“The initial tests only revealed cerebral hypoxia. We ran a CT and MRI again after the surgery. Calwasclinically dead for over a minute, but the results came back clear. There’s no visible injury. It’s possible the event, or the hypoxia impacted specific centers in the brain that store long-term memories. He has no issue retaining new memories, though. So far.”
“Does that mean that he’ll start to remember, eventually?” Ellis asks.
“There are no guarantees. The brain is a complicated thing. Most people experiencing amnesia begin to regain their memories to an extent, usually within the first few weeks post trauma.”
“To an extent,” Ellis echoes.
“I’m sorry I can't give you all the answers,” the doctor says, genuinely apologetic. “I’ve shared with you everything we know.”
“What happens now?” Dawson asks, feeling strangely hollow and numb. Shouldn’t he be freaking out? Asking more questions? What’s the protocol here? This is huge. This changes everything.
“We’ll keep monitoring him. Test him every few hours. He’ll need to start rehab and continue with it after we discharge him.”
Dawson meant what happens now that Cal has forgotten who he is. How do you treat someone like that?
“How long until he can go home?” Ellis asks.
“Given he’s been unconscious for almost four days and that he had two invasive surgeries—one week, minimum. It all depends on how well he’s healing and if there are any complications.” She looks at Dawson, smiling a little. “You can see him now if you’d like.”
Right. That’s what any normal person would want if their spouse woke up from a coma, right?
Apathetic, Dawson merely nods, looking over at Ellis when he doesn’t follow. “You're not coming?”
“I’ve already seen him. He didn’t recognize me.” It’s impossible to miss how much it bothers him. “Go,” he tells Dawson when he hesitates.
Unsure, he follows the doctor, feeling as though he’s walking to his execution. How does he act around Cal? He was unsure how to behave around him when Ellis told him they would be waking Cal up, but now? How do you act around someone who has no idea who you are, when you remember every single thing?
“We’re not going to the ICU?” Dawson asks when the doctor leads him to another wing.
“My apologies, I forgot to mention. Cal has been moved to a private room. Since he’s fully conscious and able to breathe on his own, there’s no reason to keep him in the ICU.”
Dawson nods absently, then braces himself when they stop in front of the room where Cal must be. His stomach churns threateningly and he forces himself to breathe through it. It wouldn’t do if he threw up on the doctor’s shoes.
Doctor Connelly pushes the door open.
Cal is lying in the hospital bed, his upper half slightly propped up with a pillow. There’s no tube sticking out of his chest anymore, just an IV drip in his left hand which a nurse is changing the bag for. The bruises on his face have faded to yellowish-green, the abrasions partially healed now.
“Is he awake?” Dawson asks, because Cal’s eyes are closed.
“He dozed off again a few minutes ago,” the nurse says, taking the empty bag and putting it on a trolley before leaving the room.
“You can stay if you want,” Doctor Connelly says. “Or we can call you when he’s awake.”
He doesn’t want to stay, doesn’t want to be here at all. But he can’t say that, can he? He knows what everyone must think, what the doctors and nurses must think. What do they expect him to be doing? Bawling his eyes out? Have a breakdown because his husband lost his memories? Because he probably doesn’t remember their time together?
“I’ll stay.” Better to rip it off like a bandaid.
The doctor nods and steps out, shutting the door behind her.
Dawson watches Cal for a long while before biting the bullet and sitting down by his bed. It’s a strange sight, seeing him like this. His face has never been so serene, not even in his sleep. There’s always this perpetual hard edge to it. Dawson likes to refer to it as Cal’s personal resting bitch face—in his mind only, of course. The sharpness is usually exaggerated by the strong cut of Cal’s jaw, always visible because he never lets his facial hair grow past a five o'clock shadow. After four days at the hospital, he’s sporting a short beard. It makes him look softer, if a little older.
Dawson must make some kind of noise, or maybe Cal just senses someone in the room with him. A soft groan comes from him, his face no longer so peaceful. The space between his brows pulses, and his eyelids move without opening.
Straightening in the chair, Dawson leans forward, watching Cal’s face.
“Cal?” It comes out barely a whisper but Cal hears it. Opening his eyes, he blinks several times, his head lolling towards Dawson. He looks at him through half-lidded eyes, the blue of his irises darker and deeper than Dawson remembers.
Cal sucks in a sharp breath, his body visibly locking up as the machines go off. A sense of déjà vu overtakes Dawson, making him freeze. Oh God, why does this always happen when he’s here? Forcing himself to snap out of his stupefied state, he jumps to his feet, set on getting help. He doesn’t need to, in the end. The nurse who was here before walks in, taking in the scene before her.
