#MRI Scan Appointments

[cbccindia]

Top Imaging & Diagnostic Radiology Center: CT, MRI, Ultrasound & More

Visit our leading Imaging & Diagnostic Radiology Testing Centre for high-quality CT Scans, MRI Scans, Mammograms, Ultrasounds, and X-rays. Secure your appointment today for expert diagnostic services.

[crimmakesthings]

i was not aware you could just feel magnets if theyre strong enough

mri scans are wacky

[scottstiles]

aside from the immobility getting an mri is basically like leaning against the speakers at a rave in 2002

[riveroaksmri]

Advanced diagnostic imaging services in Houston: RiverOaks MRI 

Introduction: 

In the dynamic landscape of modern healthcare, diagnostic imaging serves as a cornerstone for accurate diagnosis and effective treatment. Nestled in the bustling city of Houston, RiverOaks MRI stands as a beacon of excellence in providing advanced diagnostic imaging services. With a commitment to cutting-edge technology and patient-centric care, RiverOaks MRI offers a comprehensive suite of services tailored to meet the diverse needs of patients. Join us as we delve into the array of services offered, including CT (CAT) scan, pain management solutions, G-SCAN MRI, GE SIGNA HDXT 1.5T imaging, and diagnostic ultrasound. 

CT (CAT) SCAN: Precision Imaging for Comprehensive Diagnosis 

Computed Tomography (CT) scans, commonly known as CAT scans, are invaluable tools in the realm of diagnostic imaging. These scans provide detailed cross-sectional images of the body, aiding in the detection and characterization of various medical conditions. At RiverOaks MRI, our state-of-the-art CT scanner delivers high-resolution images with exceptional clarity and precision. Whether it's evaluating injuries, detecting tumors, or assessing the extent of disease, our CT scans play a vital role in guiding healthcare decisions and improving patient outcomes. 

PAIN MANAGEMENT: Comprehensive Solutions for Pain Relief 

Chronic pain can significantly diminish one's quality of life, posing challenges to daily activities and overall well-being. At RiverOaks MRI, we understand the impact of pain on patients' lives and are dedicated to providing comprehensive pain management solutions. Our team of experienced specialists offers a multidisciplinary approach to pain management, incorporating advanced techniques and therapies tailored to individual needs. From medication management to minimally invasive procedures such as nerve blocks and epidural injections, we strive to alleviate pain and restore function, empowering patients to live fuller, more active lives. 

G-SCAN MRI: Advanced Imaging for Musculoskeletal Conditions 

Musculoskeletal disorders present unique challenges in diagnostic imaging, requiring specialized techniques for accurate assessment. G-SCAN MRI, available at RiverOaks MRI, is specifically designed to address the complexities of musculoskeletal imaging. Unlike traditional MRI scanners, the G-SCAN features an open gantry design and multi-positional capabilities, allowing for enhanced visualization of joints, ligaments, and soft tissues. With its ability to accommodate weight-bearing and positional imaging, G-SCAN MRI offers valuable insights into orthopedic conditions, sports injuries, and degenerative disorders, facilitating precise diagnosis and treatment planning. 

GE SIGNA HDXT 1.5T: Cutting-Edge MRI Technology 

Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) is a versatile imaging modality widely used for its superior soft tissue contrast and non-invasive nature. At RiverOaks MRI, we utilize the GE SIGNA HDXT 1.5T MRI system, renowned for its exceptional image quality and advanced capabilities. This state-of-the-art scanner enables high-resolution imaging of the brain, spine, joints, and abdomen, providing clinicians with detailed anatomical information for accurate diagnosis and treatment. With its innovative features and patient-friendly design, the GE SIGNA HDXT 1.5T enhances the imaging experience while delivering superior clinical outcomes. 

DIAGNOSTIC ULTRASOUND: Versatile Imaging for Various Conditions 

Diagnostic ultrasound is a non-invasive imaging technique that utilizes sound waves to visualize internal structures in real-time. RiverOaks MRI offers diagnostic ultrasound services for a wide range of applications, including abdominal, pelvic, and musculoskeletal imaging. Whether it's assessing organ function, evaluating fetal development, or guiding interventional procedures, ultrasound provides valuable diagnostic information with minimal discomfort to patients. Our experienced technologists utilize advanced ultrasound technology to deliver accurate and timely results, supporting clinical decision-making and patient care. 

Conclusion: 

RiverOaks MRI stands at the forefront of advanced diagnostic imaging, providing patients in Houston with access to state-of-the-art technology and compassionate care. With a comprehensive range of services, including CT scans, pain management solutions, G-SCAN MRI, GE SIGNA HDXT 1.5T imaging, and diagnostic ultrasound, we are committed to delivering excellence in healthcare. As a trusted partner in diagnostic imaging, RiverOaks MRI remains dedicated to improving patient outcomes and enhancing quality of life through innovative and personalized care. 

[bloomingonionbitch]

(High as Shit! At the Chiropractor)

[irritableteadrinker]

;; Holy crap my new meds knock me out >.> I just hope they actually help this time cause SO MANY SIDE EFFECTS bleeeeeeeeh

[mridelhi]

Can i eat before having an MRI scan?

You can eat or not before an MRI that depends on the what type of MRI scan you are having and whether it involves contrast dye or sedation. Here’s a in details information.

Note : if you want to consult from doctor then Book a free appointment

General Guidelines

MRI without Contrast

Eating: You can usually eat and drink as normal before an MRI without contrast dye.

Medication: Continue taking prescribed medications unless instructed otherwise by your doctor.

MRI with Contrast Dye

Eating: You may be asked to avoid eating or drinking for 4–6 hours before the scan. This is to prevent nausea or adverse reactions in case the contrast dye causes mild stomach discomfort.

MRI under Sedation or Anesthesia

Eating: If sedation is required (e.g., for children or anxious patients), you’ll typically need to fast for 6–8 hours before the procedure to avoid complications from anesthesia.

Special Instructions

If the MRI is for abdominal imaging, such as an MRI of the liver, pancreas, or intestines, you might be asked to avoid eating for a few hours beforehand to ensure clear images.

Follow any specific instructions provided by your healthcare provider or the imaging center.

If you’re unsure, it’s always best to check with the medical team and then book an appointment to get appropriate information from our best radiologist.

[today-i-am-thinking-about]

ultrasounds

[watch-my-cosmic-death]

We working on our physical health instead of mental health boisssss

[emeraldincandescent]

Post on my dash about medical debt reminded me of the time tumblr saved me two grand. I don't think I told y'all about it because I am out of the habit of posting everything I do on tumblr lol

So. Last December, I had a bad cavity filled, and about a week later, I woke up with half of my face paralyzed. Which, as I'm sure you can imagine, freaked me the fuck out. Fortunately I had some level-headed Discord friends who a) told me what Bell's palsy was so I could look it up and b) reminded me to call my dentist for an emergency appointment. Dentist was also pretty sure it was Bell's palsy, but urged me to go to the emergency room to get checked out, because one-sided facial paralysis is also a possible indicator of a stroke. And you don't fuck around with strokes.

Bell's palsy, if you, like me of 6 months ago, don't know, is a harmless paralysis/muscle weakness on one side of the face that can be caused by a variety of things. It usually goes away on its own after a few weeks but also you can speed up the process with steroids.

I was pretty sure I was not having a stroke, because I'm Red Cross first aid certified and I know the symptoms of a stroke, and while one-sided facial paralysis is one of them, I didn't have any of the others. Also, I had quit my shitty job in October, which meant I had a shiny new marketplace health insurance plan and hadn't even touched my deductible. But I called my parents from the car and they urged me to get checked out and promised to help me pay off the emergency room bill if I needed it, because they're good people and they love me even if they drive me crazy sometimes. So off I went to the nearest emergency room.

Emergency room staff also didn't think I was having a stroke, because I waited ALL AFTERNOON, periodically having a new person come up to me and ask me to smile, hold both arms out to the side, press down on their hands, and tell them what month and year it was. (They don't ask who the president is anymore. Hmm, I wonder why.) One guy had me drink a cup of water while he watched. I cannot stress enough that I did not have any medical tests other than a physical examination: no CT scans or MRIs, no IV drugs or blood draws, nothing.

I get diagnosed with Bell's palsy and given a prescription for Prednisone. And then they give me a phone number and tell me to talk to this person about administrative stuff. So I call, and the dude on the phone verifies my name and date of birth and insurance information, and then he says, "It looks like your copay today is going to be $2400. How would you like to pay?"

I am, to this day, kind of impressed that he didn't even stutter over that number, but I assume working in a medical call center drains your entire soul. At this point, it's about 7pm, and I've been in the hospital since 2pm, and I'm stressed because half my face doesn't work, and I know that I can't afford $2400 because I quit my shitty job with nothing lined up back in October. But, I still remember every tumblr post I've ever read about health insurance and the medical system and how you can negotiate down a bill. I am not looking forward to this process, it sounds like a pain in the ass, but the alternative is paying $2400, so I say the magic words: "Send me an itemized bill."

