My Mil Slapped Me For Choosing My Dying Mother Over A Thanksgiving Turkey. My Husband Watched And Did Nothing. I Just Cut The Power And Canceled Their Feast, So Why Do I Feel Like The Villain?

The Long Wait

Emily’s phone remained off. She was sitting on a chair in the hospital corridor, staring at the ICU window. The scene behind the glass seemed to shimmer slightly. Her eyes were dry from being awake all night. Her mother hadn’t woken up yet. The doctor said this was common after a hemorrhage surgery; a patient could remain unconscious for days, sometimes even weeks. But Emily still got up every 10 minutes to check.

Her mother lay in bed surrounded by a forest of tubes and machines. Her complexion was still gray, her eyes were shut tight, and only the mechanical ventilator rose and fell with a steady rhythm. Emily gently placed her palm against the cold glass. The glass was cool to the touch; the chill of autumn was already seeping into the city.

Suddenly she remembered her childhood, the days she would walk to the market holding her mother’s hand. Back then, her mother’s hand was big and warm, and it would envelop Emily’s small hand completely.

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Mom. I’m not cold at all when I’m holding your hand.”

How many years ago was that? 20? 25? The memory was hazy. All she could recall was the warmth of her mother’s hand. But the hand lying on the hospital bed now was thin and dry, an IV needle stuck in the back of it, blue veins standing out against the pale skin. The slackened skin could no longer hold Emily’s hand.

“Emily Davis? Family of the patient?” someone called from behind her.

Emily turned to see a young woman in blue scrubs. Her name tag read “Susan Miller.”

“You’re the guardian for the patient in ICU bed 7, correct?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Dr. Evans would like to see you. He wants to discuss the future treatment plan.”

Emily nodded. She followed the nurse down a long hallway. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, mingling with the low hum of the overhead fluorescent lights. At the end of the hall was a door with a plaque that read “Dr. Robert Evans, Neurosurgery.”

“Emily knocked. Come in.”

She opened the door and entered. Doctor Evans was sitting behind a desk piled high with medical charts. He looked up at Emily and gestured to the chair opposite him.

“Please have a seat.”

Emily sat down. Her hands resting on her lap anxiously clasped and unclasped. Doctor Evans flipped through her mother’s chart, silent for a moment before he spoke.

“As I mentioned yesterday,” his tone was professional and detached, “the extent of your mother’s hemorrhage was quite severe. While the surgery successfully removed the hematoma, the damage to the brain tissue was unavoidable.”

Emily nodded silently.

“The key question now is when, or if, she will regain consciousness,” Dr. Evans continued. “If we see signs of spontaneous recovery within the next 48 hours, there’s a chance for rehabilitation. However, if 72 hours pass with no response…” He paused. “You will need to start preparing for long-term care.”

Emily’s heart sank. “Long-term care? What does that mean?”

“It means there’s a high probability she will remain in a persistent vegetative state,” Doctor Evans said, looking directly into Emily’s eyes. “She will require machines to sustain her vital functions. Her position will need to be changed regularly to prevent bed sores, and she will require daily physical therapy. You will also need to hire a professional caregiver.”

He listed the specific costs and care items. Each number felt like a giant boulder crushing her chest.

“For now, waiting is the best we can do,” Doctor Evans concluded. “But you as the guardian also need to consider the financial aspect. The cost for the ICU is roughly $1,500 per day. It will be less once we move her to a regular room, but with a caregiver, you should still expect around $800 a day. And that’s not including future rehabilitation costs.”

Emily’s mind went blank. $1,500 a day. That was $45,000 a month. How much did she have in her savings account? The pocket money her mother had given her every month for five years, plus the money her mother had gifted her just in case of an emergency, totaled about $120,000. It sounded like a lot, but at the ICU rate, it would barely last two and a half months.

“Miss Davis?” Dr. Evans’s voice pulled her back to reality. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Emily took a deep breath. “I’ll need to make some arrangements. I’ll take care of the financial matters.”

“Very well. If you have any questions, you can always ask the nurses at the station.”

Emily stood up, bowed her head slightly, and left the office. The hallway was still deserted and the smell of antiseptic stung her nostrils. She found a secluded corner, leaned her back against the wall, and slid down to the floor. It felt like a massive mountain was pressing down on her shoulders, a mountain called reality.