“Lailah Cavanaugh?” the nurse called out.
It was kind of unnecessary, seeing as we were the sole occupants in the waiting room, but it was nice to hear her new name despite the circumstances surrounding it.
We followed the nurse, someone I recognized from prior visits, down the hall and toward the left rather than the right, which led to the exam rooms.
“Dr. Hough thought it might be more comfortable to meet in his office this morning,” she offered as an explanation as we stopped.
There, standing behind a large mahogany desk, framed by diplomas and certificates, was the man of the hour, checking charts and signing his name to various letters and statements.
“Doctor, Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh are here to see you,” the young nurse announced.
“Ah, good. Thank you, Stephanie,” he replied, stepping away from the desk to offer me his hand.
I politely took it, giving it a firm shake, even though I felt as weak and thin as the sheets of paper on his desk in front of us. It was then I noticed the woman sitting near him.
For Lailah, he opened his arms and took her in a sweet embrace. They held each other as friends rather than doctor and patient. I could see the hurt and defeat in his eyes. It was as if he wished there were some way he could erase the horrible circumstances of this otherwise joyous news from our lives.
“Please sit,” he offered, motioning to the two plush chairs by his desk.
We each took a seat, and I reached out for Lailah’s hand. I needed her as much as I hoped she needed me in this moment.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I invited Dr. Riley here to offer assistance as well. I know you probably have a ton of questions, so why don’t we just start there?” he said, reclining in his chair, trying to give a laid-back, approachable appearance.
“I guess we want to know everything,” Lailah said, looking from one doctor to the other. “Our options, the risks, for both me and—”
“The baby,” he finished.
She nodded.
“Well, first of all, let me say, the idea of a transplant patient, even one who’s undergone something as risky as a heart transplant, can become mothers. It’s not totally out of the question these days.”
Lailah’s hand squeezed mine.
“However,” Dr. Riley interjected, “we usually advise patients to do in-depth preconception counseling where we—meaning an OB-GYN and the patient—decide if the patient is healthy enough to tolerate such an ordeal. Pregnancy is hard enough for a completely healthy woman. Add in the complications you face, and . . . well, things become risky quickly.”
I took a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs.
Dr. Hough continued, “Unfortunately, we didn’t get to do any planning with you, Lailah. The universe had other intentions, and despite all your best efforts, you are pregnant. Now, we just have to figure out what to do from here.”
“If we had come to you and asked about becoming parents, would you have given us your blessing?” I asked.
He pursed his lips and sighed loudly. “No, I wouldn’t have. It’s only been two years since your surgery, Lailah, and with your history . . . well, this is why we had the IUD in the first place.”
But the IUD had failed.
“But, she could still miscarry?” I interjected, feeling like we were skirting around a very real possibility.
Dr. Riley nodded, her eyes darted to Lailah. “Yes. Because I had to remove the IUD, there is a very real possibility of miscarriage. But I didn’t want to leave it in and run the risk of infection later on in the pregnancy.”
When we grew attached. The words hung in the air even though they hadn’t been said.
I swallowed a lump in my throat, but it didn’t go away. None of this was ever going to go away.
“Tell us about the risks.” Lailah’s soft voice pushed through the haze of my dark thoughts.
“There’s an increased risk of hypertension, infection, and of course, rejection.”
My heart faltered at his words. If Lailah’s body began rejecting the transplant, there was nothing else that could be done—no magical cures, no last-minute surgeries. Her life would be over.
And so would mine.
The blood hissing through my ears was so loud that it sounded like a freight train. Both doctors went over our options in detail, including genetic testing and when to call as I tried to focus, my eyes blurring in and out as I held back tears.
I didn’t remember much of the trip back home, only Lailah’s steady hand on mine.
And her eyes—I remembered her vacant, distant eyes. If I had a mirror, I would imagine mine looked much like hers.