I was still holding Maggie's hand when the doctor came back into the room.
I noticed him immediately.
For what felt like hours, I had been looking toward the doorway.
Every passing footstep made me lift my head.
Every voice outside made me wonder whether someone was coming to speak to us.
This time, someone was.
I straightened in my chair.
The doctor carried information from the tests.
I looked at his face before he spoke.
I wanted to know whether I should be relieved.
But his expression didn't give me an answer.
He approached the bed.
"How is she doing?"
I looked at Maggie.
"She keeps opening her eyes."
I swallowed.
"But she still can't really talk to me."
The doctor nodded.
He checked on her before turning back toward me.
I appreciated that.
Maggie was the patient.
Whatever he needed to tell me, she came first.
I moved my chair back slightly.
The doctor leaned toward her.
"Maggie, can you hear me?"
Her eyelids moved.
I watched her face.
She opened her eyes briefly.
The doctor spoke gently while checking her response.
Then she closed them again.
I waited until he had finished.
"Did the blood tests show anything?"
He looked toward me.
"We have some initial results. They give us more information, but we still need to interpret them alongside her symptoms and the rest of her evaluation."
I nodded.
At least, I tried to.
My mind had caught on the first part.
Some results.
More information.
Those were the words I had been waiting to hear.
"What does that mean?"
The doctor explained that blood tests could reveal abnormalities that might help account for a patient's weakness.
He spoke carefully.
He didn't pretend a single result could explain everything.
I listened as closely as I could.
I had expected one clear answer.
A name.
A cause.
Something I could repeat to myself until I understood it.
Instead, I was hearing that the results were part of a larger picture.
I looked at Maggie.
Her hand was still in mine.
She had been so weak in the ambulance that opening her eyes seemed to exhaust her.
I had believed the doctors would find the reason and tell me what to do.
Now I realized that finding the reason might take more time.
The doctor continued explaining what the team was evaluating.
I tried to follow every sentence.
But I was frightened enough that the words seemed to pass through my head without settling.
I finally interrupted.
"I'm sorry."
He stopped.
"Can you explain that again?"
"Of course."
I looked down.
"I don't want to misunderstand."
The doctor repeated the important points in simpler terms.
Maggie was seriously unwell.
The blood results needed to be considered with her other findings.
The team was continuing to investigate the cause and provide care.
I understood those things.
I didn't yet have a specific diagnosis I could repeat.
That uncertainty hurt.
But it was still better than pretending I understood something I didn't.
I looked at Maggie again.
"Is this why she's so weak?"
The doctor answered cautiously.
"The results may help us explain her symptoms, but we need to continue evaluating her."
I nodded.
I wanted more certainty.
I wanted him to say yes.
I wanted him to tell me that everything had finally become clear.
But he wouldn't say something he couldn't support.
I respected that.
Even while I hated hearing it.
Maggie's fingers shifted slightly.
I looked down immediately.
"Sweetheart?"
Her eyes opened.
I leaned forward.
"Hello."
She looked toward me.
I tried to keep my face calm.
The doctor was standing nearby.
The room was quiet except for the ordinary sounds of the equipment.
I wanted Maggie to know that someone was paying attention to her.
"They're taking good care of you."
She watched me.
I rubbed my thumb across her knuckles.
The familiar circle.
Her wedding ring touched my finger.
Then her eyes closed again.
I kept holding her hand.
The doctor asked another question about when her illness had begun.
I felt the same shame return.
"Three or four days."
I paused.
"That's the best I can tell you."
He listened.
I looked at the floor.
"I wish I knew exactly."
The doctor explained that the team would use the information available and continue assessing her.
I nodded.
I knew my uncertainty wasn't stopping them from caring for her.
But I still felt responsible for the missing details.
I had spent years learning the little things about Maggie.
How she sounded when she was tired.
How she looked when something bothered her.
The way she touched my hand when she wanted my attention.
Yet I couldn't explain the days leading up to this hospital bed.
I looked at the doctor.
"Could something have been happening that I didn't recognize?"
He didn't guess about what had happened.
He explained that they needed to establish the cause before drawing conclusions.
I nodded again.
That was becoming the hardest part.
I wanted someone to tell me what I should have noticed.
I wanted to go back over those days with a clear explanation.
But nobody could offer one yet.
The doctor returned his attention to Maggie.
He checked her condition.
He spoke with the nurse.
I watched them work.
I had been frightened by medical procedures since the ambulance arrived.
Now I understood why they mattered.
Each check gave the staff information.
Each question helped them understand her condition.
Each result added something to what they knew.
I wished the process were faster.
I wished it were simpler.
But my wishes couldn't replace the work.
The doctor told me that the team would continue monitoring Maggie and explaining important findings as they became clear.
I thanked him.
"Please tell me if anything changes."
"We'll keep you informed."
I nodded.
The doctor turned back toward the nurse.
I sat down carefully.
My legs felt strangely weak.
I hadn't realized how tense I had been during the conversation.
I looked at Maggie.
Her eyes were closed.
The oxygen mask remained in place.
Her hand rested inside mine.
For a moment, I felt disappointed.
I had been waiting for the doctor to return.
Now he had.
And I still couldn't explain exactly what was wrong with my wife.
Then I looked at the people caring for her.
They were continuing their work.
The results had not been ignored.
The questions had not been dismissed.
Maggie was being watched carefully.
I had to recognize that.
Answers didn't always arrive in the shape I wanted.
Sometimes they came in pieces.
Sometimes they brought more questions.
Sometimes the most truthful thing a doctor could say was that more evaluation was needed.
I looked at Maggie's wedding ring.
I rubbed the small circle over her knuckles.
"I love you."
Her eyes remained closed.
I didn't ask her to respond.
The doctor had returned.
The blood tests had provided information.
But there were still things we didn't understand.
And I was beginning to realize that loving Maggie meant staying beside her even when there was no simple answer to hold.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: I Wanted to Blame Myself for Every Missing Detail, but Maggie Needed a Husband Who Could Listen Instead of One Who Could Only Feel Guilty
I Rode Beside My Wife in the Ambulance, Knowing She Had Been Seriously Ill for Days Without Me Understanding Why
Part 17 of 20
