bag.

But as the city lights flickered through the ambulance windows, casting long shadows over my blanketed legs, I realized something strange.

I wasn’t scared. I was in pain, sure. Drugged out, absolutely.

But I wasn’t alone. I felt deeply, weirdly… loved .

The hospital room was bigger than I expected.

Private, thankfully, with pale green walls that looked like they were trying so hard to be calming but instead screamed “sad guacamole.” A flat-screen TV hung on the wall with limited cable options (because obviously), and the bed—though equipped with all the trappings of modern healthcare—creaked like it had opinions about me being in it.

I was high on morphine, still in a hospital gown that did nothing for my figure, and somewhere between exhausted and emotionally stunned.

But I was alive. That felt important to remember.

Jon arrived about thirty minutes after I was admitted, followed closely by my mom who entered the room carrying three tote bags of essentials and a Tupperware of curry chana and roti like she was prepping me for an apocalypse.

My dad stood behind them both with his hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting the room for military-grade weaknesses.

I half expected him to declare the floor clear and secure.

“The doctor advised that she’ll need to be here for at least a week,” the nurse informed them, which made my mom gasp and immediately start praying under her breath.

“A week?” I asked, stunned.

“What am I supposed to do here for seven days—crochet a pancreas?”

“They need to keep you hydrated, monitor your enzymes, keep you off food for a few days, and make sure it doesn’t escalate,” she said gently.

“You’re lucky you came in when you did.” Jon, bless his rugged redneck heart, pulled the chair up to the side of the bed like it was his permanent post now.

“I’m staying,” he said, already scrolling through his phone to see if the hospital had guest cots or if he’d have to MacGyver one out of a yoga mat and a hoodie.

My mom looked torn—one part thrilled by his loyalty, the other part trying to figure out if he’d need a bath towel and whether she should sneak one in under a trench coat.

“You sure?” I asked him, squinting through the morphine haze.

“This isn’t exactly a vacation.”

“Not leavin’ you here alone,” he said simply, like it wasn’t even a decision.

“You’re stuck with me, hospital bed or not.”

That hit me square in the chest. A flutter, low and warm. Even with IVs in my arm and no food in my stomach, the way he said it made me feel seen. Protected.

Eventually, my parents kissed my forehead and headed home—my mom mumbling something about bringing me stew peas tomorrow and my dad making my mom promise not to smuggle in any doubles .

“I’ll be back in the morning with proper food,” she called out dramatically, “because this thing”—she gestured at the sad tray of Jell-O and broth they’d brought me—“is not nourishment.”

When the door finally closed and the room quieted down, Jon kicked off his boots, flopped into the recliner, and pulled his cap over his eyes like a man preparing for war—or at least a very long nap in a very stiff chair.

“You okay?” he asked, peeking at me from under the brim.

“I mean, as okay as a person can be with a mutinous pancreas and hospital hair,” He smirked.

“Still beautiful, though.”

I rolled my eyes and picked up my phone, figuring I might as well scroll through social media to distract myself from the hunger pangs and the uncomfortable elastic wristband that now identified me as “CHARLES, DELILAH.” That’s when the idea hit me.

With seven whole days of nothing to do, and fueled by mild narcotics and intense curiosity, I decided to finally investigate Patricia’s Instagram.

The woman who’d come storming into our lives like a Walmart-brand hurricane, who moved in with Blake like she was auditioning for a role on The Jerry Springer Show: Live!

, and who managed to unravel every ounce of peace in the Idaho Falls household with the same energy as a toddler armed with a box of matches and a bad attitude.

She had to have left digital breadcrumbs. Chaos that loud always leaves an echo.

I typed her name into Instagram, my heart pounding a little from a mix of curiosity and morphine jitters. Her account was public. Of course, it was. Patricia looked like the type who wanted you to see her business. I tapped on her Stories first. They were—unsurprisingly—a dramatic circus.

Slide One: A black-and-white selfie with the caption “People think they can ruin you. But GOD knows the TRUTH.” With that font that screams “unstable but fashionable.”

Slide Two: A screenshot of a text message (with names blurred out but c’mon, we knew who) that said “Delilah Charles is a racist sociopath. Look at what she did to me and my family.”

Slide Three: A blurry picture of a car with a caption: “She shot at her ex’s car y’all! Look it up—Delilah Charles and her prostitution charges!” I nearly choked on my hospital air.

“JON.” He sat up so fast his cap flew off.

“What? What is it? Are you okay?” I turned the phone toward him and pointed.

“I’m now a racist sociopath with a felony record and a loaded firearm.” He squinted at the screen.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, then scrolled down.

“She posted a whole exposé on you like you’re a Netflix docuseries.”

“I mean, she used my full name. This is wild. I should sue her for defamation and aesthetic crimes.” Jon let out a low whistle and shook his head.

“She’s nuts. That ain’t just drama—that’s a mental illness with a Wi-Fi signal.” I lay back against the pillows, equal parts stunned and amused.

“What the hell do we do about this?” Jon exhaled deeply, clearly thinking. Then he got up, stretched his arms, and kissed the top of my head.

“I’ll go back tomorrow. Idaho Falls. Pack everything. I’ll drive to Hill Air Force Base and put our stuff in storage. I’ll give Blake his damn key back and tell him he can sort the mortgage out himself, and then I’ll be back here before you’re out.”

“Are you serious?” I blinked.

“You’d do all that?” He nodded.

“I said I’d handle it. This ain’t your fight anymore. You need to rest. Heal. I’ll deal with Blake, Patricia, and the whole circus show.” I felt my chest swell with something soft and warm, something like love but also gratitude so intense it made my eyes sting.

“You’re kinda amazing, you know that?”

“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly, “I ain’t got your pancreas, so I gotta be useful somehow.” I laughed, and it felt like the first real laugh I’d had all night.

He sat back down, took my hand, and laced his fingers with mine.

“When you get outta here,” he said softly, “we’ll figure out what’s next. Somewhere new. Somewhere without Patricia or Blake or medical emergencies.” I nodded, closing my eyes, the morphine starting to carry me off again .

“Just promise me one thing,” I mumbled.

“Anything.”

“If Patricia writes a tell-all book about me, buy me the hardcover.” He chuckled.

“Deal.”

And just like that, under the dull hum of machines and the faint glow of hospital monitors, I fell asleep holding the hand of a man who, without hesitation, would drive across three states and pack up our whole life just to get me away from crazy. Turns out, even pancreatitis has a silver lining.