After The Honeymoon

20. Memories

A/N: Excuse the typos, I didn't get a chance to proof-read!

The heart that has truly loved, never forgets - proverb

Omar

The Jane Doe patient was at a small community hospital. A 10 bed ER with a single doctor and a handful of nursing staff on call. That was the first indication that night was going to be the longest one of my life. 

Salman sped along the highway and then through the narrow streets of rural Missouri. "Just take a breath, Omar. We'll be there soon," he said glancing back at me. 

Soon couldn't come fast enough. Every second had dragged on. My life slowed down to maximize the cruelty of not knowing the fate of the woman I had fought to the world to be with. Our life together had barely begun. We still had so many memories to make together, so many adventures to go on. 

I was yet to tell her that I forgave her too. 

This can't be the end of it. I kept repeating to myself. 

"Allah Madiha ko lambi zindagi de," I heard my father say. (May Allah give Madia a long life)

Though what constitutes zindagi? Is it merely the fulfillment of basic needs like eating, drinking, and breathing? Or is the vitality of a soul, to love with all your heart, and feel the sparkle of joy at a mere phone call by the person who was the best part of your life?

I knew exactly how Madi would answer those questions. I knew too, I could never let her go even if all that was left of her was a body that ate and drank and breathed. 

Those morbid thoughts were still swirling in my mind when the car started to slow down. "We're here," Salman said. I jumped out before he could fully stop the car.

"Where is she?" I burst through the double glass doors. 

A security guard immediately stopped me. "Hey, sir calm down. Who are you looking for?" 

"Jane Doe. I think she's my wife." My voice cracked; gaze darted across the rows of hospital beds visible through the glass double doors. Some beds were surrounded by curtains for privacy, but many were open with people of ages and ailments. None who looked like Madi.

"Oh, that young woman." He took his hands off me, sympathy filled his icy blue eyes. "The state police are with her. Wait here."

Salman, Noor, my father and Andrew, the private investigator, joined me while I paced the small waiting room. Impatient seconds turned to agonizing minutes. If it hadn't been for Salman's vocal insistence to the front desk staff that we meet a doctor immediately, or Noor's gentle voice urging me to pray for my wife, I might have crumbled under the weight of uncertainty. 

When the doctor on-call, a older man with greying hair and a frown etched on his forehead, came out to meet us, he answered one question, but opened up a whole new wound in my heart.

"The state police have identified the woman as Madiha Omar, based on the driver's license they found at the scene of the accident. But she has no memory of who she is, or how she got into the accident." 

She came in with a GCS of 9, it had improved to 12. She also had a broken clavicle, dislocated shoulder and a small brain bleed, he said and started to explain, "GCS stands for -"  

"I know what it means," I cut him off, my patience hanging by a thread. 

GCS (Glasgow Coma Scale) is the most common scoring system used to describe the level of consciousness in a person following a traumatic brain injury. A score of zero meant the patient was essentially dead, and a score of 15 meant they had normal state of consciousness. For Madi to come in with a GCS of 9 and bleeding in her brain would mean she had a traumatic brain injury.