Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan or it's characters.
Her heart thundered as she walked briskly toward the Intensive Care Unit, Lily struggling to keep up behind her. She had quite literally run into the grief counselor on her way out of the morgue, nearly knocking her over. Lily had taken one look at her friend's pale, sunken face, and had followed in tow. Jordan hadn't had the strength to argue.
Jordan flew to the front desk. "I was called about Detective Woody Hoyt. Where is he?"
The receptionist, a black woman of around 50, peered over the desk and gave her the once-over. "Who are you?"
"Jordan Cavanaugh. Dr. Jordan Cavanaugh, his next of kin. Where is he?" When the woman didn't respond, taking a moment to glance down at the papers in front of her, Jordan lost it, "Where the hell is he?" she yelled.
Lily laid a hand on her upper arm and began to rub, trying to soothe her.
"Room 116."
She took off down the hall and Lily followed.
"Wait!" Lily stopped in her tracks when the nurse hollered. "Where do you think you're going, missy?"
"Room 116?" The nurse shook her head. "The waiting room?" She nodded. Lily turned around and headed towards the waiting room.
Jordan raced down the hallway. She had to see him. He had to be alive, had to be okay. She didn't know what she'd do if he wasn't. She stopped when she reached his room, nearly passing it in her haste. What she saw when she looked through the window knocked the breath out of her, like she had been punched in the stomach with no warning. He was hooked up to more machines than she could count and though she could identify the majority of them, her brain couldn't get past the image before her. What had happened during that surgery to create this mess?
"Miss Cavanaugh?" Jordan jumped at the voice behind her and turned to face the man who had spoken. He was tall, probably hovering around six feet, his hair was graying at the temples, and his eyes were dull with fatigue.
"Dr. Cavanaugh. What can you tell me?"
He laid a hand on her shoulder and turned her to walk with him down the hall. "Dr. Cavanaugh, my apologies. I'm Dr. Benson, Detective Hoyt's surgeon. Why don't you come with me to the conference room and I'll explain the whole thing."
She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She had seen Woody. He was alive. That much she could be thankful for. She had been so afraid that he would die while she was on her way there, that he would leave her for good. She had wracked her brain for an explanation. The surgery he had been scheduled for was not a very complicated one, nor was it especially risky. They would open him up and the specialist from New York, who she now assumed to be Dr. Benson, would look at his nerves, assess the damage, and formulate a plan as to how to best help Woody.
The only thing she had been able to come up with was that they had nicked the spine. The doctor's expert, skilled hand had slipped, rendering Woody paralyzed for the rest of his life.
God, he'd hate that. He wouldn't be able to do much more than desk work at the precinct. No more catching the bad guys, finding justice. No more running with her the mornings, no more dancing with her at night. Everything he'd loved to do would be taken away.
Jordan only prayed she was wrong about her assessment, her predictions. Maybe it was something more minor, something that wouldn't have permanent effect. Maybe he wasn't critical after all. Maybe the doctors were just being careful.
Dr. Benson opened the door to the small, dimly lit room, and ushered Jordan inside. She picked a seat and tapped her foot, anxiously awaiting an explanation.
"Dr. Cavanaugh," he began, his voice gentle and soft, "you know, as a doctor, that there are many risks involved with even the most minor of operations." He paused, waiting for her response.
"Yes, I know. Get to the point. What's wrong with him?" she snapped.
"Anesthetic overdose," her replied, dropping the sugar-coating from his voice. "One of our new CRNA's messed up. She's just out of school. She-"
Before Dr. Benson could continue, a young blonde woman burst into the room, obviously in hysterics. Her face was red, her eyes puffy from crying. She immediately rushed towards Jordan, who had turned her chair sideways at her entrance, kneeling on the floor in front of her.
"Mrs. Hoyt, I am so sorry. This is all my fault, it's my fault he's," She breathed quickly, her intake of air punctuated with a tearful whimper, "he's… he's… the way he is. It's my fault he almost died," she wailed. "I am so, so sorry."
Jordan looked down with wide eyes at the woman. Her head hung low, her body shaking with sobs. Jordan didn't know what to say.
"I was… I was talking to Virginia, one of the other nurses, about the season finale of CSI tonight- we both love CSI, watch it religiously, and I guess I got distracted and I… I…" The girl broke down in tears, clutching the end of the conference table and sinking from her knees to the floor.
Dr. Benson stood from his seat and sat next to the girl on the ground. He placed an arm around her shoulder.
"Shh, Stacey," he whispered, "everybody makes mistakes. Why don't you go wait in my office, hmm?"
"But I… but I want to tell Mrs. Hoyt what… what…"
"You can tell her what happened later, when you've calmed down." He eased her to her feet and escorted her out of the room.
Jordan sat back in her chair, stunned. Woody had almost died. Woody had almost died because of some amateur mistake. Why did they have someone so inexperienced administering his anesthesia in the first place? He had almost died…
Dr. Benson reentered the room. "I'm sorry about her, she's a little overwrought, as you can see, and-"
She interrupted him. "Everybody makes mistakes? Everybody makes mistakes, Doctor? Her 'mistake' almost cost Woody his life! How can you tell her that everybody makes mistakes?" she cried, banging the table with her first for emphasis. She stood and walked towards the wall nearest the door, putting a hand over her mouth to battle the oncoming tears. For what may have been the first time, it hit her- really hit her.
She could see it in the back of her mind: his body lying on a slab in her morgue, ready to be sliced and diced like so much dead meat. His eyelids were closed, and beneath them, his eyes were cold and dead. Without the sparkle they got when he teased her, or the tenderness they showed when he held her. He would never laugh again, never cry again, never smile again, never feel again.
She would make the initial Y-incision with the utmost care- the same care with which she'd handle his internal organs, removing them and weighing them in a hunt for abnormalities. She'd remove his heart last, knowing that, at one point, that heart had loved her fiercely. Then, after completing her autopsy, she'd suture him up and put him in a drawer where he would rest until she could make funeral arrangements.
She released a shaky breath, and wiped away the single fallen tear.
"He's not dead yet, Dr. Cavanaugh," Dr. Benson said quietly across the room. "Would you like to hear what happened?"
Jordan just nodded and sat down.