Always
"I understand you. But this is the only right option. You've been here more than a week, and your saturation is still unstable."
She already understood. She's holding on. Not crying yet, but I already know... Trauma, infection. She needs to be put under.
It was hard for her to speak — she didn't even have enough breath for words, but she always tried.
"Medically induced coma..." she breathed out, as if that word alone took her last strength.
I understood her fear. The constant machines around the bed, the catheters, the monotonous beeping of the monitors, the hiss of oxygen — all of it was frightening. Some people got used to it in a few days, some never did. Ela belonged to the second kind.
"I know it's scary. But it's necessary, Ela."
She closed her eyes, and I saw her eyelashes tremble.
"Will you stay?" she whispered, almost without a voice.
"Always," I squeezed her cold hand. "I promise."
I carefully took off her glasses — even that was hard for her, her hands trembling, her fingers not obeying. I folded the arms and set them on the nightstand, right where she'd find them the moment she woke up.
Then I turned to her hair — long, curly, now scattered a little messily across the pillow, tousled from days spent in bed. I gently combed through each curl with my fingers, working out the tangles, and braided it all into one long, full braid — tight enough not to come loose during the procedure, but the unruly curls still escaped it here and there, giving the braid a slightly chaotic, living look. I told myself I was doing it for practicality — so the nurses would find it easier to turn her head, to reposition her. But the truth was simpler: I didn't want anyone else touching her hair while she slept.
"There," I whispered, fastening the end of the braid with a band. "Now it's comfortable."
Ela didn't answer — her eyes were already half-closed, her consciousness drifting somewhere between sleep and reality from the sedative they'd just given her.
I checked the monitor readings once more, straightened the blanket, and headed for the door — time to prepare. But at the threshold I looked back.
Ela was holding her phone above her face with trembling hands, reading something on the screen — slowly, as if every word cost her effort. The last minutes before the machines would take even this from her.
I went back to the bed with the surgical cap — bulky, meant to hide her whole braid underneath. I carefully pulled it on, tucking in the stray curls, adjusting it so it wouldn't press on her ears.
Ela looked at me with open eyes — the sedative hadn't fully taken her yet, and in that gaze there was something especially honest, defenseless.
I took a damp wipe and gently cleaned away the remains of yesterday's makeup — smudged mascara under her eyes, traces of eyeliner. She'd probably read a lot, and cried a lot too.
"There, better," I said quietly, more to myself.
I adjusted the oxygen mask on her face, checked that the tubing lay flat, not pressing into her skin. Then — the stiff yellow-and-blue orthopedic collar around her neck, fastened to keep her head safely positioned during intubation. I fastened the velcro straps on both sides, not too tight.
Even like this — in the cap, with a mask over half her face, held rigid by the collar, surrounded by wires and tubes — she was beautiful. Especially now, when she wasn't trying to hide anything.
"Shall we begin?"
Jess. I hadn't even noticed her come into the room. She's standing by the door, holding a tablet to her chest.
Is she really sad? A thick blue protective coverall, a tight mask, safety goggles... She scared me.
Though I'm wearing practically the same suit. So I must have scared Ela too. That's why she was crying...
"Ann, you can go. We'll finish up. The specialists will be here soon. Though you already know all this."
"Can I stay?"
"Ela needs a little rest. And sleep. And you need to touch up your powder... there's a small smudge on your cheek. Then room 68 — Hanna needs help. In about two hours you can go check room 72. Ela will rest here."
I understood. I'm practically having a breakdown. Ela is still looking at me. I go.
In the mirror I already understood everything myself. My makeup was terribly smeared too. I'd been crying. Sobbing... and hadn't even noticed.
And I'm still crying. She'll become a coma patient... Maybe she'll stay hooked up to machines forever... Or wake up — and forget everything... Everything! Including me!
I don't remember how long I cried. Time to work. Fix my hair, my makeup. Hanna needs help. Hood... safety goggles. Room 68.
A practically standard room, machines, tubes. The standard noise. Hanna already noticed me. Her eyes show she's glad to see me. I'll try too.
Four days she's been intubated now. Tubing, a nasogastric tube, sensors, catheters. I don't understand why they put a surgical cap on her. Does she like it? I don't, much.
I straightened her collar. Same thing — trauma, infection. But she never cried. Only smiled, as much as that was possible.
She always watched what I was changing, cleaning. She saw the urine bag and glanced away, embarrassed. Completely understandable.
I talk to her. She can't answer, of course. I adore her — she's sweet, kind... Before intubation she was always making funny faces with her lips. Laughing. Now she's holding on. And I have to as well.
I cleaned the breathing tube. It was unpleasant for her, but she understood. New urine bag, medication. Time for her to sleep. I added a dose of sedative to the IV drip, slowly, watching the numbers on the monitor gradually settle along with her.
"Sleep," I whispered. "I'm here."
Her eyelids trembled one last time and stilled. The machine breathed for her, steady, monotonous — inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I carefully put a thick white sleep mask over her eyes, shielding her from the light — so that even asleep, there'd be a little darkness beside her. I stood there another minute, watching her chest rise and fall under the thin hospital gown.
