HEARD DR. MILLER SAY “BRAIN SWELLING” AND MY AUNT SHOOK HER HEAD HARD
I was about to knock when I heard the hushed voices through the slightly ajar hospital room door.
My mother’s monitor was beeping steadily, a calm rhythm that was suddenly interrupted by Dr. Miller’s low, serious tone. “The brain swelling is worse than we thought,” he murmured, his voice laced with urgency. My Aunt Carol gasped, a sharp, choked sound that echoed in the quiet corridor, making me freeze.
“No, not worse,” Aunt Carol whispered back, her voice tight with frantic urgency. “You promised, Doctor. You told us it was stable. Just a minor complication from the fall.” The air in the corridor felt thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant. A cold, spreading dread started to coil in my stomach.
“I’m just giving you the facts, Carol,” Dr. Miller replied, his voice firming. “The latest scans show a rapid, significant deterioration since yesterday. This wasn’t expected.” My aunt started shaking her head violently, a desperate, frantic movement, like she was trying to deny reality.
Suddenly, Aunt Carol’s voice cracked, raw with a desperate plea. “But we can’t tell *her* that. Not yet. She’s too fragile. The shock could be too much.” I gripped the doorframe, my knuckles white, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Then I heard the nurse say, “I thought her *other* family was already here.”
👇 Full story continued in the comments…My breath hitched. *Other* family? Who? My own family, my mother, and my aunt were all I knew. Who else was there? The implications were like shards of ice, piercing the fear that had already taken root. I wanted to push the door open, demand answers, but my feet were rooted to the floor.
“They were,” Dr. Miller sighed, his voice heavy. “But they left. Said they couldn’t handle it. Said… she wasn’t their responsibility anymore.”
Aunt Carol’s shaking intensified. The denial was palpable, radiating from her like heat. “They can’t… they wouldn’t…” Her voice trailed off, swallowed by the immensity of her unspoken grief.
The nurse’s voice was now softer, filled with a weary compassion. “Carol, you need to be strong. We have to focus on what we *can* do. We need to explain the situation to your niece. She has the right to know.”
The mention of “niece” jolted me. My own name, unspoken but now hanging in the air. I felt a wave of dizziness, the sterile scent of the hospital pressing down on me. The truth, cold and stark, was beginning to seep into my awareness.
“Please,” Aunt Carol sobbed. “Just… just a little longer. Let me prepare her. I’ll tell her. But not yet. Please.”
A long silence hung in the air. I could almost feel Dr. Miller’s internal struggle. Finally, he spoke. “Alright, Carol. But be quick. We need to start thinking about the next steps. We can’t keep this from her indefinitely.”
Then, the sound of footsteps. The voices faded as they moved away from the door. I stood there, frozen in place, for what felt like an eternity. Finally, I took a shaky breath and reached out, gently pushing the door open.
Aunt Carol was standing by my mother’s bedside, her back to me. She turned, her face a mask of grief and exhaustion. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Come in.”
I took a step forward, my legs trembling. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor was the only sound in the room. I looked at my mother, pale and still in the bed, and a new wave of terror washed over me.
Aunt Carol cleared her throat. “There are things you need to know,” she said, her voice trembling. She reached out and took my hand. “Your mother…she’s been hiding things from you. Things that are… complex.”
She paused, gathering her strength. “Your mother has a condition. A genetic condition. That can explain why she fell.”
I frowned, confused. “What condition?”
Aunt Carol took a deep breath. “It’s called Huntington’s Disease. A progressive neurological disorder. And it’s hereditary, which means…” Her voice faltered. “It means… you could have it too.”
The world tilted. Huntington’s? The information I had about it came to my head and I felt an icy grip on my heart.
I gasped, “Mom has it?”
Aunt Carol nodded, tears streaming down her face. “And the ‘other family’… they knew. They abandoned her because of it. They didn’t want to be involved.”
Suddenly, the pieces clicked into place. The hushed phone calls I’d overheard, the whispers, the secrets she’d kept. Now, everything made sense, but I also knew I was not ready for this.
I gripped Aunt Carol’s hand, her eyes locked on mine with an unspoken plea. “But you won’t leave me, will you?”
She squeezed my hand back, her tears flowing freely. “Never. I’m here. We’re in this together.”
“What about the brain swelling?” I asked, the question a fragile whisper.
“It’s… it’s complicated,” Aunt Carol said. “The fall exacerbated everything. And, the doctors aren’t sure how it will affect her.”
I walked closer to my mom and gently took her hand, my tears falling. I looked at the beeping monitor and the machines that connected her to life. Then I whispered, “I will not leave you.”
Aunt Carol looked at me and for the first time since I arrived, a small smile formed. “I didn’t think you would. That’s why you’re here, and she knows that.”
She took my mom’s other hand. She smiled.
“We will find a way. We will face this together.”