Part 2: The Coldness of Blood
The intensive care unit at Oakwood Memorial Hospital smelled of antiseptic and ozone. Evelyn was hooked to three different IV lines, the monitors rhythmically ticking away her fading vital signs. The teratoma had begun to bleed into her peritoneal cavity, causing her abdomen to distend even further, mimicking a full-term pregnancy in the most twisted, lethal way possible.
Outside her glass-walled room, her three children gathered around a small coffee table in the waiting area. They weren't discussing the surgeon’s impending prognosis; they were looking at a digital real estate app on Peter's phone.
"The house on Cedar Street is worth at least $450,000 in the current market," Peter said under his breath, his eyes darting toward the ICU doors. "If she goes into surgery and doesn't make it out, the estate defaults to the three of us equally. But if she survives and needs long-term care, that house will be eaten up by medical bills and nursing home costs."
"He’s right," Jessica whispered, adjusting her designer handbag. "We need to find out if she updated her will after Dad died. Remember how she started talking about leaving everything to a community fund because we 'don't visit enough'? If she signed anything while she was having this 'pregnancy' delusion, we can easily declare her mentally incompetent."
Thomas sat on the edge of the couch, chewing his thumbnail. "Guys, she’s literally dying in the next room. Isn't this a little... dark?"
"Oh, shut up, Thomas," Jessica snapped. "Who paid for your car insurance last month? Who covers your rent when your little streaming gig fails? Mom does, with Dad's old pension. If that money dries up because of a tumor, we’re all screwed. We need to be practical."
Inside the room, Evelyn wasn't fully unconscious. The heavy doses of pain medication dulled the agony in her abdomen, but her mind remained sharp, trapped in a fragile body. The walls were thin, and the glass door wasn't fully sealed. She heard snippets of their conversation—words like estate, power of attorney, incompetent, and Cedar Street.
A tear slipped down her temple, soaking into the thin hospital pillow. She remembered holding Jessica for the first time, teaching Peter how to ride a bike, staying up all night comforting Thomas when he had asthma attacks as a toddler. She had poured her youth, her health, and her love into them. And now, they were standing outside her deathbed, dividing her corpse like vultures.
Dr. Jonathan Vance, the chief surgical oncologist, walked into the waiting room, holding a tablet displaying a 3D contrast CT scan of Evelyn’s abdomen.
"Are you the Ross family?" Dr. Vance asked, his tone crisp and professional.
"Yes, I'm Peter, the eldest son. This is my sister Jessica and brother Thomas," Peter said, putting on a sudden, theatrical expression of grief. "How is our poor mother, Doctor? Is it... terminal?"
Dr. Vance looked at Peter over the rim of his glasses, his experienced eyes reading the superficiality of the man's expression instantly. "The tumor is a mature teratoma, but it has reached a gargantuan size—nearly fifteen pounds. It has attached itself to the broad ligament of the uterus and is drawing a massive blood supply directly from the internal iliac artery. It has begun to rupture. If we don't operate within the next twelve hours, she will die of internal exsanguination."
"And the survival rate for a woman of her age in this condition?" Jessica asked, leaning in.
"With surgery? Around forty percent due to the blood loss and her frail state," Dr. Vance said honestly. "Without surgery? Zero."
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Peter and Jessica exchanged a split-second glance. It was a look of silent, mutual calculation that did not escape Dr. Vance's notice.
"We need to think about this," Peter said smoothly. "We don't want our mother to suffer needlessly on an operating table if the odds are against her. Perhaps palliative comfort care is the more... humane choice."