Now I can't see her face at all. But she probably likes it that way.
I remember Ela. Time to go to 72. I'm already late. Though Jess knew it would turn out this way.
Another identical room. Only the lighting here is colder, bluish — Jess likes it that way, says it's more stable, more precise. She's sitting in a chair by the bed. And on the bed — Ela.
The breathing tube carefully inserted into the trachea, a holder-clamp secured at the corner of her mouth so it wouldn't shift. Connected to the ventilator — thick ribbed hoses stretching from the tube to the machine standing beside the bed.
Inhale, pause, exhale, inhale again. A mechanical rhythm now breathing for her. Ela's chest rises and falls exactly on beat, without a single stumble, without a single pause from anxiety or pain. The monitors show stable numbers — saturation finally holding at 96, pulse evened out.
Medically induced coma. Now she's simply asleep — deeply, completely, feeling neither the tube in her throat nor the needles in her veins.
The room fills with an even hum: the hiss of the ventilator, the beep of the monitor, the quiet drone of the infusion pump. Sounds that will soon become the familiar background for the next few days — maybe weeks.
Jess had even changed her clothes. A new gown, a deeper blue. I wanted to do that myself, but...
"I'll finish up. You can go home and rest. The night's just beginning, so you'll have plenty of free time."
"I could..."
"No, you couldn't. Go. Home."
Fine, boss. I've never said it to her face, but she really is the boss.
Sleep, sister... I'll come tomorrow. I promise.
Morning. Alarm at six, as always. I lay there a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling.
Yesterday. The breakdown. Tears in the mirror, smeared makeup, Jess, who saw everything and said nothing about it directly. Embarrassing. Unprofessional.
Not again.
I got up, made coffee, watching it drip into the cup — slow, mechanical, like a ventilator. Thought about Ela just once. Briefly. And stopped myself.
Today will be different. No tears, no shaking hands. Just work. Just a shift.
I braided my hair into two pigtails, put on a shirt and a leather skirt, lined my eyes lightly — plain, ordinary, like before any workday. Looked in the mirror.
"Today you're composed," I told my reflection. "Today you're a professional."
The reflection wasn't entirely convinced.
At work — a white coat over my clothes, as always. Sat down at my desk, finished yesterday's reports, the ones I hadn't gotten to. My hands knew what to do on their own — columns, signatures, times. My head was nearly empty, and that was good.
Finished. Checked the clock. Time.
Took off the coat, reached for the coverall — the same white, thick one — and started putting it on, layer by layer. Hood. Mask. Goggles.
Jess was already waiting for me in the hallway. She always knows everything. And it annoys me.
A new suit, purple, even showing a bit of her hair — that happens rarely. Very rarely. I think two years ago there was a suit like that. Has something changed?
"Hope you rested. Room 68. You'll see Ela later, they're running procedures right now."
"Is she doing alright?"
"Yes."
That's just how Jess is. Direct and brief. That annoys me too.
Hanna had already been awake a while. They'd taken off her sleep mask, her cap. Changed her gown. Her hair looked straighter, neater. She's always beautiful.
Checked the monitor. Saturation 97, pulse 82, blood pressure normal. Better than yesterday.
Cleaned the breathing tube, checked the fixation — not shifted. Changed the dressing at the catheter site, checked the skin around it — no redness. New urine bag, logged the volume in the chart.
The IV bag was nearly empty. Hung a new one, cross-checked the dosage against the orders. Checked the nasogastric tube — patent, properly secured.
Raised the head of the bed a few degrees. The ventilator adjusted, hissed a little differently. The sensors updated the readings on the screen. Everything within normal range.
Logged the numbers in the journal. Straightened the blanket. Next check — in two hours.
Room 72. I'm genuinely scared to walk in there. But I have to be a professional.
The usual noise. Machines. And Ela. She's become incredibly beautiful. Long curly red hair, the collar, the pajamas with big buttons, the nasogastric tube... the holder. An intubated beauty. I suppose that's just what the procedures do.
Medications refilled, urine bag changed. The breathing tube — clean. The only thing — I added two more sensors to her forehead. She's a coma patient; that data will really matter.
And what else can I even do here?
Stupid question. You have to talk to her. As much as that's possible at all.
Pulled the chair closer to the bed. Took her hand — warm, that's good already.
"It's me. I came, like I promised."
The machine breathed for her steadily, no response, not the slightest flicker of an eyelid. Of course. Medically induced coma. I knew that. And still I waited for some kind of reaction — even just a tremor in her fingers.
"Hanna's doing better today. Her saturation evened out. You'll be there soon too."
My voice sounded calm. Even. The way a professional's should.
Checked the sensors on her forehead — holding well, good contact. Looked at the monitor: numbers stable, no sharp spikes.
"I'll read to you a little. If you can hear — good. If not, the room will just be quieter."
I picked up the phone from the nightstand — the same one Ela had held above her face with trembling hands yesterday. Screen locked. I didn't know the password.