I kinda expected the guy to try and get me to pay up front, but he just says "Ok" and finishes up the process. I get discharged, go to the only open pharmacy at that time of night to get my Prednisone, have the pharmacist tell me the prescription isn't written right and he can't fill it, go home, and have a screaming sobbing meltdown because I have used up every single milligram of cope in my entire body. (I got my steroids eventually, and the Bell's palsy cleared up in a couple weeks.)

A few weeks later, I get the bill in the mail. I brace myself and open it...

$300.

Turns out, after going through insurance and processing and everything, they couldn't actually find $2400 worth of stuff to charge me for. Shocking! Who could have predicted!

I might have been able to argue it down even more, but I was fed up with entire thing, so I paid the $300 just to be fucking done with it. Sometimes the cheapest way to pay is with money.

What if I had paid that $2400 up front? Do I think they would have been like, "Oh, oops!" and refunded me $2k? Well, possibly, but I am not optimistic.

So, thank you to everyone who has ever posted about navigating the US healthcare system on tumblr. Because of you, I knew how to handle this situation even when I was tired and stressed.

Don't forget to ask for an itemized bill, folks.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Say Goodnight, Baby

Bob Floyd x Fem!Wife!Reader

Chicago Med x Greys Anatomy x The Resident x Top Gun Maverick crossover

TW: chronic/terminal illness, unexplained fainting, passing out in the shower, medical trauma, implied panic attacks, hospitals, crying

(THIS one is my actual favorite now)

You’ve been tired lately.

That’s how it starts. Just that. Just tired. Not pain. Not sickness. No screaming warning sign from the universe. Just… tired.

You forget to put the laundry in the dryer. You pour juice in your cereal. You sleep through the alarm and nearly burn the house down trying to make toast. Bob teases you—softly, lovingly—calls you his sleepy girl, kisses your temple, and laughs when you crawl into bed at 6 p.m.

You don’t tell him how heavy your bones feel. Not at first. You don’t tell him that your vision has started to blur around the edges sometimes, or that your fingertips feel numb when you hold your phone for too long. You don’t say anything about the noise in your ears—like static, like wind, like something wrong—because you think if you name it, it becomes real.

You don’t say anything.

Until one night, you collapse in the shower.

⸻

Bob’s voice sounds like it’s underwater when he calls your name. You’re still conscious, barely. Just curled up on the tile, your body refusing to obey. Arms tingling. Breath shallow. You hear the panicked slam of the door, the sound of him slipping on the wet floor, the frantic shout of “Hey—hey! Baby, talk to me, come on, what happened?”

You can’t answer. You can’t even blink.

⸻

The ER doctor says it’s probably dehydration. Your blood pressure was low, maybe a drop in sugar, maybe exhaustion. They ask if you’ve eaten. If you’ve been drinking enough water. They hook you up to an IV, shine a flashlight in your eyes, and send you home with two ibuprofen and a pat on the shoulder.

Bob drives home with one hand on the steering wheel and one on your thigh, gripping it like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You try to sleep. You don’t.

⸻

Two days later, you faint again. This time in the kitchen. You hit your head on the counter on the way down. He finds you bleeding.

There’s no joking after that.

⸻

You start seeing doctors.

First your primary. Then a neurologist. Then a cardiologist.

They run labs. They run more labs. They order an MRI, a CT, an EKG, a PET scan. You wear a heart monitor for three days.

“We don’t see anything unusual yet,” they all say.

“We’ll let you know.”

No one ever calls back.

Bob’s quiet at night now. He doesn’t ask you how you’re feeling because he doesn’t want to hear the truth. You don’t tell him you lost your words in the middle of a sentence that morning. You don’t tell him your fingers are starting to go numb in your sleep.

⸻

The first real breakdown happens three weeks in.

You walk into the living room to find Bob sitting on the couch with all your test results spread out around him. Dozens of papers. Ink-stained folders. His laptop screen glows with open message boards and rare illness forums. There are numbers highlighted in yellow. One page has the word “sclerosis” circled four times.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in. His voice is low.

“This doesn’t make sense. It’s not adding up. Your bloodwork is fine but you’re falling apart—why are you falling apart if you’re not sick?”

You sink down on the couch beside him, and he buries his face in your shoulder like he’s trying to disappear.

You hold him while he cries.

“What if I lose you before we even know what we’re fighting?”

⸻

He starts booking appointments in other cities after that.

“We’re not waiting anymore. We’re not waiting.”

He flies you to Chicago Med first.

Dr. Halstead is kind. Young. Smart. He runs a full cardiac panel and refers you to Dr. Charles, who does a cognitive screening.

They say they’re stumped. They tell Bob you “present unusually.” That it might be a combination of minor things. They’ll keep your file active. They’ll follow up.

They never call.

⸻

Seattle is next. Grey Sloan Memorial.

You’re walking down the hallway with Bob’s arm around your waist when your knees give out again. You’re vomiting in a garbage can before you even make it to the neuro wing. Bob carries you the rest of the way himself.

Dr. Amelia Shepherd examines you. Her eyes darken when she looks at the scans. She doesn’t say anything at first, just leans in close and touches your wrist.

“If it’s what I think it is, we’ll need more imaging. Don’t be scared. We’re going to do everything we can.”

That’s the first time someone says “scared,” and Bob goes white. You grip his hand so tightly that your knuckles crack.

But the MRI results come back clean. No tumors. No lesions. No clear trauma. Just noise. A little inflammation. Some fog.

You seize in the machine on day three. They pull you out shaking.

No answers.

⸻

The Mayo Clinic is cold and sterile and full of specialists who look at you like you’re a puzzle they’re already bored of. They run more tests. They take a lumbar puncture. Your back bleeds. Your vision goes black for a full thirty seconds and no one panics.

Bob nearly punches a doctor when he suggests your symptoms might be psychosomatic. They put a note in your file. Bob leaves claw marks in the steering wheel on the way back to the hotel.

That night, you wake up at 3 a.m. and find him in the corner of the room, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. He’s whispering. Over and over.

“Please. Please. I don’t know what else to do.”

You kneel down and fold yourself into his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your shoulder.

“Don’t say that.”

“But I’m supposed to protect you.”

“You are. You are.”

You hold him until the sun comes up.

⸻

You don’t feel like a person anymore. You feel like a case file. A clipboard. A question.

You haven’t worked in weeks. You can’t drive anymore. You can barely eat.

Bob never complains. He carries you to the bathroom. He does your laundry. He cuts your food into tiny pieces even when you say you’re not hungry. He reads to you when your eyes are too blurry. He holds your hand in every waiting room like he’s bracing for impact.

You’ve never loved him more.

And it’s never hurt more.

Because one morning, when you wake up coughing blood, and you look over to see Bob already holding the tissue box in one hand and the car keys in the other—

You realize: he thinks he’s already losing you.

It’s their last hope in the States.

Chastain Park Memorial Hospital. Atlanta. The place people whispered about when they had nowhere else to go. The one that had been called a miracle machine. The hospital where medicine bent the rules, where doctors made impossible calls and patients walked away when no one else believed they could.

Bob had heard stories from a pilot friend—someone’s wife had flatlined twice there and still walked out breathing.

So he booked the flights. Didn’t ask. Just did it. Told her they were going to Atlanta. Told her it was going to be different this time.

She didn’t argue.

She didn’t have the energy to.

⸻

The flight was bad. Her body doesn’t regulate temperature anymore. She gets cold without warning. Then overheats. Then passes out.

Bob has to carry her off the plane while she apologizes under her breath. He keeps telling her not to. He doesn’t let go.

⸻

Chastain is everything people said it was.

Sleek. Quiet. The air smells sterile but somehow warm. They’re seen almost immediately. Bob flashes the file he’s been building for months—two inches thick now—and explains everything in the kind of voice that’s been ground down into nothing.

Dr. Bell himself comes to meet them.

He reads the notes, flipping pages fast but absorbing every word.

“We’ll do everything we can,” he says quietly. “We have some of the best diagnostics minds here—Dr. Devi and Dr. Pravesh will run the first round. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Bob nods like a soldier taking orders.

He doesn’t blink until they wheel her away.

⸻

The tests start immediately.

Bloodwork. Imaging. An echo. Neuro scans. Cardiac rhythm analysis. Leela takes lead on neurological markers. Devon tracks internal inflammation patterns.

It’s organized. Efficient. Bob paces in the corner, watching their coats blur past him.

He prays this time will be different.

She falls asleep during a scan. Her skin is too pale. Her hands are freezing.

⸻

Dr. Leela Devi comes in first. Her eyes are kind. She sits beside Bob in the empty consult room.

“She’s… unique,” she says. “Her case. Her presentation. There’s clear systemic degradation, but it’s not following any known autoimmune or neurovascular pattern.”

“So what does that mean?” Bob asks, voice tight.

“It means we don’t know. Not yet.”

“But you will, right?”

