After that, there was only a phone call, followed by machines, wires, and silence.
When I reached the ER, Liam was already in a coma.
I barely remember speaking to anyone. One moment I was outside, and the next I was standing beside a hospital bed, staring at my son’s still body. Tubes ran from his arms. A ventilator breathed for him. Monitors blinked and beeped in steady, indifferent rhythms.
It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.
At the foot of the bed sat Eric, my ex-husband. He looked hollow, his face pale and drawn, his eyes red as if he had been crying for hours.
When he looked up at me, something felt off. Not just grief, but something else. Something I couldn’t quite name.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said immediately, his voice unsteady. “We were just walking. One second, he was fine, and the next, he collapsed. I called 911 right away. I stayed with him the whole time.”
I nodded, but something inside me twisted.
This wasn’t the first time Eric had dismissed Liam’s health. A year ago, he had brushed off a follow-up appointment, telling Liam to stop acting fragile. I had argued with him then, but like so many things after our divorce, it had turned into a stalemate.
Now, standing there and looking at my unconscious son, that memory came rushing back with unbearable weight.
A doctor approached me. She was calm and composed, though exhaustion was etched into her face.
“We’re still running tests,” she said gently. “He experienced cardiac arrest, but we were able to revive him. Right now, he’s unresponsive. We’re doing everything we can to determine the cause.”
“Did you review his medical history?” I asked quickly.
She nodded. “We have his records.”
