Chapter Twenty-Six
There are clouds in my mother’s lungs.
Dr. Nguyen and I are bent over his iPad in the hallway, looking at the X-rays, while my father paces behind us.
“This was yesterday,” Dr. Nguyen says. “And this is today.” He swipes on the tablet, bringing up the most recent image, which shows a sprawling fog of white along my mother’s lower left lung. “My best guess is that there was some aspiration into her lungs when we were suctioning her stomach. It’s not an uncommon complication in these scenarios. Unfortunately, I’m not seeing the response I’d like after three days of antibiotics.”
I run my hand over my mouth. Not seeing the response I’d like is a polite way to frame the state of the woman in the room behind us.
“See, I’m looking at this effusion in the lungs and I
