“Am I at risk for another one, Doctor?”
“There’s always a possibility, yes, but we’ll teach you how to aggressively manage your risk factors to lower the chance of a recurrence.” He glanced down at the file. “Losing weight isn’t an issue for you. Do you exercise?”
“Every day.”
“Smoke?”
“I quit five years ago.”
“And your cholesterol is fine,” he said with a frown. “I see your mother died of a heart attack at the same age.”
The young nurse coughed.
“Meaning I’m screwed?” Ella said.
“Meaning we can likely blame a genetic condition.”
Ella’s door was the only closed door in the section. Once he opened it, Felix would be a step closer to the truth about her prognosis, to confirming or denying the terrifying statistics he’d gleaned from the Web. He tucked the yellow legal pad under his arm. From now on, he was compiling a written history. He didn’t trust this hospital—inner-city incompetence waiting to happen—and he didn’t trust his own memory to get the details right. Plus he was towing a U-Haul of questions. The cardiologist better be packing answers, because if he didn’t come with a wall of shiny plaques that bragged of his expertise, this man was not going to treat Ella.
Braced for impact with Katherine, Felix opened the door and discovered his wife sitting up in bed. The oxygen mask was gone, replaced by a tube under her nostrils, and she was chatting to a blond, blue-eyed, all-American male doctor. A young nurse stood behind him.
“Felix—” Ella blushed as if he’d caught her red-handed. “This is my cardiologist.”
“Beau Carlton Beaubridge.” The doctor rose, shook his hand, sat back down.
Felix flicked the “Mute” button on his phone. “I’m sorry if I’m late, but I was under the impression that you were due at nine thirty.”
Dr. Beaubridge frowned. “I was explaining to your wife that it was a substantial infarct.”
“A fart?” Felix said. Clearly, this man was not qualified to treat his wife.
“A myocardial infarction, or MI. A heart attack to Joe Blow.”
Did he, an Oxford man, look like a Joe Blow? Felix flexed his fingers.
“I was also explaining that the angioplasty was successful.” Dr. Beaubridge checked his pager. Really, the man could have been discussing a picnic in the Hundred Acre Wood.
“Can she be transferred to Duke or Memorial?” Felix asked. Can I confiscate your pager?
“Felix, I’m not changing hospitals.”
“Ella, please. Let me handle this. You need the best care available.”
A muscle twitched in the doctor’s neck. “If Ella wants to move, that’s her prerogative, but if you’re concerned about the level of care, I can assure you that Raleigh Regional has the leading heart center in the state. I myself transferred here from Duke. Your wife is in excellent hands, Mr.—”
“Felix,” Ella said.
“Fitzwilliam,” Felix added. “Her prognosis?”
“Your wife is relatively stable at this point, Mr. Fitzwilliam, but she’s still in critical condition. A normally functioning heart ejects about sixty percent of the blood in the pumping chamber with each contraction. Ella’s heart is operating at thirty percent. You see—” Dr. Beaubridge swung his chair round and pulled a small pad and a pen from his pocket. “The heart muscle provided for by the blocked artery lost its blood supply for a period of time.” He began drawing a diagram. Really? Did Felix look like someone who needed visual aids?
“By the time the blockage was opened up with the stent, the damage had already been done. That heart muscle may recover in time; it may not. Obviously, we hope for the former.”