Page 145 of When Ben Loved Jace

I manage a desperate sort of laugh. I’m wearing my pajamas. I’d be barefoot if the administrative nurse hadn’t hooked me up with a pair of padded socks.

“Have you eaten?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”

“I’m sure you aren’t, but you need to anyway. You’ve gotta keep your strength up, so you can face whatever comes next. Jace needs you at your best. I’ll get something from the cafeteria.”

Greg and Michelle show up while she’s gone. The hardest part is not breaking down when I see them. I want to, because they love Jace enough to understand just how frightening this is, but I also don’t want to make them think the worst has already happened. I share what information I can, even though I don’t know much of anything yet. Just that the doctors wanted to give him a CT scan. Greg hugs me so tight that my ribs hurt by the time he lets go.

“Jace will be okay,” he insists. “He’ll be fine. Right?”

Greg looks to his wife for support.

Michelle seems shaken. “Our grandma had a ruptured aneurysm. That’s how we lost her.”

“Well sure,” Greg says, his voice cracking, “but that’s just like… an old lady. Jace is one tough mofo.”

Michelle presses her lips together and nods. “I’m glad you were there when it happened, Ben. That you got him here so quickly…”

She can’t seem to get out any other words. We cry together while Greg clenches his fists, like he wants to hit something.

I hear someone call my name and spin around. A nurse asks me to follow him, the urgency in his voice making my heart palpitate. I’m escorted to a room cluttered with medical machinery, the smell of anesthetic heavy in the air. Jace is lying in a hospital bed. His eyes are closed. He isn’t moving. For one gut-wrenching moment, I think he’s dead. Then I hear the steady beeping of the monitors that surround him.

A doctor introduces herself. A surgeon. She begins spouting medical jargon. I want to crawl into bed with Jace and hold him throughout whatever needs to happen.

“Do you see all this white area?”

The surgeon’s voice draws my attention away from my husband. She’s gesturing at an X-ray of his skull. Or a CT scan. I don’t know. It’s so hard to focus.

“That’s blood,” she explains. “From the ruptured aneurysm. Posterior circulation bleeding, to be precise, which is why I recommend endovascular coiling rather than clipping, despite that being the most durable fix. This way we don’t have to go through bone or vital nerves. We can do it all through catheters.”

“Will he be okay?” I ask lamely.

“Time is of the essence,” the surgeon replies. “We keep our angio-suite staffed twenty-four seven. A coil team can start working on him in half an hour with your consent.”

I feel like they’re asking me to make a choice that I don’t understand, but if time is so crucial, the quickest and least intrusive path sounds good to me. I’m given paperwork to review, when all I want is a second alone with Jace so I can tell him how I feel and what I need, but they’ve already wheeled him out before my final signature. I’m given a pager and escorted back to the waiting room.

The others are desperate for news. I update them as best I can. That’s when the true test of patience begins. I eat at Allison’s insistence, not tasting a single bite. My mind is elsewhere. I entertain the worst possible outcome. I wish I’d asked the doctor about his chance of survival. Maybe it’s best not to know. And yet, we all take turns silently consulting our phones, never reporting our findings. The internet isn’t a very optimistic place to turn for a medical diagnosis.

An hour passes. Allison goes to the little house I share with Jace—the place where we were supposed to grow oldtogether—to check on Samson and to fetch me something to wear. Michelle steps outside to call her parents. Greg shields his face with his hand and tries to sob quietly.

Another hour passes. I get dressed in the clothes Allison brings. Brian returned with her. He tells me a story about an uncle who went through the same thing and did just fine, but I can’t stop thinking about Jace’s grandmother. We all seem to go numb at a certain point, thousand-yard stares accompanied by lengthy silences that make the TV in the waiting room unbearably loud. Greg stands up to turn it off. Allison wraps herself around my arm.

Another hour passes.

The pager that I’ve been clutching all this time finally vibrates. Digital text instructs me to report to consulting room five. The others help me find it and wait outside. I don’t recognize the man who meets me there, but I hang on his every word.

“Good news,” he says. “We got the aneurysm filled up with coils. No complications. We’re moving him to the Neuro-ICU. You should be able to visit him soon.”

I return to the others. After hearing my report, they cluster around me. We hug each other while crying with relief. Waiting becomes easy. Bearable. Just knowing that he’s okay makes all the difference.

I’m eventually shown to a darkened room. I nod along, pretending to hear what the nurse says to me until she leaves us alone. Then I stand next to Jace’s hospital bed. He looks like hell, as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. And yet, he’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I take his hand in mine and whisper his name.

His eyelids flutter, but this time they open. Jace struggles to focus on me, but once he does, his gaze fills with relief. “Ben,” he murmurs.

“I’m here,” I say, my chin quivering. “You’re going to be all right. I love you, baby.” He drifts off again. I fall to my knees, resting my cheek on his hand as I weep tears of aching joy. “I love you so much!”

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