"Complication?" The word falls from my lips in an unrecognizable voice.

"Your wife seems to be experiencing a prolonged delay of consciousness following surgery."

"She's not waking up?" My eyes move down the hall behind him to the closed doors they wheeled Ivy through. "But... she's okay? You said she was responsive earlier. You told me—"

"This can be a rare complication of anesthesia," he tells me. “There are cases when this happens without much of an explanation...”

His voice begins to fade as he rattles off rehearsed lines about post-op recovery times, organic and metabolic causes of delayed consciousness, non-traumatic causes for comatose patients. The words all start to blend, and I can't follow any of them. It’s too much to process, and there’s only one thing I know for certain.

"Take me to her," I order. "I need to see her. I’m going now, with or without you."

He hesitates and then offers a solemn nod.

32

Santiago

The steady beeping of the monitors in Ivy's room are the only solace I have in the darkness. Those rhythms mean, in some capacity, she's still here. She's still inside her body, even if she's not awake.

It's been three days since the surgery, and she's been transferred to the ICU, where they continue to run tests. Every doctor who arrives inevitably leaves without any answers, offering the name of another colleague who might be able to help. I send for all of them. A constant parade of elite medical professionals come and go without results. There are no concrete answers, only estimations.

Some tell me it's a complication of the anesthesia. Others insist it must be metabolic in nature. One recklessly began to suggest that it was psychogenic, a state of distress so rare the body shuts itself down. They run countless blood tests and imaging scans, interrogating me about any pre-existing conditions or medications she may have taken that day. They are all looking for something, but it's become clear they don't know what it is.

Her brain scans have revealed no permanent damage. No swelling. Her spinal cord is intact. But with every passing hour, I'm beginning to lose hope that anyone can help her.

Between the influx of specialists and nurses, I take to my phone to search for potential causes myself. I read case studies about prolonged comas with unknown causes, deep-diving into the bizarre and unusual. It becomes clear the more that I read, and the longer Ivy takes to wake up on her own, the dimmer her chances are.