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Nothing You Can Do About It

Blake

A white haired man stood next to the bed. He looked up from a clipboard he was holding when I entered the room. “You must be Blake. I’m Dr. Richards. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

I wondered how many people he had said that to. And how many of those family members left the hospital with only memories of their loved one.

On auto pilot, I shook his hand. “How is he?”

The doctor gave me a grim smile. “He’s not good, son. I won’t sugar coat it, he’s in bad shape. We’re doing all we can for him, of course.”

My heart stuttered. “Of course. Do you have any information about what happened yet? My brother said it was a stroke.”

The doctor nodded. “It was definitely a stroke. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until he wakes up, but with the test results we have, things aren’t looking too positive.”

I blinked. This wasn’t possible, but plenty of evidence that it was all too real was right there in front of me. It was absurd. Surreal.

There was a clenching
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