She looks at him, and that’s when he knows.

She doesn’t say no.

She doesn’t say yes, either.

⸻

Bell returns that evening.

Bob’s been sitting at her bedside, rubbing circles into her hand with his thumb. She hasn’t opened her eyes since noon.

Bell looks tired. A little older than he did this morning. His shoulders are heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you were hoping to see Dr. Hawkins. He’s… no longer with us.”

Bob looks up sharply.

“What do you mean he’s not with you?”

“He was let go. Temporarily, we hope. But he’s not on staff right now.”

“But he—he’s the best. You’re the place people go when no one else can figure it out.”

“I know.” Bell’s voice is gentle. “We’re still good. We’re still going to keep looking. But right now, without him—this kind of case… We’re limited.”

Bob doesn’t say anything.

Just nods.

Then turns back to you.

⸻

He stays quiet all night.

Nurses come in, offer food. He doesn’t move. Just sits at your side, holding your hand.

You stir at some point, eyes flickering open.

Your lips are cracked when you whisper:

“This was supposed to be the one that worked.”

Bob presses his face into your palm. It’s cold again.

“I know, baby. I know.”

He doesn’t cry until you’re asleep.

⸻

By morning, they discharge you.

Still no answers. Still no name for what’s eating you alive.

Leela gives him her personal number.

Devon squeezes his shoulder.

Bell walks them to the elevator himself.

“Please keep us updated. If anything changes—if we get more staff—come back.”

Bob doesn’t answer.

Not until the doors close.

Then he presses his forehead to the metal wall and says—

“We’ll come back when we’ve got nothing left to lose.”

⸻

They go home.

That night, you whisper:

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”

Bob swallows so hard it hurts.

“Don’t want to do what?”

“Hospitals. Machines. Tests. All of it. I just… I want the time I have left to be mine. I want to feel the wind before I can’t walk. I want to see the stars before I forget what they are.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

You’re expecting him to fight. To argue. To beg.

But he just wraps his arms around you. Pulls you into his lap.

And says, very softly:

“Then tell me where we’re going first.”

The bucket list isn’t written with tears in your eyes.

It’s written on a quiet morning, in your softest robe, with Bob’s hand curled around your hip in bed.

He’s still asleep. Dreaming, maybe. His breath is warm against your shoulder, and the window is cracked open just enough to let the summer morning in.

And you’re dying.

Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just… inevitably.

A little more each week.

A little quieter each hour.

You already know.

Even if no one has said the words yet, you know.

So you open your journal to a blank page. You click your pen. And you write, at the top:

“If I Go Before You”

And beneath that, you list places you’ve never been.

⸻

That afternoon, you show it to him.

Bob reads the title and doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Just presses his thumb against the edge of the paper until it smudges.

“We’re going to do all of it,” he says.

“You don’t have to—”

“All of it,” he repeats. “Anywhere you want to go. I’m taking you.”

⸻

🟣 1. The Lavender Field Wedding – Provence, France

It’s not a real wedding. But it feels like one.

You’re both already married. You eloped after Top Gun graduation, courthouse style, two rings from a pawn shop and champagne in a paper cup. You’ve never cared about dresses or flowers. But on the list, you wrote:

“I want to stand in a lavender field at sunset and promise to love you again.”

So Bob flies you to France.

He rents a small private plot. Buys you a dress from a secondhand shop. It doesn’t zip all the way in the back. You laugh so hard you start coughing.

He stands in front of you in a white shirt and suspenders and reads his vows with tears slipping down both cheeks.

“You’re the bravest thing I’ve ever known. And I’ve been in fighter jets.”

You exchange the same rings. You kiss until your knees give out.

And for once—for once—you don’t faint.

⸻

🌠 2. Rooftop Stargazing – Tokyo

You don’t even remember writing this one. But Bob circled it and put three stars next to it. You’re too weak for long excursions by then, but he finds a hotel with a rooftop observatory and a private terrace.

The city glows beneath you. You sit curled in his lap, blanket tucked under your chin, your fingers tangled in his.

He points out constellations with a flashlight and a guidebook he’s been studying all week.

“That one’s Andromeda. That one looks like a spoon, but it’s not.”

You’re too tired to stay up long, but he keeps his arms around you all night—even after you fall asleep.

You don’t dream.

But when you wake up, Bob is crying quietly behind you.

Just watching the stars fade into dawn.

⸻

🪂 3. Skydiving – Sedona, Arizona

This one’s a fight.

“You’re not jumping out of a plane, baby, you can barely stand—”

But you look at him, smile that tired, wild smile, and say:

“Bobby. I’m dying. Let me fall out of the sky while I can still fly.”

He relents. He calls a medical specialist. They make a harness to support your body, strap you in with a professional skydiver, monitor your vitals. He signs five waivers with his hand shaking.

You scream when you fall. Not in fear. Just in release. You laugh. You cry. The world explodes around you.

Bob throws up watching from the ground.

You land on your back in the red dust and whisper, between coughs:

“Okay. That one almost killed me.”

He nearly chokes trying to laugh and cry at the same time.

⸻

🎠 4. A Night in Venice – “Just One Gondola”

By the time you get to Venice, your legs barely work. You’re mostly in a wheelchair now. You sleep through the afternoons. You forget what day it is. Sometimes you forget Bob’s name until you see his face.

But you remember this.

The water. The sound. The candle in the gondola. The way he holds your hand like it’s the last thing keeping you tethered to this side of the river.

He doesn’t say anything about how quiet you are. How hard it is for you to keep your head up. He just presses his mouth to your temple and whispers:

“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You cry, just a little, and whisper back:

“You’re gonna love someone else someday.”

His arms stiffen around you.

“No. I’m not.”

⸻

You write more entries every day, even when your hands tremble.

Some you don’t make it to.

Some Bob crosses off anyway, saying:

“You dreamed them. That’s enough.”

⸻

He carries you through the Florence museum when you can’t walk anymore.

He wraps you in five blankets during your last beach sunrise.

He tells strangers on every plane that you’re the love of his life.

And slowly, you start to drift.

Not all at once.

But you know it’s happening.

Your body is forgetting how to stay.

And that’s when the phone rings.

⸻

It’s late. You’re in bed, wrapped up in his arms. Bob has just turned off the light. You’re barely awake. He kisses the back of your shoulder like he’s saying goodbye and goodnight in the same breath.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand.

He almost doesn’t answer.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

ATLANTA, GA

His thumb hovers.

Then he swipes.

“Hello?”

A pause.

Then:

“Lieutenant Floyd? This is Dr. Bell at Chastain Park Memorial. I know it’s late. I wouldn’t be calling unless it was urgent.”

Bob sits up slowly.

You stir beside him, eyelids fluttering.

“What’s wrong?”

He mouths “Bell” at you.

“We just re-hired Dr. Conrad Hawkins. He’s already reviewed your wife’s file. We’d like you to come back. We believe we may have a path forward.”

Silence.

The hotel room goes cold.

Bob doesn’t speak. Not at first. Just closes his eyes, presses his hand against his mouth.

“Is this real?” he whispers.

“I know you’ve been through a lot. But yes. This is real.”

“Don’t give me false hope.”

“This isn’t hope, Lieutenant. This is a shot. A real one.”

Bob stares at you.

You’re watching him through half-lidded eyes. You’re so thin now. So quiet. But your hand slips toward his across the sheets.

He grabs it like a lifeline.

“We’ll be there,” he says. “Just… please don’t let her die before we get there.”

The hospital doors open like a memory.

Bob carries you inside, one arm hooked under your legs, the other bracing your back. You’re barely conscious. Your head is on his chest. You haven’t said a word since they landed.

The cab driver asked if he should call 911 when he saw you. Bob just whispered, “No. We’re here. This is where the saving happens.”

⸻

Bell is waiting for them at the entrance. He looks ten years older than he did the last time they saw him. Grayer. Quieter.

“She doesn’t have time for paperwork,” Bob rasps.

“She won’t need it,” Bell answers, already holding open the triage door. “They’re prepped upstairs. We’ve been ready since I called.”

Bob doesn’t thank him. He can’t. He’s already biting the inside of his cheek to keep from breaking.

⸻

You’re stabilized in a private ICU suite on the fourth floor.

Dr. Voss is there. So are Leela, Devon, and Irving. They’re quieter than usual. You’re not a case anymore. You’re a clock ticking out its final seconds.

Until the door opens—

—and Conrad Hawkins walks in.

Bob doesn’t recognize him at first.

But then Bell says:

“Conrad. This is Lieutenant Floyd.”

“And this,” Bob chokes, “is her.”

Conrad looks at you for a long time.

Then he nods once and says,

“Give me four hours.”

⸻

Bob waits alone.

In the hallway.

Head pressed against the cool plaster.

He prays again.

But it’s not like before. Not pleading. Not bargaining.

Just—

“Don’t make me survive this.”

⸻

At 3:47 p.m., Conrad returns.

His eyes are bloodshot. His hands still have ink on them from marking charts.

