Chapter 268 Side story chapter 4(The Pattern)
GENESIS
“I assure you, Mrs. Blackwood,” the doctor said, flipping through the chart one last time before closing it with a soft snap, “this is nothing more than the flu that’s been going around. His vitals are stable, no signs of pneumonia or secondary infection. The vomiting was most likely from the high fever and dehydration—he’s not keeping anything down, so his stomach is rebelling. We’ve given him fluids here, and as long as he stays hydrated at home, he should turn the corner in a few days.”
I stared at him, arms crossed tight over my chest like I could physically hold myself together.
“Are you sure that's all, he was shaking pretty bad?” I pressed.
The doctor sighed exasperated, but not unkind. He leaned back against the counter in the small exam room.
“High fevers in adults can cause rigors, shaking chills. It’s the body’s way of trying to raise its temperature even higher to kill the virus. The vomiting is common with sudden spikes. He’s not eating, not drinking enough, so his electrolytes are off. That’s why he’s weak and dizzy. But again—no red flags for anything worse.”
I wasn’t convinced.
“Should he stay here? For monitoring? Just overnight? I can stay with him….”
Kieran, propped on the exam table in nothing but a hospital gown and his sweatpants, cut me off with a rough laugh that turned into a cough.
“Hell no.”
The doctor smiled faintly.
“That’s not necessary, Mrs. Blackwood. We’d only keep him if his oxygen dropped, if the fever didn’t respond to medication, or if he became delirious. Right now he’s responding to ibuprofen and fluids. Take him home, keep him hydrated—small sips of electrolyte drinks, ice chips if he can’t handle more. Acetaminophen every six hours for fever. Call us if the fever goes above 103°F and stays there, or if he gets confused, has chest pain, or can’t keep anything down for another 24 hours.”
I exhaled slowly.
“Okay.”
Kieran reached for my hand. His palm was hot, clammy.
“I’m fine, princess,” he said again, softer this time. “Promise.”
I squeezed his fingers.
“You’re not fine. You look pale and blotchy. But okay. Let’s go home.”
They discharged him with a paper bag of prescriptions—antiviral, anti-nausea, more fever reducers. I filled them at the pharmacy downstairs while Kieran waited in the car, head tipped back, eyes closed.
The drive home was quiet except for his shallow breathing.
He tried once.
“I told you I’m fine.”
I glanced at him.
“You’re not looking fine to me.”
He huffed a weak laugh.
“I’ll be fine.”
We got home.
I helped him inside, arm around his waist, his weight leaning heavy on me. He tried to walk straight, stubborn as ever, but his legs wobbled twice on the stairs. I didn’t say anything. Just held tighter.
I got him to bed, eased him down onto the pillows, pulled the blanket over him. He looked smaller somehow, gaunt cheeks, dark circles, hair damp with sweat.
I kissed his forehead, it was too hot and went to the kitchen.
Chicken broth. Crackers. Electrolyte drink. A cool cloth for his neck.
I brought the tray back, sat on the edge of the bed.
“Small sips,” I said, lifting the cup to his lips.
He managed a few swallows, then shook his head.
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not,” I whispered. “But you will be.”
I gave him the pills and he swallowed obediently, eyes half-closed.
I left him to rest and went downstairs to clean up the mess from earlier. I moved on autopilot
Every ten minutes I crept back upstairs.
He was sleeping, fitful, and restless, but breathing.
I stood in the doorway and watched his chest rise and fall until I was sure.
Then back down.
Time blurred.
I picked up the kids at 3:30 aside from daisy who was at soccer practice.
“Daddy’s home,” I said quietly in the car on the way back. “He’s not feeling well, so we need to be extra quiet today. No yelling, no running in the house. Okay?”
Three small heads nodded solemnly.
When we got home, they dropped their backpacks in the hall (I reminded them to take them upstairs later), then tiptoed to the bedroom door.
Izzy pressed her face to the crack.
“Daddy?” she whispered.
Kieran stirred, cracked one eye open.
“Hey, princess,” he croaked.
Izzy beamed. Dash stared with big eyes and Mitchell waved.
I pulled them back gently.
“Let Daddy rest. You can see him later.”
They nodded and scampered off to play quietly in the living room.
Hours passed.
I made dinner, plain rice and boiled chicken for him, and pasta for the kids. I fed him small spoonfuls in bed while the kids ate at the table. He managed half a bowl before pushing it away.
Then night fell.
I cleaned him up—warm cloth on his face, chest, arms. He was too weak to stand for the shower, so I helped him sit on the edge of the tub, sponged him down like he was one of the kids. He didn’t protest. Just leaned against me, eyes closed.
I changed the sheets again. Got him fresh pajamas and tucked him in.
Then I crawled beside him, wrapped my arms around his burning body, pressed my cheek to his back.
Tears slipped out silently, soaking into his shirt.
He felt it.
“Baby,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Please don’t cry.”
“You’re not getting better,” I whispered against his shoulder.
“I will.” He found my hand, and squeezed it weakly. “Go to sleep. When you wake up, I’ll be fine.”
I didn’t believe him.
But I closed my eyes anyway.
And tried to breathe.
In the middle of the night maybe 2 a.m. I woke to incredible heat.
