The Story of Us | LingOrm

Chapter 9: Broken But Beautiful

Day 1

Four hours after Ling was wheeled into the ICU, a nurse finally approached the waiting room. "Mr. and Mrs. Kwong? You can see your daughter now," she said softly. Orm's heart sank as she realized she wouldn't be allowed in, but she nodded encouragingly to Ling's parents as they stood, their faces a mixture of anticipation and dread.

As the ICU doors swished open, the Kwongs were hit by the sterile smell of disinfectant and the rhythmic beeping of various machines. The nurse led them to a curtained-off area, pausing before she drew back the fabric. "Please prepare yourselves," she warned gently.

Nothing could have truly prepared them for the sight of their daughter.

Ling lay still on the hospital bed, her normally vibrant presence diminished by the array of medical equipment surrounding her. A ventilator obscured half of her face, the tube snaking down her throat helping her breathe. The steady rise and fall of her chest was the only visible sign of life.

Mrs. Kwong let out a choked sob, her hand flying to her mouth. Mr. Kwong's face paled, his usual stoic demeanor crumbling at the sight of his little girl looking so fragile.

Ling's skin was ashen, a stark contrast to the angry red scrapes and purple bruises that mottled her visible skin. Her left arm was immobilized, the broken clavicle hidden beneath bandages. A chest tube protruded from her side, draining fluids into a container beside the bed.

Multiple IV lines ran into her arms, delivering vital fluids and medications. The soft hiss of oxygen mingled with the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, creating a discordant symphony of life-sustaining technology.

A large bandage covered the laceration on her right thigh, and smaller bandages dotted her arms. Her head was partially wrapped in gauze, covering the area where she had hit it despite the helmet's protection.

Mrs. Kwong approached the bed hesitantly, her hand trembling as she reached out to touch her daughter's uninjured hand. "Oh, Ling," she whispered, her voice breaking. "My brave girl."

Mr. Kwong stood at the foot of the bed, his hands gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. His eyes roamed over every tube, every bandage, every bruise, as if cataloging each injury done to his child.

Despite the shocking sight, there was an undercurrent of relief. Ling was here. She was fighting. The steady beep of the heart monitor was a constant reminder that their daughter was still with them.

The nurse gently explained each machine and tube, assuring them that Ling was receiving the best care possible. But for Ling's parents, the technical details faded into the background. All they could focus on was their daughter's face, peaceful in unconsciousness, and the rise and fall of her chest – proof that Ling was still breathing, still living, still fighting.

Ling's parents settled in for their allotted visiting time, Mr. and Mrs. Kwong each took one of Ling's hands, forming a circle of love and hope around their injured daughter. In the beeping environment of the ICU, they began their vigil, silently willing Ling to heal, to wake, to come back to them.

As Mr. and Mrs. Kwong stood by Ling's bedside, still absorbing the shock of seeing their daughter in such a state, a nurse approached them quietly. Her name tag read "Nurse Asnee," and her eyes held a mix of professional composure and genuine empathy.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kwong," she said softly, "I'm Nurse Asnee. I'll be overseeing Ling's care for this shift. I know this is overwhelming, but please don't hesitate to ask me any questions."

Mrs. Kwong, her eyes never leaving Ling's face, whispered, "When... when will she wake up?"

Nurse Asnee moved closer, her voice gentle but matter-of-fact. "Ling is currently under sedation to help her body heal. We'll begin to gradually reduce the sedation depending on how she responds. Every patient is different, so we'll be monitoring her closely."