The Long Drive When Eyes Opened, Even Briefly.... Contd 3

She was wheeled into the Neuro ICU.

Inside, the nurses and technicians had already prepared the battlefield:

Crisp white sheets tucked with military precision.

Ventilator arms swivelled toward the bed like machinery awaiting activation.

Tubing curled neatly, ready to become her borrowed breath.

A metallic infusion stand, branching like a chrome tree, holding four pumps that would soon drip life into her veins.

A trolley cluttered to the untrained eye…but to us, a perfectly curated chaos, every item exactly where a critical moment would demand it.

The Neuro ICU itself felt like entering a fortress.The first door required an access card… only the neuro team and management had it. A deliberate barrier to protect the sanctity of the space and to keep relatives, often overwhelmed with emotion and fear, from rushing in.

Once inside, the corridor narrowed.Doctors’ lounge on one side, nurses’ room on the other, pantry, meeting hall.A passageway that separated the outside world from the fight happening within.

At the end of the corridor, a large glass door marked the final threshold.The zone where footwear changed, infections were stripped away, and every doctor left behind their outside identity before stepping into the arena of the critically injured.

As she entered, ten people seemed to converge instantly!

Dr. Prem, neurocritical care specialist

Cherrisma, neuro physician assistant

Two bedside nurses

ICU technician

A hospital helper

Dr. Sharanya

The paramedic with the Ambu bag

The maroon uniformed attender

To an outsider, it would look chaotic swarm!But inside that swarm was precision.

Two stands to one side.One person at the head end.One at the foot.One watching vitals.One preparing drugs.One documenting.One checking lines.

The choreography of survival.

Outside the ICU glass, the son-in-law stood staring in horror, his wife clinging to his arm.He was a man torn open…Full of doubt,Full of fear, yet forced to stand here because he had no choice left but to trust us.

Inside, commands were fired rapidly.

“Nurse: Connected to ventilator. BP 130/70 on noradrenaline. SpO₂ 99%. Pupils equal and reacting.”

Prem: “Prepare for arterial line.Start midazolam and morphine infusion.Paralyse her.Get blood products ready.”

Sharanya scribbled everything into the chart, quick and precise.

Cherrisma coordinated with the lab: “What’s her PCV? Creatinine?”

The ICU technician primed syringes and tubing.The monitors beeped their steady, fragile rhythm.

I stepped out for a moment, feeling the weight of two worlds.inside the ICU, a medical storm; outside, emotional devastation.

I approached the son-in-law gently.“Please wait for a few minutes. I’ll brief you again shortly.”

He looked hurt.He wanted me to be beside him every second..A natural expectation when your loved one is inches from death.

But I knew those minutes were better spent stabilizing her.Every second counted more inside the ICU than outside its glass window.

A few minutes later, after ensuring the team had secured her vitals, I walked back out.

“She is stable for now,” I told him quietly.“I’ll speak to you again in the morning.”

His disappointment showed! but beneath it was acceptance.He had seen the team, the coordination, the intensity.A reluctant trust was forming, even if fear still overshadowed it.

The night was far from over.But for now….she was holding on.

I walked out into the deserted parking lot.Gravel.Silence.Darkness.

When I pressed the key, the car chirped to life — the side-view mirrors unfolded, orange tail lights glowing softly. A small, mechanical beauty. It soothed something inside me, but not enough. The son-in-law’s face, the daughter’s trembling grip… they kept flashing through my mind like afterimages on a retina.

I slid into the driver’s seat.The engine roared louder than usual, amplified by the stillness of 3 a.m.I turned on the music — Metallica: Nothing Else Matters.

Perfect.

I drove back to the quarters in silence except for the guitar strings filling the space between my thoughts.

At the basement, I parked and took the lift up to the second floor.When I leave at night, they never lock the door from inside — a silent understanding, an unspoken courtesy so I don’t disturb anyone.

Inside, the house was calm.Aman and Nufi were in deep sleep.It was 03:00 AM.

I went to the bathroom, peed, washed my face, changed into pyjamas, and slid into bed beside Aman.

My phone lay next to my pillow — always.Years of neurosurgical training had carved that reflex into my bones. The fear of missing a call — because someone’s life depends on your wakefulness. Residency teaches you to answer the phone even in dreams, to think clearly through exhaustion, to make decisions with a half-dead brain and a fully alive responsibility.

I didn’t know when I fell asleep.

But the ting-ting of an Apple notification snapped me awake.

My hand reached instinctively for my phone —no Aman beside me, no Nufi. They were already getting ready for the day.

Three WhatsApp messages from unknown numbers.I ignored them for now and clicked the NEURO group chat.My heart tightened as the chat opened — praying there was no disaster overnight.

One message.Only one.From Prem.

“She is holding on. Stable.ICD has drained 300 ml.Column still oscillating.Pupils equal.BP holding with minimal noradrenaline.”

A heavy sigh escaped me.Relief.