He was boiling.
Sweat soaked the sheets. His skin was flushed dark pink, tiny red dots scattered across his face and neck like a rash. He was shaking—violent tremors—and his breathing was fast, shallow, almost panting.
“Kieran?” I sat up fast. “Baby…Kieran, what’s going on?”
He couldn’t answer.
His eyes were open but unfocused.
Lips parted but o words.
Panic clawed up my throat.
I pressed the back of my hand to his forehead, it was scorching.
I checked his chest, red dots everywhere now, spreading down his arms.
I turned on the lamp.
“Kieran—baby, stay with me.”
He groaned but didn’t move.
I stayed up the rest of the night.
Cool clothes on his forehead, neck, wrists.
Ice packs wrapped in towels.
Small sips of water he couldn’t swallow.
I talked to him the whole time, terrified beyond imagination.
“You promised,” I whispered, tears falling onto his chest. “You said you’d be fine when I woke up.”
He didn’t answer.
But his hand twitched toward mine and I held on.
Before the sun could truly come up, I was already on the phone.
“Zarina…… I need you. He’s worse. I can’t leave the kids alone and I have to get him back to the hospital. Please.”
They didn’t hesitate.
“I’m on my way,” Zarina said.
“Me too,” Cady added. “We’ll be there in twenty.”
They arrived in fifteen.
Zarina took one look at Kieran, pale, shaking, rash spreading and went straight to the twins’ room to get them dressed and fed. Cady went for Mitchell and Daisy, murmuring soft reassurances while I helped Kieran stand.
He could barely walk.
I half-carried him to the car, heart in my throat.
The ER was quiet that early. They took him immediately.
I sat in the waiting room, hands shaking, until the same doctor from yesterday came out.
“Mrs. Blackwood,” he said, brow furrowed. “We ran more tests. Blood work, chest X-ray, fluids again. But… I’m confused. Did he take the medications exactly as prescribed?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Every dose. I watched him swallow them.”
“What did you feed him?”
“Broth. Crackers. Electrolyte drink. Small sips. He couldn’t keep much down.”
The doctor rubbed his temple.
“We’ll need to keep him for observation. He’s unconscious now—fever’s back up to 104°F, rash is spreading. We don’t know what’s triggering this relapse. Go home, rest. We’ll call with updates.”
I shook my head hard.
“I can’t leave him.”
“Ma’am, you have children at home. He’s stable for now. We’re monitoring him closely. Go be with them.”
I begged, tears pouring down my face.
“Please… just tell me he’ll be okay.”
The doctor’s face softened.
“We’re doing everything we can.”
I left and went home, I felt numb.
Zarina and Cady stayed with the kids while I paced, checking my phone every thirty seconds.
The next day I came back.
Kieran was awake—pale but alert, sitting up, smiling weakly when he saw me.
“Hey, princess.”
I burst into tears and climbed onto the bed beside him, careful of the IV.
“You look better,” I whispered.
“I feel better,” he lied.
I stayed all afternoon, holding his hand, reading to him from my phone, telling him about the twins fighting over crayons that morning.
When my stomach growled, he kissed my knuckles.
“Go get something to eat. I’m fine.”
I hesitated.
“I’ll be right back.”
I went to the cafeteria.
Got two coffees.
When I came back…
He was pale again.
The rash was darker, red dots everywhere, face flushed, breathing shallow.
I dropped the cupcake I had gotten.
“Nurse!”
They rushed in.
Monitors beeped wildly.
They ushered me out.
“He was fine,” I kept saying. “He was talking.”
“We’re monitoring him,” they said. “Go home. We’ll call.”
The same thing happened the next day.
I came in the morning, he was sitting up, joking weakly, kissing my forehead.
I left for twenty minutes, to get him fresh water, and to breathe.
When I came back…
Pale. Rash blooming. Shaking and Unresponsive.
They made me leave again.
By the third day I was a wreck.
I walked into the hospital hallway, heart hammering.
The doctor met me before I could reach Kieran’s room.
“Mrs. Blackwood,” he said quietly. “Can we talk in my office?”
My stomach dropped.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please tell me nothing’s wrong.”
He closed the door behind us.
He looked uncomfortable.
“We’ve been monitoring him closely,” he started. “And we’ve noticed a pattern. Every time you come to see him… that’s when the reaction happens.”
I stared.
“What?”
He sighed.
“The fever spike, the rash, the drop in vitals—it correlates exactly with your visits. When you’re here, his body reacts. When you leave… he stabilizes.”
My mouth went dry.
“Are you saying… I’m the cause?”
He hesitated.
“I’m saying we’ve ruled out infection, drug reaction, environmental factors. The timing is too precise. It’s possible he’s having an allergic or anaphylactoid reaction to…..” he trailed off
I laughed.
“That’s impossible. He’s my husband. We’ve been together for years. We have children together.”
“I know,” the doctor said gently. “But the body can develop sudden sensitivities. Especially after severe illness or stress. We need to run more tests, skin exposure, blood samples while you’re in the room, controlled separation….”
I stood up so fast the chair scraped.
“No,” I whispered. “No. You’re wrong.”
He reached out.
“Mrs. Blackwood…”
I backed away.
“My husband is not allergic to me?”