But there's a finger.
Carefully lifted her hand, pressed her index finger to the sensor. The screen lit up and unlocked.
For a second I hesitated — I knew this was wrong. But I was already looking.
Browser history. The last things she'd searched: "how long does a medical coma last," "tracheostomy consequences," "can you talk after a tracheostomy," "coma and memory loss."
Dozens of tabs. Dozens of articles, forums, other people's illness stories. She'd been trying to understand what awaited her. Alone. At night, while lying here — and I thought she was just scrolling through her feed to distract herself.
I closed the screen. Put the phone back on the nightstand, exactly where it had lain.
"Sorry," I said quietly. I don't know who I meant it for — her or myself.
That's my own phone ringing now. Jess, of course. Room 75. Fine.
I haven't visited Isabelle in almost three days.
"Rest up, you red-headed pain in the ass."
She usually liked that. Maybe that's exactly why she'll wake up.
Jess is already in the room. Isabelle has finally woken up. Finally. Fully covered by the blanket, but you can see — she's still hooked up. Nasogastric tube, tracheostomy. Under the blanket, of course, plenty of sensors, catheters — none of it needs to be on display.
Almost a month she was in a coma.
Isabelle's wearing big white headphones. Maybe she asked for them herself. Or maybe she just doesn't need to hear all of this.
Jess straightened the blanket, gently, almost tenderly.
"Ela's going to need a tracheostomy too," she said, not right away. "She's not going to like it."
I stayed quiet.
Isabelle was breathing on her own. Quietly, calmly, without a single machine — just headphones on her ears and a faint smile in her sleep.
"It'll be alright, Ann," Jess finally looked at me. "You just have to wait."
A week passed like one long shift. The same procedures, the same tubes, the same rhythm — clean, change, log, repeat. My hands moved on their own, without any input from my head.
Ela — no change. The same numbers on the monitor, the same breath in her place. Hanna — much the same, plus or minus a degree of saturation, plus or minus a minute of physical therapy.
The days blurred into one. I stopped counting them.
Exactly a week later, everything changed.
Hanna was extubated. She's breathing — hard, of course, every breath still an effort, but on her own. An oxygen mask on her face now. The collar still needed, keeping her head still. She whispered something — weak, hoarse, almost no voice at all — and smiled that same funny smile. First time in a week I heard her voice, not just saw her look at me.
Ela got her tracheostomy. They finally took off the collar — now the tube comes straight out of her neck, below her throat.
The same sensors, the same tubes. She's lying there, covered by a beautiful, soft blanket, and over it — a long white ribbed hose stretching to the machine. Like the one thread still connecting her to this world.
I stood there a long time, looking at that hose. At the way it moved, barely visible, in time with her breathing.
Ela woke up.
I saw it the moment I walked in — eyes open, staring at the ceiling, blinking slowly, still heavy, still clouded from the drugs gradually leaving her system.
Her hair — straight, sleek. That was me: I straightened every curl, strand by strand, while she slept. Slow, careful, so as not to disturb the sensors on her forehead. I don't know why I did it that way — maybe I wanted to see her different, before she could see herself.
"Ela."
She turned her head toward my voice. Slowly. Her gaze settled on me — blurry, uncertain. I remembered the glasses.
Found them in the nightstand drawer — someone must have moved them along with her other things during the transfer. Carefully put them on her face, adjusted the arms behind her ears.
Her gaze sharpened at once. Now she could really see me.
Sensors on her forehead, tubes — nasogastric, tracheostomy, catheters under the blanket. All the same as a week ago, only now she felt all of it.
Her body wouldn't obey. Weeks of stillness, atrophied muscles — even her fingers barely moved under the blanket. Only her face was still alive.
Her lips twisted. She tried to say something — and couldn't. Just air, a quiet hiss from the tracheostomy instead of a voice.
Her eyes suddenly turned angry. Genuinely angry — the way I'd never seen her before.
"I know," I carefully took her hand, defenseless, almost motionless. "I know it's uncomfortable. It's temporary."
Her lips twisted again — a grimace now, unmistakably, almost crying without tears, because she had nothing left to cry with.
Displeased. Very displeased. And, it seemed, more frightened than she'd ever been.
That's understandable.
For nearly three weeks she'd been a houseplant. Unreally beautiful, but a houseplant. Tubes, hoses, needles... and practically paralyzed. Of course, it will come back. Just not yet.
Shiny pajamas, big buttons. I undid the braid, combed out every curl with my fingers, let the curls fall freely onto her shoulders and chest — the way she always wore it, when she wasn't in a hurry to be anywhere.
I showed her the photo — the phone, the screen, her own face from a few minutes ago. She didn't like it. Of course not. The same sensors on her forehead, the tracheostomy, the nasogastric tube. Definitely not what she wanted to see.
Her lips twisted again — the same grimace. But this time without anger. Just sadness. Just exhaustion.
She'll recover. I know that for certain — the body, the muscles, the voice, all of it will come back, step by step, week by week.
For now — I'll just stay close.
I promised, after all.
And I will.