“I know what it is.”

Bob’s knees buckle.

Leela catches him by the elbow. Devon steadies his shoulder.

“Her immune system is attacking her vascular tissue. Capillaries. Arterial linings. Nerve sheaths. It’s so rare there’s only one recorded case—ten years ago, in Brazil. Same degradation pattern. Same loss of motor function, cognition, everything.”

Bob can barely breathe.

“Is it treatable?”

Conrad doesn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Yes.”

Bob slumps to the floor.

“But—”

He looks up. Cold.

“No. No fucking ‘but.’ If you say that word again—”

“The treatment will likely kill her first.”

⸻

They show him the regimen.

Conrad is walking him through the protocol while Bob clutches the edges of the printout so hard it crumples.

“We have to suppress the immune response first. Shut down the system. Then reboot it with a series of tailored proteins—ones her body doesn’t recognize as a threat.”

“How long?” Bob asks.

“Minimum eight weeks. She’ll go into shock. We’ll have to intubate. Induce a coma. She may lose motor function. She may lose time.”

“Will she come back?”

Silence.

Then:

“She might.”

⸻

Bob doesn’t cry until he signs the consent form.

He finds your hand, lifts it to his lips, and says:

“I know you’re tired. But if you can hear me—just fight. One more time. I’ll do the rest.”

You don’t respond.

Your fingers twitch once, like a yes.

⸻

They sedate you within the hour.

You code once during intubation. They bring you back.

By morning, you’re on a ventilator, nonresponsive, your heart rate dipping in and out of safety. The machines breathe for you. The nurses speak in hushed tones outside the room.

Bob doesn’t leave.

He sits in a hard chair for three straight days. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t shower. The nurses start bringing him warm towels, coffee, painkillers.

One night, Mina Okafor sneaks him a second blanket.

“She wouldn’t want you turning into a ghost while she’s gone,” she says.

“She is gone,” Bob chokes.

Mina looks at you, still and pale in the bed, and says:

“No. She’s just figuring out how to get back.”

⸻

Day 12.

She spikes a fever. They drop her into deeper sedation. Bob screams at the wall.

Day 19.

Conrad adjusts her meds again. Leela holds Bob’s hand while they explain her kidneys are weakening.

Day 26.

Bob finds a dried petal from the lavender field in the bottom of his wallet. He folds it into her pillowcase. He whispers:

“Don’t make me live in a world where you’re just something I remember.”

⸻

Day 37.

Bob collapses in the hallway and cries so hard he can’t stand. Devon holds him. Irving calls Phoenix.

“She’s not dead,” Bob whispers. “She’s not. She’s not. She just… she just hasn’t come back yet.”

⸻

Day 46.

No change. No worse. But no better.

Day 51.

Bob tells her about the gondola again. He talks to her for three hours. Her monitor spikes slightly when he laughs.

Day 59.

He falls asleep holding her hand.

And for the first time, you move.

It starts at 3:12 a.m.

Bob’s asleep in the ICU chair—curled over like he’s guarding you with his whole body, hand locked tight in yours. He hasn’t slept for more than ninety minutes at a time in weeks. But this moment is still.

Until—

Your thumb moves.

Just a twitch. Barely there.

But enough.

Bob flinches in his sleep.

Freezes.

Then lifts his head and stares at your hand like it’s glowing.

“Do it again,” he whispers. “Baby… please.”

Nothing.

Silence.

And then—your thumb brushes over his knuckle. Again.

Like something ancient inside you is clawing its way back from the dark.

⸻

Hour One.

Alarms ping. Nurse Hundley rushes in. Bob’s already on his feet, eyes wild, one hand on the call button, the other wrapped around yours like a lifeline.

“She moved,” he chokes. “I felt it. I felt it.”

Hundley calls Conrad. Leela. The whole team. The lights come on. The room smells like antiseptic and adrenaline.

Your eyelids flutter once.

Not open. But not still either.

“Keep talking to her,” Hundley says softly.

“I haven’t stopped,” Bob whispers.

⸻

Hour Three.

You track light.

Only for a moment—but your eyes shift.

Bob sees it. Drops into the chair beside you, forehead pressed to your hand.

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Come back slow, baby. I’ll be here the whole time.”

Conrad enters with new labs. Adjusts meds. “If she’s responding to stimulus,” he says, “we’ll begin waking her more intentionally. But slowly. The body’s coming back. We don’t want to burn out the brain.”

Bob nods.

“I just need her to stay.”

⸻

Hour Seven.

Your breathing improves.

No longer labored. Shallow, but yours.

The vent stays in for now, but Conrad gives the green light to begin weaning.

Bob’s voice cracks when he says:

“She’s fighting. I can feel it.”

⸻

Hour Eleven.

You open your eyes.

For half a second.

Then close them.

Bob drops his face into your mattress and sobs.

Not loudly. Just… like something finally broke loose after weeks of silence.

⸻

But you don’t speak.

You don’t move again that day.

The vent stays. Your eyes stay closed more than open. And when they’re open—they’re glassy. Unfocused. The light’s on, but you’re not fully in the room yet.

⸻

That night, Bob asks Conrad the question he’s been holding in his chest like a blade.

“What if this is it?” he whispers. “What if… she woke up, but she’s not really back?”

Conrad doesn’t answer right away.

Then:

“Then we give her time.”

⸻

The Next 3 Weeks.

You’re awake.

But barely here.

⸻

You can’t speak.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes.

Your lips try to form shapes that don’t make it past your teeth. You cough against the vent tube. Try to fight it. The nurses hold your hand. Bob tells you it’s okay.

“You don’t have to talk. I remember everything for you.”

⸻

You don’t move much.

Sometimes your fingers twitch. Sometimes your head shifts half an inch on the pillow. Your legs don’t move at all. You’re in diapers. Bedbound.

Bob holds you like you’re made of glass dipped in fire.

He reads to you every night. Brushes your hair every morning. Uses lotion on your hands to keep the skin from cracking.

He’s the one who notices when you start following the sound of his voice.

“Hey,” he whispers one morning. “That’s new. You’re watching me.”

He smiles like it’s a sunrise.

“You remember me, don’t you?”

You don’t answer.

But your hand curls the slightest bit in his.

⸻

Day 5.

The feeding tube is reinserted. You aspirate on water. Your eyes fill with tears. Bob strokes your back and says, “It’s okay. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Day 9.

Conrad brings in a memory specialist. Bob makes you a photo board. Gondola in Venice. Lavender fields. A scribbled postcard. A receipt with your name on it. You stare at the photos but don’t react.

Day 13.

Your eyes close when Bob reads from your journal. The one with the bucket list. You cry. He kisses your temple and cries harder.

⸻

Speech Therapy – Week 4.

You’re still nonverbal.

But you follow commands. Track penlights. Try to mirror mouth movements with glacial slowness. You get tired after three minutes.

The first time your lips shape the letter “B”, Bob falls to his knees.

“That’s me,” he whispers. “That’s my name. You remember me.”

⸻

Physical Therapy – Week 5.

Two nurses and Leela lift you into a tilt chair. You hold yourself up for nine seconds.

Your heart monitor goes crazy.

Bob cheers like you won Olympic gold.

You sleep for ten hours afterward.

⸻

One night, your eyes stay open longer than usual.

Bob reads you the Venice story again. The one where you told him he’d love someone else someday.

He stops reading when he sees your fingers twitch.

On the blanket. Slow. Trembling. Like you’re spelling something.

Bob leans close.

“What is it, baby? You trying to tell me something?”

Your fingers scratch slow letters onto the blanket:

“Where?”

Bob blinks fast.

“Where are you? You’re in Atlanta. You’re at Chastain. You’ve been here almost three months. But you’re safe. You’re alive.”

Your eyes flicker.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

More shaky letters.

“How…long?”

Bob curls forward and presses his forehead to your arm.

“You’ve been gone a long time. But I waited. I told them not to let go of you. You were always still in there.”

⸻

You don’t cry.

But you don’t stop staring at him, either.

Like something in you knows him, even if you can’t say how.

⸻

Later that night, he watches you fall asleep.

He sits in the chair, holding your hand, brushing his thumb over your skin like a rosary.

And he says, softly:

“You chose to stay. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

He kisses the back of your hand and whispers:

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you’re never alone again.”

It takes seven weeks before anyone mentions the word bath.

You’ve been sponge-wiped, catheterized, shifted by nurses with practiced hands. But you haven’t stood up. You haven’t felt water in months.

Your skin aches with absence.

⸻

Nurse Hundley wheels in a portable bath chair. It reclines. It has straps. There’s a gentle pump system and warm water and privacy screens. They schedule it for a quiet evening. No other patients in the hallway. No shift changes.

Leela leads.

Hundley assists.

Bob’s supposed to leave the room.

“Spouse boundaries,” Leela says gently.

But then your fingers twitch against the sheets—one of your only consistent movements—and spell:

“Stay.”

Bob doesn’t say anything.

