Chapter 153 You're the Fucking Baldie!

Chapter 153 You're the Fucking Baldie!
The door suddenly burst open with such force it slammed against the wall. Jasmine rushed in, her face streaked with tears, Megan right behind her.

"Emma!" Jasmine screamed, pushing past me to reach the bed. "Emma, please wake up!"

Megan collapsed on the opposite side, grabbing Emma's other hand. Both women broke into uncontrollable sobs at the sight of their friend lying motionless, her head wrapped in bandages.

Nick and Jackson appeared in the doorway, their expressions shifting from worry to shock as they took in Emma's condition.

"What the hell happened to her?" Nick asked, his voice cracking. He looked at me, then at the doctors who had entered behind him.

"We were just discussing Emma's condition," Neil replied. "She's shown no signs of consciousness for days now. I'm afraid she's entered what we would classify as a vegetative state."

The word "vegetative" hit like a physical blow. Jasmine let out a guttural cry and began shaking Emma's shoulders.

"Goddamnit, Emma! Wake up!" she screamed, her voice breaking. "You can't do this to us! Wake the fuck up!"

Megan fell to her knees beside the bed, sobbing uncontrollably. "Emma, I swear I'll do anything you want. You want my Louboutins? You want me to go surfing with you every day? Just please, please wake up."

I stood frozen, their raw grief reflecting my own internal agony. Before I could intervene, the door opened again. Warren and Eleanor entered, supporting Richard and Mrs. North between them. Michael followed, still wearing his doctor's coat.

Richard approached the bed slowly, as if walking through quicksand. He took Emma's hand in his trembling one.

"My little girl," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It's time to wake up now, sweetheart. Dad's here."

Mrs. North gently stroked Emma's cheek, tears streaming silently down her face.

Michael pushed forward. "Emma!" His voice broke. "I'll quit medicine. I'll come home and take over the family business. Just wake up, okay? Please wake up."

The weight of collective grief was suffocating.

Eleanor's voice suddenly cut through the emotional fog, sharp and clear.

"Who shaved Emma's head?" she demanded, staring at the bandages. "My daughter had beautiful golden hair. Where is it now?"

Everyone turned to her, startled by the abrupt change in focus.

"Look at her," Eleanor continued, gesturing dismissively. "She looks hideous as a baldie."

The heart monitor suddenly began beeping rapidly. Neil, Joseph, Megan, and Michael simultaneously rushed to check the machine, watching as Emma's heartbeat spiked dramatically.

Then came the sound we all dreaded—a single, continuous tone as the line on the monitor went flat.

"She's flatlined!" Neil shouted.

"Starting CPR!" Joseph moved into action, beginning chest compressions while Neil grabbed the defibrillator.

Megan and Michael jumped in to assist, working with the precision of trained medical professionals. I stood paralyzed, unable to breathe as I watched them fighting for Emma's life.

Through it all, Eleanor remained eerily calm at the foot of the bed.

"If you dare die because your head was shaved," she said loudly, "I'll make sure they engrave that on your tombstone. 'Here lies Emma North Sterling: Died because she couldn't handle being bald.' Not many get that as their epitaph."

I wanted to scream at her to shut up, but before I could, the monitor beeped once, then again. The flat line began to show peaks and valleys. Joseph and Neil stepped back, relief washing over their faces.

"Her heart's beating again," Joseph confirmed, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Neil looked down at Emma, his professional demeanor slipping. "She does look terrible without hair," he said matter-of-factly. "In the operating room, after we shaved her head, we threw her hair straight into the medical waste bag."

He glanced at the monitors before continuing. "If she stays like this much longer, the hair follicles will eventually die completely. She'll never grow hair again."

"She'll be a baldie forever," Neil added bluntly.

The heart monitor began beeping erratically again, heart rate spiking dangerously high. Everyone tensed, preparing for another cardiac event.

Then, with a suddenness that made us all jump, Emma's eyes flew open. With unexpected strength, she ripped the oxygen mask from her face and hurled it across the room.

"You're the fucking baldie!" she shouted at Neil, her voice hoarse but unmistakably Emma's.

The room froze in stunned silence. Before anyone could react, Emma's eyes fluttered closed again, and she went still.

I lunged forward, but Neil and Joseph were already checking her vitals, running tests, and examining her responses. After what felt like an eternity, they exchanged bewildered glances.

"I can't explain this medically," Neil finally said, "but her chances of remaining a vegetative state have just dropped from ninety-five percent to zero."

"According to her vital signs," Joseph added, "she's simply sleeping now. That surgery was major, and that outburst used every ounce of energy she had. She's in a state of extreme exhaustion."

"She's alive?" Eleanor asked, though the answer was obvious.

"Very much alive," Neil confirmed. "She was awake—briefly—and she'll wake again."

Neil explained to the North family everything that had happened from Emma's diagnosis through the surgery and the complications with anesthesia.

"You should have called me immediately," Eleanor said calmly. "My mother had the same resistance to anesthesia during her surgery years ago. She showed the exact same symptoms afterward—wouldn't wake up."

"How did she eventually wake up?" Warren asked, confusion evident in his voice.

"My grandmother slapped her twice," Eleanor replied matter-of-factly. "Then told her that her face was swollen, making her look fat and ugly." She shrugged. "She woke up almost immediately."

Eleanor glanced at Emma's sleeping form. "I wasn't sure what would work with Emma. I was prepared to slap her if the verbal provocation didn't work."

---

Over the following days, Emma remained in deep sleep. After her brief awakening and outburst, she showed no further signs of consciousness. The North family, assured that she was no longer in danger of remaining a vegetative state, returned to America.

I resumed my vigil at her bedside, dividing my time between watching over her and managing company affairs on my laptop.

Neil and Joseph, after further examination, concluded that Emma's physiology defied normal medical parameters. They decided to let her wake naturally, removing the ventilator and inserting a feeding tube instead. They provided her with nutrition, performed physical therapy to prevent muscle atrophy, and abandoned all other treatments.

During the two weeks of Emma's continued unconsciousness, her shaved head began to show the slightest growth of new hair. The surgical incision was healing well. In a way, Emma had avoided the most painful part of recovery through her prolonged sleep.

Jasmine and Megan visited daily, trying everything from gentle conversations to outright calling her a 'baldie' to provoke a reaction. Despite their efforts, Emma remained unresponsive.