“Like clockwork.”
“Getting rest?”
“Eight hours a night.” With a handful of exceptions.
“Eating well? Lots of plants, monounsaturated fats, and lean proteins?”
I nod. Sweets have never been my weakness.
“Any new stressors in your life recently?” she asks.
I shake my head. I don’t tell her about Honor because I know what she’ll say, and it won’t be anything I haven’t already considered.
“Cutting back on your work hours?” She studies my face like she’s ready to call me out. “Last time you were here, you said you were putting in seventy, sometimes eighty hours a week.”
“Certain things are beyond my control.”
“Ever heard of delegating?” She washes her hands.
“Clearly you haven’t met the staff I inherited from my father.”
Returning to my side, she adjusts her glasses. “Look, Bennett. Either you can do things my way, add some quality years to your life and keep that borrowed heart of yours ticking … or you can continue making excuses and wind up right back where you started, waiting for someone else to die so you can continue living this life which you so clearly take for granted.”
My post-transplant months flash through my head like a bad highlight reel. A laundry list of nurses and caregivers doting on me around the clock for months, cardiac rehab, biopsies, and never-ending appointments.
I’d never felt so weak, so helpless.
And I vowed to never feel that way again.
Dr. Kay Rathburn is one of the best cardiovascular surgeons in the nation.
She’s also a straight shooter.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” she says, “but I think we need to admit you. Do a biopsy of your heart tissue, make sure there’s no infection or inflammation.”
I check my watch. I’m supposed to meet Astaire for dinner in an hour.
“Don’t worry about whatever it is you’re worrying about right now. It can’t wait. It’s imperative that we …” The room begins to darken and Dr. Rathburn’s voice fades into nothing.
And the world around me goes black.
25
Astaire
I knock on his door at a quarter past five Wednesday night, juggling an overflowing brown paper grocery bag in one arm as my bag dangles off my opposite shoulder. The whole thing was his idea—cooking dinner together at his place.
He mentioned he wasn’t in the mood to go out, that he wanted a quiet night in.
It’s silent on the other side.
No music. No footsteps.
I knock again. Wait.
“Bennett?” I push my voice through the door and knock a third time before placing my things on the floor and calling him. Five rings later, I get his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. I’m at your place … maybe you got stuck in traffic? Anyway, just wanted you to know I’m here.”
Leaning against the wall, I kill some time on my phone, pulling up every app I can think of to burn off a few minutes while I wait. But when ten minutes turns into fifteen and fifteen turns into twenty, I decide to call him again.
Five rings.
Voicemail.
“Hey … I’m thinking you got caught up at work, so I’m just going to raincheck tonight. If you get this in the next couple of minutes, call me. If not … we’ll figure something out for another time.” I end the call, shove my phone in my bag, and grab the grocery sack, taking my time shuffling back to the elevator.
I order an Uber when I get to the lobby, and by the time it arrives five minutes later, I still haven’t heard from him.
I’m sure whatever it is, there’s a perfectly good explanation.
26
Bennett
“It appears you came here in the early onset of a humoral rejection,” Dr. Rathburn stands at the side of my bed, clipboard in hand, a nurse flitting around the room.
I have no recollection of getting from the examination room to this hospital bed—nor do I know who dressed me in this flower-covered flannel gown. The sky is pitch black outside. For all I know, I’ve been out for a couple of hours … or a couple of days.
“Do you have my phone?” My thoughts go immediately to Astaire.
“Bennett, did you hear what I said?” Dr. Rathburn’s tone is firmer than it was a second ago, each syllable accented. “Your body is rejecting your donor heart.”
I sit up. “I thought you said once we made it past the one-year mark, it’d be statistically rare for that to happen.”
“Statistically, Bennett. There are always exceptions. And those numbers were based on acute cellular rejections. Humoral rejections can happen months or years after transplant. Essentially what is happening is that your body is producing antibodies that are injuring your blood vessels—specifically the ones going to your heart. This likely accounts for the lightheadedness you’ve been having and also why you passed out in the exam room.”
“Okay, so what now?”
“We’re going to run a treatment on your blood to filter the antibodies, then we’ll put you on a steroid for the short term. Increase one of your antirejection medicines. If we can’t get this under control, we might be looking at open-heart surgery down the road, but we’re not to that point yet.”
“All right.” I readjust, trying to get comfortable in an impossibly uncomfortable hospital bed. “Nurse, do you know where my personal belongings are?”
“Bennett, I’m going to need you to take my guidelines seriously. Plenty of sleep. Good nutrition. Minimal stress. A few weeks off work to take it easy and then no more than forty hours a week at the office once you’re back. Live more. Work less. Do the things that make you truly happy and leave the rest. I’m going to do my part to ensure you have the longest, healthiest life possible—but you have to do your part, too.”
The nurse behind her places a clear plastic bag on my tray table, my name scribbled on the label. Inside are my keys, cell phone, and wallet. I’d ask where the hell my clothes are, but I don’t want to get yelled at again.
“Is there anyone we should call for you?” the nurse asks.
“No.” I’ll call Astaire myself. Later. When I’ve got a shred of privacy. I’m still unsure what I’m going to say to her. I more or less gave her my entire life story the night we had our first date. I don’t know how she’ll feel about the fact that I left out a significant, recent portion of it. Not only that, but she’ll worry. And she’ll dote. And there’s nothing sexy about that for either of us.
I may be lying in a hospital bed on the cardiac floor of Mercy Cross Hospital, but I’m still a red-blooded man with every intention of having my way with her—whenever the hell that may be.
“Are there any questions I can answer for you?” Dr. Rathburn slides her hands in the front pockets of her white jacket.
“How long will I be here?”
“We have you scheduled for the procedure first thing in the morning. After that we’ll run a few more tests. If all goes well, we’ll discharge you in the early evening,” she says, heading to the door.