He just squeezes your hand. Once.

⸻

They wheel you into the bathing bay in a soft blue hospital gown.

It takes two people to shift your body into the chair.

You whimper once—not from pain. Just from the feeling of being held.

Bob stands behind the privacy curtain until he hears Leela say:

“You ready, sweetheart?”

He comes around slowly.

And stops.

⸻

Your body is not the body he kissed under French sunlight.

It is not the body that ran down lavender hills or bounced on Venetian canals.

This body is paper-thin.

Bones and hollow places.

IV bruises.

Surgical lines.

Collarbone sharp enough to cut glass.

Hair patchy at the crown.

A feeding tube stitched in place.

A healing trach scar low on your neck.

Fingers that tremble just from being lifted.

And you look at him.

And you know.

Even without a voice, your eyes scream:

“Don’t look at me. I’m not who I was.”

You start to cry.

Silent. Shameful. Fragile.

Bob drops to his knees.

He doesn’t reach for you at first. Just presses both hands to his mouth and lets himself cry too.

Leela excuses herself.

Hundley gives him a small nod and pulls the curtain tighter.

⸻

He takes a washcloth from the tray.

Kneels in front of you.

And starts with your hands.

“Hi,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s me. I’m gonna help now, okay?”

You blink. Twice. Your hands twitch in his.

He dips the cloth in warm water and begins.

Fingers. Wrists. Elbows.

So slowly. So gently.

“You’re still my girl,” he whispers. “You still look like my wife.”

Your breath hitches.

He moves to your shoulders next. Then arms. Wipes around the ports, the lines, the bruises.

“They tried so hard to save you,” he whispers. “I’m not mad at them for what they had to do. But I am mad at the world for making it hurt you so much.”

⸻

He pauses at your ribs.

Sees how each one casts a shadow.

He almost loses it again.

You flinch.

He notices.

“Hey,” he says, softer. “You don’t have to hide. I still love every inch of you. I love this skin. These scars. This you.”

Your eyes stay locked on his.

He kisses your temple. Then your jaw. Then that trach scar you tried to hide under the towel.

“Thank you for coming back to me,” he whispers.

⸻

He washes your legs next.

One at a time. Atrophied. Weak.

But when he reaches your ankle, your foot twitches.

It lifts half an inch.

Bob laughs out loud—wet, wild joy—and says:

“You just kicked me.”

You smile.

Tired. Faint.

But a smile.

⸻

He wraps you in warm towels.

Carries you back to bed himself.

Hundley tucks you in and adjusts the monitors. Leela nods in quiet approval.

You fall asleep an hour later.

Warm. Clean. Held.

And loved so deeply it might bring you back in pieces.

It happens on a Wednesday.

Almost two months since you opened your eyes.

Almost one month since your bath.

Six weeks of speech therapy.

And still—not a sound.

You’ve been trying. God, trying. Your lips form shapes. Your tongue moves. Your eyes scream what your voice won’t carry.

But your throat won’t catch.

Your lungs won’t push.

You’ve forgotten how.

Until today.

⸻

The room is warm and quiet.

Leela just finished a PT session—your first attempt at sitting up on your own.

Bob’s arm is behind your back. You’re shaking all over. Your head keeps tilting forward like gravity is too loud. But you’re upright. Weak, but upright.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

You stare at him—sweaty, exhausted, drained—and your mouth opens just barely.

He thinks you’re going to mouth something.

He leans in, ready to read your lips like he always does.

But then—

You breathe in. Just a little.

And try.

It sounds like nothing at first.

Just a crackle.

Like a wire shorting out.

But Bob freezes.

“…What was that?” he whispers.

Your lips move again.

This time you push.

From the chest.

From the ribs.

From the part of you that still remembers who he is.

“…B—”

It’s air. Just air. But shaped.

“B-b—”

Bob drops to his knees.

Leela stares, wide-eyed.

“Say it again,” he breathes. “Baby, please—say it again.”

You try.

Your whole body strains.

You’re crying now, lips trembling, breath shallow—but you try again.

“B-B…ob-b—”

And then, so faint it barely exists:

“…Buh-bby.”

⸻

The silence in the room breaks like glass.

Bob makes a noise no one’s ever heard from him.

He curls into your lap like a man who’s been starving and just tasted sunlight.

“You said my name,” he chokes. “You said my name.”

You try to nod.

Your head barely moves.

But it’s there.

Leela wipes her eyes and whispers, “I’ll get Conrad.”

Bob doesn’t even hear her.

He’s got your hands in his, pressed to his mouth.

“Say it again,” he begs. “Please, baby. I need to hear it one more time. Just once more.”

You’re too weak.

Your voice is gone again.

But your lips form the shape.

Your eyes shine.

And your fingers curl around his like a promise:

“I remember.”

⸻

That night, Bob writes it down in your journal.

June 18th – she said my name.

He underlines it three times.

Then adds:

“She came back for me. I know it now. No one else could’ve pulled her through the dark.”

He doesn’t sleep.

He just lays beside your bed, hand in yours, listening to your breath and repeating your name back to you.

“You’re here. You’re here. You’re here.”

It’s been a week since you said his name.

Bob’s still talking about it like it just happened.

“You said my name, sweetheart. After all this time. I knew you’d find your way back.”

You can only speak a few words at a time.

Short, clipped. Barely louder than a whisper.

But you try.

Every day.

“Wa…ter.”

“Hurts.”

“Cold.”

“Stay.”

And his name.

Always his name.

“Buh-bby.”

⸻

This night is quiet.

No machines beeping. No interruptions. You’re propped up in your bed with three pillows and a weighted blanket. Bob’s sitting beside you with your journal, flipping through pages.

It’s the lavender field page.

You look at it for a long time.

He notices.

“You remember it?”

You don’t speak.

Just blink.

“We went at golden hour,” he says softly. “You said the sun made everything look like it was soaked in honey. You picked lavender for your mom. Remember?”

Silence.

Your hand twitches.

“We stayed ’til the field closed. You tucked some in my pocket.”

You whisper:

“Purple… sun.”

Bob looks up.

“Yeah, baby. That’s right.”

⸻

He flips the page.

Venice.

Gondola photo. You smiling. The first day you kissed him without warning.

He starts to turn it—but your hand covers his.

Weak. Trembling.

But definite.

You’re still looking.

“You like that one?” he murmurs.

Your lips part.

Nothing comes out.

Then a shaky breath.

Then—

“Tell…me…”

Bob freezes.

You blink slowly. Try again.

“Tell…me…Venice.”

⸻

He breaks.

Just folds forward with your hands in his and sobs against your legs.

“You remember that?”

“Tell…me.”

So he does.

Through tears.

Through laughter.

Through everything in him that ached thinking this memory might’ve been lost forever.

“It was hot. But you didn’t care. We ate gelato before dinner. You got mint chip, I said you were a criminal. You kissed me in the gondola just to shut me up.”

You smile.

Soft. Slow. Tired.

“Kissed you.”

“You did. Then I told you I was in love with you and you said, and I quote—‘Took you long enough.’”

You let out the smallest sound of a laugh.

More breath than voice.

But it’s real.

⸻

That night, Bob writes:

June 25th – she remembered Venice. Her laugh came back with it. I would’ve waited a hundred years for that sound.

It’s raining the morning they tell you:

“Today’s the day. We’re gonna try to stand again.”

You’re terrified.

Your hands shake. Your stomach turns. Bob’s thumb brushes over your wrist as he kneels beside your wheelchair.

“I’ll be right here,” he whispers. “You fall, you fall into me.”

⸻

You’re barefoot in the PT room.

A harness is strapped around your waist.

Leela adjusts the walker. Devon nods from across the room. Bob stays behind you—arms ready, breath held.

Your legs are trembling before you even lift them.

“We’ll count to three,” Leela says. “You just try. Don’t push. Just try.”

“One…”

“Two…”

Your hand tightens on the bar.

“Three.”

You push.

⸻

Your knees buckle immediately.

Bob lunges, catches you around the waist—his chest against your back.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You’re crying.

Not from pain. Not from falling.

From how badly you want to do it.

Bob kisses the side of your face.

“Try again.”

⸻

Second try, your left leg locks.

Only for a second.

But it holds.

Devon gasps. Leela beams.

“That’s it. You’re doing it. You’re up.”

You’re shaking so hard you might fall again.

Bob keeps one arm wrapped around your stomach, steadying you.

“One more second,” he whispers. “Just one.”

You hold for five.

Then drop.

He catches you like you’re made of starlight.

And kisses your temple over and over:

“I’m so proud of you. You just walked back to me.”

⸻

That night, you mouth four words:

“I want… more… steps.”

And he smiles.

“Then we’ll take them. Together.”

Your handwriting is messier now.

Shakier. Loopier. Still re-learning.

But it’s yours.

Bob finds the open notebook on your lap one afternoon, just before sunset, as you sleep curled under a blanket—finally strong enough to nap withoutmachines keeping time.

The bucket list page is full of fresh ink.

