Living to Loving

Chapter 15

*Daniel POV*

It takes an hour for them to run her through the MRI and the x-rays. Then it takes another hour to process them. 

I sit by Rina, holding her hand. Her hand is freezing. 

"How's your back?" I ask. They had given her painkillers at an earlier time. 

She gave a huge yawn. "The pain's almost completely gone." 

I nod. "That's good." 

"Yeah," she says through another yawn. "What time is it?" 

"Uh," I glance at my watch. "Like, four a.m." 

"Oh," Rina says drowsily. "No wonder I'm so tired." 

"The painkillers probably contribute to that," Gemma remarks. 

Rina gives a nod, and gently dozes off. 

Rina's neurology surgeon, Dr. Twain walks in and checks her vitals again. "Still stable," he murmurs and leaves. 

I look at Gemma and she shrugs. Seconds later, we're whisked out of Rina's room.

"What's going on, Mom?" I ask, my voice shooting up into panicky range. 

"They're taking her down to surgery again," Mom explains gently. "One of the metal plates they used to stabilize her spine in her first surgery came loose and was compressing her spinal cord. That's why she was having such bad pain and couldn't move her legs." 

"Oh," I say, somewhat relieved. "So after they get the plate out she'll be fine?" 

Mom purses her lips. "When they did the MRI, they also found bleeding in her brain. It's not bad, but it sets her recovery back a bit." There was something else. 

"What?" I ask. "What aren't you telling me?" 

"They won't know..." Mom says slowly. "If she'll ever be able to move her legs again until after she's out of surgery and awake." 

"Wait, she could end up paralyzed?" My voice shakes as I speak. 

Mom nods. 

"But... she's a runner," I say. "It's her whole life. Track and field... she won't be able to do any of that?" 

Mom shakes her head. "Not if she can't move her legs." 

"So what are the chances of her coming out and being able to move and feel and everything?" I demand. 

"Not... favorable," Mom says. "There's not a huge chance of her being able to feel her legs when she comes out." 

"But..." my voice cracks. "She has to. She just has to." 

Gemma grasps my hand tightly and I turn and sob into her shoulder. 

Mom reaches over and starts rubbing my back in circular motions. If she couldn't walk, how would life work? Fear, anxiety, even anger rose in my chest, threatening to spill free. 

"Baby, all we can do is be there for her," Mom says. "That's all. We can be there. We can support her. But we can't change her diagnosis. So let's do what we can do, alright?" 

I can still feel the sheen of tears in my eyes, but I nod. Not because I want to, but because I know I have to. I have to for Rina.

She gets out of surgery at 9 a.m., and when enough time has passed in recovery, Mom, Dad, and I are the first ones in her room.

I sit next to her, her hand grasped in mine. It feels cold even though she's under two layers of blankets. She's fast asleep, her back braced and a cervical collar surrounding her neck. She's laying flat on her back in bed, which can't be comfortable.