You’ve scratched out a few lines:

✘ “Go skydiving.”

✘ “Learn Italian.”

✘ “See the Eiffel Tower.”

In the margins, in crooked, soft pencil, you’ve added:

✔ “Come back from coma.”

✔ “Say Bobby’s name.”

✔ “Make him cry from joy.”

✔ “Walk to him.”

And then below, four new goals:

➤ “Kiss him in the ocean again.”

➤ “Thank the doctors.”

➤ “Go home.”

➤ “Stay alive.”

Bob covers his mouth with his hand.

His eyes blur.

“You did all of that,” he whispers. “You did everything.”

⸻

He stays like that for a while.

Quiet.

Holding your hand, listening to your breathing.

Until there’s a knock.

Low. Hesitant.

He turns, startled.

It’s Conrad.

⸻

“I can come back,” the doctor says. “Didn’t know she was sleeping.”

“It’s okay,” Bob says, voice rough. “She sleeps better now.”

Conrad walks in quietly.

Pauses at the edge of the bed.

He looks down at you like someone looking at a painting they thought had been lost.

⸻

“She’s healing fast now,” he murmurs. “Faster than any of us expected.”

Bob nods.

“She wants to go home.”

Conrad gives a small smile.

“We’ll get there.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Conrad pulls one of the visitor chairs closer, sits down, and does something he’s never done before:

He talks. Personally. Not clinically.

“I’ve had a lot of patients,” he starts. “Thousands, over the years. Some I remember. Most I don’t. There’s just… no time. No space to carry all of it.”

Bob watches him. Quiet.

Conrad’s voice gets softer.

“But I’ve never had someone stay this long. I’ve never had a patient who I had to check on every morning and night. Who I… worried about, not just charted.”

He looks at you again.

Sleeping so peacefully.

IV-free. Breathing without help. Bandages mostly gone. Scars softening.

“There were nights I didn’t think she was going to make it,” Conrad admits. “She came in too late. Too sick. I didn’t want to say it out loud, but every time I walked into this room, I thought: God, she’s not going to last through the week.”

Bob’s throat works hard.

But he says nothing.

Conrad’s hands tighten.

“I’m not sentimental. I don’t get sentimental. But she’s under my skin now. I watched her fight when her body gave her no reason to. I saw you—how you talked to her like she could hear you. Every day. For months.”

He breathes out hard.

“She didn’t just survive. She chose to. I think she stayed alive for you.”

Bob’s hand tightens around yours.

Conrad’s voice cracks—barely.

“You don’t know what it means, seeing her like this now. I don’t usually get to see it. I discharge them and move on. But you’ve both been here four months. And now she’s walking. She’s talking. And she’s writing new dreams.”

He gestures to the notebook Bob was holding.

“She rewrote the bucket list,” Bob says, voice raw. “The new version just says… Stay alive.”

Conrad covers his face for a second.

Like it’s too much.

“She’s the bravest patient I’ve ever had,” he finally says. “And you’re the only reason she’s still here.”

⸻

They sit like that for a long time.

Doctor and husband.

Two men who saw death knock and decided not to open the door.

⸻

When Conrad finally gets up to leave, he lays a hand gently on Bob’s shoulder.

“You should start packing,” he says. “We’re gonna be talking discharge soon.”

Bob’s breath hitches.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Conrad says, and glances at you one more time. “She earned it.”

⸻

Bob doesn’t move for a while.

Just watches you sleep.

The notebook still open.

His hand still holding yours.

And the newest line scribbled quietly at the bottom:

➤ “Grow old with him.”m

[organic-bloodbath]

Knife Princess - Part 10

Chishiya x Reader

Summary: You and Chishiya go to the doctor to get you diagnosed.

A/N: We're making progress. I truly don't know how long this series is going to be because i keep coming up with new ideas.

Chapters

♤♡♧◇

You sat in the hospital's waiting area with Chishiya, him sitting right next to you.

Your leg was bouncing fast out of anxiety and how nervous you were right now. Chishiya noticed it and gently laid his hand on your jean covered knee.

"It'll be alright," he tried to reassure quietly, though he couldn't help but have his heart racing faster than normal as well. You showed the anxiety taking control of you physically, but Chishiya tried his best to hide it deep inside of him, so you wouldn’t see how he truly felt about the situation you two were in.

"Ms. Suguru," a nurse announced. You swallowed and got up, glancing at Chishiya one last time who gave you a comforting nod.

The doctor took an MRI scan of your head, seeing if there was any sort of abnormalities in your brain.

As you were laying inside the massive machine tube, which name you had forgotten, you started to overthink immediately. You tried to stay calm and take deep breaths, telling yourself that it wouldn’t take long anymore, hoping being in this tight space wouldn’t cause a panic attack if this took longer than you had been prepared for it to take.

What if it was a tumor? Did tumors cause you to hallucinate? You didn't know anyone with a brain tumor or cancer so you weren't entirely aware of the possible symptoms. Maybe it was a tumor, and the doctor would tell you that you had four months left to live — at best.

Maybe you had inherited schizophrenia from your great-aunt and would be locked up in a mental hospital for the rest of your life. Your child would be bullied at school for their mother being lunatic and deranged. Maybe, maybe, maybe — there were so many maybes you couldn’t handle it if you had to wait for the result for too long.

“Shut up,” you quietly mumbled, trying to make your brain calm down, but didn’t succeed at it very well.

You felt like you were starting to suffocate, not knowing how long you had been inside the machine. It had probably been just a few minutes but it felt like hours. Heart beating almost painfully fast the more time passed, palms sweating and breath starting to tremble. You wanted to scream that you needed to get out but just then it was over and you were pulled out of the machine, as if the doctor had heard your panicked thoughts. You wouldn’t have been surprised if you had said words out loud which you thought you had managed to only keep inside your mind.

Chishiya took his turn in the scanner after you, letting you wait in the doctor's office. You had insisted to have an appointment together, since you had experienced the exact same thing. You needed someone on your side, someone who brought you comfort and managed to calm you down, to reduce the anxiety twisting inside your chest and stomach. And Chishiya was the person who could do all of that. Only his presence by your side brought enough comfort to let you relax. It felt as safe as when you had visited a doctor with your mother when you had been just a little kid — not that you’d compare Chishiya to your parent, no. He only awakened that same feeling of safety inside you.

Chishiya returned to the room with you sooner than you expected. Had it really taken you too that short time?

“Are you feeling alright?” Chishiya asked as he sat on the chair next to you.

“Mhm,” you mumbled and tried to smile, at least a little bit.

The doctor sat on his seat on the opposite side of the table. A small metal plate was attached to his white doctor’s coat with a name “Dr. Oshima” printed on it with black letters.

"Now, this is something I’m not sure i can explain very well," the doctor started, furrowing his eyebrows.

"What do you mean?" Chishiya asked.

"Well, you told me you had experienced quite realistic hallucinations, correct?" You just nodded your head when the doctor glanced at you. "I'd start inspecting on possible schizophrenia, psychosis or something similar and there are some signs pointing at psychosis, yes, but it's a little different than what I've seen before on patients with such disorders. However, I would cross schizophrenia out of the list, if you were concerned about that.”

Both you and Chishiya furrowed your eyebrows, confused what the doctor exactly meant. But you let out a relieved sigh out of your lungs.

“You told me that these hallucinations started soon after the meteorite attack, correct?” the doctor asked, which you confirmed. “It is possible that you experienced a serious brain injury from the accident. A traumatic brain injury can cause psychosis on a person, so I would say it’s the most plausible cause for your hallucinations with the information I have now.”

So, no tumor or schizophrenia? Just a brain injury?

“Have you experienced any other symptoms that could point at a brain injury?” he asked. “Such as persisting headache, confusion, loss of coordination, troubles on speech?”

“Well, I’ve gotten some headaches, but nothing else, really,” you explained, which Chishiya admitted suffering as well more often than usual.

“Hm. I see,” he mumbled. “Well, the symptoms vary a lot from person to person. I can prescribe you with one medication to see if the symptoms go away and book an appointment for you in, let's say, a month? To see if the medication has started to work."

"Um," you started nervously and held your stomach. "Is it safe for a baby? I'm pregnant."

You felt awkward asking about it next to Chishiya, realizing that you hadn't mentioned about the pregnancy to him. Or had you? You weren't sure anymore. Besides, did you even have any reason to tell him about it? You weren't obliged to do that, you hardly knew the man. You noticed how Chishiya glanced at you from the corner of your eye, but you ignored him.

"I'll write you a prescription for the type of medicine which is the safest to take during pregnancy," the doctor explained, a reassuring smile on his face.

He typed something on his computer.

"I'd like to arrange you a psychiatric meeting with me but my calendar is extremely full for the next few weeks," the doctor sighed. "I can see if my colleague has more space in her calendar but if not, we'll see in a month, alright? If anything urgent comes up, give me a call."

♤♡♧◇

None of you said a word while you walked down the hospital's corridors and out of the hospital, both of you deep in your thoughts.

You hadn't told Chishiya you were pregnant, no, but he did have a feeling that you were expecting a baby. He had heard your conversation at the hospital with Niragi, though only a small part of it, but he had heard a mention of you being pregnant. As he had gotten to know you better, the thought had slipped his mind but it was still rooted in some part of his brain.

There had been really no reason for you to tell about your pregnancy to Chishiya, it wasn’t any of his business, he knew that. But he couldn’t help but think if the father was around. Chishiya could only assume that he wasn’t, since the only person Chishiya had seen you around was your brother. Although, of course Chishiya didn’t know what you did during the day or where you went, you didn’t tell Chishiya about your every move. Maybe you did spend time with another guy. However, surely the man in question would have taken you in to live with him after your apartment got ruined by the meteorite and not leave you to be dependent on Niragi.

Imagining you with another man stung Chishiya’s heart for some odd reason. Stop it, her life is none of your business, Chishiya thought.

The doctor had actually confirmed that you were crazy, that something was wrong with your head. Of course you had been prepared to the worst but walking into a pharmacy to pick up a new medication for you was like a slap on the face. You had still expected to hear words like "oh, it's just stress it'll go away on its own if you keep up with healthy lifestyle, such as enough sleep and balanced meals." No. You had to start eating pills which you had never taken before.

"Do you want to grab something to eat?" Chishiya asked, not sure if you'd just want to go back home and be alone or if you wanted – or needed – some company. Chishiya wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he was the one who didn’t want to be alone at the moment, afraid of his brain starting to spiral and how there would be nobody to share the things he’d see or hear.

"I'm not really hungry," you said, even though you didn't remember the last time you had eaten.

"I've been with you for the past five hours," Chishiya pointed out. "You just think you're not hungry."

Now that you had confirmed to him that you were carrying a child, it was even a bigger reason to make you eat, even if you didn't feel like it.

"I'm fine, really," you groaned. "I'm sure you have something better to do anyway."

"I don't really," he shrugged. I just don't want to be alone right now because if i am, my brain won't shut up about things that don't exist and you make my mind calm down in some odd way, Chishiya thought but preferred to keep it inside his head. "I mean, we don't have to if you have something planned already."

"Well, i don't have anything, no," you admitted, feeling suddenly shy around him. Every time you had spent time with each other, you had just accidentally ended up together. He hadn't suggested or asked to hang out with you, previously you had just been forced to be in each other's company. Now he was asking to spend time with you just a little more? It made you feel all giddy and… wanted? "So, where would you take me?"

"What do you like to eat?" he asked.

"Anything, really," you shrugged.

The two of you ended up in a small place for some simple ramen, it was a place you had often went to and loved the cozy atmosphere, as well as the food there. You didn't care to go searching for any fancier restaurant, wanting just something quick and easy. This place was never packed full either.

“By the way, I’m moving out in a few days,” you revealed after a short silence, having called back to the real estate agent to accept the offer of the apartment you had gone to check out. “Found my own apartment.”

Chishiya was aware that you and Niragi living with Jae-sung had to be just a temporary solution but Chishiya still had an odd feeling inside him at the thought of you leaving. He had gotten used to having you one floor below him and having a chance of walking past you in the corridors or stairs at any moment he was leaving or going back to his own apartment. Having you live close to him. Now, he wouldn’t see you anymore.

“Oh, well. Congratulations,” he said, not sure what to say when someone moved into a new place. “Where are you moving?”

“You want to stalk me, huh?” you smirked.

“I’m not that obsessed with you, don’t worry.”

“Mhm. So, you admit you’re a little obsessed, hm?” you teased.

“You’re putting words into my mouth again,” he stated, not going to admit that he was growing quite fond of you day by day.

“That wasn’t a ‘no’.” You bit your lip, loving to tease him like that.

“I was only asking how afraid I have to be of bumping into you in a grocery store. Or if I have to change my schedule coming back home from work,” he explained and twirled the noodles on his plate with his chopsticks.

“Don’t worry, you can buy your groceries in peace and I’ll use different metro stops than you,” you replied. “It’s about half an hour walk from your place.”

So, at least you weren’t changing cities. Why did he care anyway? He didn’t, of course he didn’t. He’d be more than happy and relieved to get you out of the way and be able to live in peace. No, he wasn’t happy about that. Now if he wanted to keep seeing you, he’d have to call or text you. To ask for your phone number. Did you want to keep in touch with him or just move on with your life which didn’t include him?

“Chishiya?” you asked, startling Chishiya from his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“What were you thinking about? Zoning out like that,” you asked.

“Oh, nothing important,” Chishiya denied.

“It doesn’t have to be important, you know."

“It’s nothing, really."

“Alright,” you said, though feeling slightly suspicious of his behavior.

Both of you continued eating in comfortable silence for a moment, until Chishiya got the urge to break the silence.

"So, you think it's going to be a girl or a boy?" Chishiya asked, gaze at your stomach. He was a little unsure if you wanted to talk about it or not but he wanted to try. He wanted to know more about it, just a little bit.

"Oh, i don't think i'm that far yet to know," you chuckled.

"But what does your instinct say?" Chishiya asked, narrowing his eyes. "Mothers always have an instinct relating to their children. Or so i've heard."

"Well… i suppose a girl," you admitted. At first when you found out about being pregnant, your mind had been stuck on the option of abortion and how you wanted to get rid of the baby. But the more time passed, the better you had gotten used to the idea of having a child. You still got mixed feelings, of course you did, you weren’t exactly ready to become a mom but you couldn’t bring yourself to get an abortion either. You were scared and wished more than anything to have someone by your side as terrified as you. Niragi wasn’t the person for that or none of your friends either, not really, because they had no part in this pregnancy.

"Yeah?" Chishiya said, a little smile appearing on his face at the thought of you with a little girl.

You fell silent for a moment and put your chopsticks down on the plate, one question still bothering you.

"Um, this probably sounds stupid but…" you started, for a moment avoiding eye contact with Chishiya and swallowed a lump in your throat. "Are paternity tests 100% correct each time?"

Chishiya furrowed his eyebrows. "Yes, they are. Why?"

"Oh, i just, never mind," you mumbled, looking at your hands to avoid eye contact with him. Of course they were foolproof, what were you thinking.

"Everything okay?" he asked, though clearly seeing that something was worrying you.

You were unsure if you should start opening up to Chishiya, even though the more days passed it had started to become easier and easier to talk to him. You hadn't talked about this to anyone except Niragi and Takuro, and you hadn't exactly been opening up about a lot of details to them either. You hadn't talked about it to your friends either, you just didn't feel comfortable opening up to others easily. If you told about your pregnancy to your friends, they’d start going crazy excited and make you feel suffocated for all the attention you’d get. You weren’t ready for that.

If you told anyone that you didn't know who the father was, what kind of slut would that make you sound like? That would just sound like you were sleeping around with several men at once. Why would anyone believe you that you hadn't had sex with a man in months? That made it impossible to have a child growing inside you.

"Everything's fine," you assured, regretting that you had brought the subject up at all.

"Is the father in the picture?" Chishiya asked, feeling a sting in his heart that you'd already belong to someone else. It shouldn't be something that Chishiya would care about, it was none of his business, but he had an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach when he even thought about you in some other man's arms.

"No, he's not," you mumbled.

You wanted to tell someone that you didn't know the dad and to comfort you that there was a good explanation for that. Chishiya was as insane as you though — a damn doctor had confirmed it and put you on the same medication — so maybe he wouldn't think that you were a crazy slut. Right? Should you take the risk? Feel the relief of getting it out of your chest and have someone tell you that everything was going to be alright. That you'd find the answer soon. Help you to figure out what happened to you.

But was Chishiya the right person for that? You didn't exactly know each other well but there was this strange bond between the two of you which neither you or Chishiya could explain with words. The bond made sense in your head but if you had to explain it with words, you wouldn't be able to do that.

"Y/N?" Chishiya said when you had zoned out. You weren't sure if he had said something to you or if you had just floated in silence the entire time now.

"If i tell you something, promise me you won't think i'm even crazier than i've proved to be by far," you said, lowering your voice and having a much more serious expression on your face.

Chishiya only furrowed his eyebrows, growing both confused and curious. "Alright, I'll try."

"I… i don't exactly know who's the dad," you mumbled. That was something Chishiya hadn't entirely expected to hear. You saw the surprised expression on his face and had to continue before he’d reply anything. "And before you say anything, I'm not a whore.” You let out a deep sigh. “I… i haven't slept with anyone in months. I shouldn't even be pregnant."

Chishiya eyed you for a moment, glancing at your belly which had a slight bump already.

"The doctor has 100% confirmed that you're pregnant?" Chishiya asked. Maybe the doctor had misdiagnosed you, that happened sometimes, right?

"Yes," you replied. "You're a doctor. Is this, like, possible? To become pregnant out of nowhere?" Of course it wasn't.

“It’s not,” Chishiya replied, even though he knew you were already well aware of it.

Because you got me pregnant so you're supposed to do everything i tell you, you voice stated seriously.

Chishiya choke on his food, starting to cough violently, a few pieces of noodles flying back into his plate.

Your eyes widened. “Oh my god, are you okay?” You filled his glass with more water and handed it to him. He took the glass and when his coughs had calmed down, drank the water in one go.

“What did you say?” he asked, his throat sore.

“I asked if you’re okay,” you replied.

“No, uh, before that,” he continued, coughing one more time. His face had turned now red.

“Um, just that if it was possible to become pregnant just like that,” you answered.

He had imagined it. Just imagined it.

♤♡♧◇

You arrived back home, Chishiya stopping at your door when you were searching for the keys in your purse. The entire walk back to this building all kinds of thoughts were racing inside Chishiya’s mind which he wouldn’t be able to talk out with you. All the dreams, voices and illusions had felt so real, but how real actually were they?

"Um, can i ask you something?" Chishiya asked, making you look at him. "Are you allergic to anything?"

You furrowed your eyebrows. "Why do you ask that?" Then, your eyes lit up, a playful grin spreading on your face. "Chishiya, are you planning to take me on a dinner, hm?"

"No, no i," Chishiya stuttered. "I didn't plan anything, like that, but… are you? Allergic to something?"

"Well, for peanuts, yeah," you answered and shrugged.

"I see," he mumbled, his behavior making you narrow your eyes.

"That all?" you asked.

"Yep, that's all," Chishiya replied.

You gave him one last weird look and closed the door behind you.

As you entered inside, Niragi was leaning against the wall a few metres away from the front door, arms crossed against his chest as he looked at you. Like he was a mom waiting her teenage kid to come back home late way over her curfew, ready to teach a lesson for not respecting the household's rules.

You rolled your eyes. "What?"

"What's up with you and that guy?" Niragi asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Are you stalking me now?" you scoffed.

"Just happened to see you together at the hospital," he said and shrugged. “Holding hands and all.”

"The fuck were you at the hospital for?" you asked.

He showed you his hand, bandages around his wrist. "Broke my hand.”

"Do i want to know why?"

"Probably not." He shrugged. "So, why were you there? You don't look ill or have broken bones?" He narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Was it some baby stuff and he’s the dad?”

“He’s not the dad,” you groaned. You sighed and pinched your nose, closing your eyes for a second. "I got my head scanned, alright.”

He was silent for a moment. So, you really weren’t kidding about going to see a doctor. But why would you go there with your neighbor? And not with Niragi, for instance?

"What did they say?" he asked.

"Got me antipsychotics."

"I see," Niragi mumbled. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Maybe later,” you answered, now just wanting to be by yourself for a moment.

♤♡♧◇

Peanut allergy was one of the most common allergies, of course Chishiya knew that, but that didn't help the fact that the dream he experienced started to freak him out even more.

Chishiya was curious about what kind of dreams you had experienced, surely there were others which you hadn’t revealed to him. He remember all of the dreams about you. How he had held you close to him, touching every inch of you and done things which Chishiya hadn’t done to a woman in a long time. How he had made love to you. He could never tell you about those sort of thoughts, definitely creeping you out if you hadn’t experienced anything even close to that.

He had been correct on you having a peanut allergy, which made his mind linger in one another thing.

What kind of fucked up thought would it be if i was the father of your child, even though I've never actually slept with you? Otherwise than in my dreams, that is. You had been unsure about the father anyway.

Chishiya needed to start taking his medication this instant, starting to already think something even more insane like this.

"Jesus christ you're losing it," Chishiya mumbled and looked at the pills he had gotten from the pharmacy.

♤♡♧◇

After you and Chishiya had left the hospital, doctor Oshima kept sitting on his chair for a little while longer, staring at the MRI pictures of your brain. Both of your brains, trying to figure out what the specific diagnosis could be. They looked almost exactly same, it could have easily been two scans of one person’s brain but it wasn’t. He hadn’t seen anything like this before. Sure, it pointed to psychosis but there was something different compared to other patients with psychosis.

Then, he heard a knock on the door, his colleague's head peeking inside when he had yelled a sign for her to come inside.

"Did you print the documents for the patient in the morning?" his colleague, doctor Kisaragi, asked.

"Oh, yes. I have them right here," doctor Oshima said and handed them to her.

"Thanks, i'll get back home after checking these in."

"Hey, hold on," Oshima interrupted, making her stop. "Could you look at these MRI scans?" He handed the scans to her. "Two patients came in for suffering from hallucinations. What do you think that is?"

She furrowed her eyebrows, looking at the scans for a moment until her face went pale.

No, it couldn't be.

She had seen these sort of scans before. Once, 12 years ago. Two people had come to her office, just like you and Chishiya, claiming to suffer from severe hallucinations, them starting one day out of nowhere. A lot of time had passed, but doctor Kisaragi still remembered those MRI scans like it was yesterday.

Not only the scans, but also what eventually had happened to the two patients.

"Looks like psychosis,” she confirmed, looking back towards Oshima. “What did you prescribe to them?"

"Antipsychotics."

She knew the medication wasn't going to work more than make the illusions appear less often, at least at first. It would make them feel slightly less real, but they weren't going to completely disappear with antipsychotics alone.

If this was what she thought it was. Surely it had to be something else.

But if this was what she suspected… She had to help you. It felt almost like fate that you walked to her colleague's office, just like that, and she to the doctor Oshima’s office that same day. She would help you better than she had the last two people. Last time had ended up in a tragedy, but now she'd have a new chance.

"Could you make a call and book an appointment for me with them?" doctor Kisaragi asked. "I'd like to have a talk."

She needed to interview you, to hear what had happened to you in the Borderlands. What was the root of these hallucinations.

After all, she was a former Borderlands citizen.

♤♡♧◇

A/N: Hope i didn't forget to tag anyone <3

Tags:

@28361573

@audiiix

@valexqpt

@aemondsb1tch

@queenofviolenceandnerds

@moonchild323232

@lizxoxeth

@crazzzyyyy

@kimsrie

@tinyminxie

@potato-vagina

[mint-swirl]

former TSA agent getting a new job running MRI machines who tells white tme patients they don’t need a scan and demands everyone else get one even if they don’t have actual appointments and are just there with family

[riveroaksmri]

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[angryschnauzer]

Hubby had his final clinic appointment today. I was so fucking anxious, i was sure they would have found regrowth of the brain tumour or that his bloods wouldn't be good enough for the final round of chemo, but i was proven wrong thankfully.

No regrowth. Blood platelets high enough for his final round of chemo. He's been given the all clear to fly so we can look at going on holiday in October to Malta.

Going forwards he will have MRI scans every two to three months for the rest of his life, and there is a 95% chance the cancer will come back at some point in the next five years. But for now, we are in the clear.

I'm not celebrating just yet, but my anxiety has dropped considerably.

[begitalarcos]

Hey guys

I thought I would give you a little update on what's going on with my health stuff. I had my 3 month follow up appointment with my neurosurgeon on Monday, and it turns out I have re-herniated the L5 disc in my back and now the L4 disc is slightly herniated there’s also nerve encasement from scar tissue and a whole bunch of other horrendous stuff I have to deal with.

This news was fairly upsetting since early January I was told to “Tough it out” and then asked in this meeting why I did that and never called him… apparently he received additional MRI info from my scan (they injected a dye which takes clearer nerve images) that didn’t show up till February some time, he had called or faxed this info to my family doctor but no one ever called me. Also when I called my family doctor about it later in the day he had no copy of this new info and no fax/email was found either. So f*ck me I guess right?

So I'll be needing surgery again, and at this point we (my dr & I) have discussed and decided that the best course of action is a spinal fusion. Not exactly thrilled about it (my husband had a bit of a breakdown and my mom thinks I should be suing someone) but it’s likely the best course of action considering what's going on right now. Additionally, I also have irreparable nerve damage… because I’ve been “toughing it out” and in doing so - have made things worse. The numbness in my left leg has spread to my heel and my kneecap so walking is not only difficult now, it’s also very very painful.

On top of that I was diagnosed with clinical depression (again) and the new meds I was on gave me crazy heartburn, insomnia and hot flashes. So now my therapist has me doing a full detox. It’s gonna be hell in my head for awhile 😞😮‍💨😔

I really want to thank everyone who has sent me messages, texts and letters even and all the incredible support from people who have donated to my GoFundMe as it has been a very anxious and stressful time for me and also our financial situation is not great as I'm sure you all know by now.

I do hope that with this surgery it will help me be somewhat pain-free again at some point. I really really hope so… I’m trying to remain optimistic.

It hasn't been scheduled yet but my surgeon is trying to get it rushed to have it done ASAP, so likely this or next month. Not really sure what’s gonna happen but hopefully it all turns out well.

Much love

- B

I included my GoFundMe link if anyone is able to help out - even just to reblog. 💚❤️💚