“Incompetence, you mean?” According to his research, a clog was a rare occurrence with a drug-eluting stent and, when combined with a widow-maker lesion, extremely dangerous. Someone was to blame—someone was responsible—and Felix was staring at that someone.
“Stent thrombosis is uncommon, but it can occur subacutely in the first thirty days. As I have explained before, your wife has been incredibly unlucky. A seemingly healthy woman with a dormant genetic condition. And now this second setback.” Dr. Beaubridge shook his head.
“I hope you’re not implying that luck plays a part in her medical treatment.” Felix tossed the pad aside. “So what next? We hold hands and pray, because prayer seems a better option than Raleigh Regional at this point.”
“Felix, please.” Ella’s voice competed with the bleeping of that bloody monitor.
Felix began scratching, the anger a mass of chigger bites inside and out, searing through his gut, burning off his skin. It was lack of reason; it was insanity.
Ten, nine, eight . . . to hell with counting down from ten. Try one hundred.
Ella started coughing, and Felix stopped breathing.
Dr. Beaubridge whipped the stethoscope free from around his neck and listened to her heart. “Can you tell me how you’re feeling, Ella?”
“A bit breathless. That’s all.” Ella rested her head against her pillow with a hesitant smile. Her skin was ghostly gray, and her voice was cracked like a worn-out record.
He wanted to go backward in time. He wanted before.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam, I understand your sense of frustration, but we need to keep your wife calm.”
Felix continued to count silently.
“Having this artery become occluded twice within such a short period of time was far from ideal.” Dr. Beaubridge tugged down the cuff of his white coat. “Ella’s heart is severely damaged as a result.”
Felix nodded, kept counting.
“However, she did well over the weekend. We’re moving her back to the cardiac step-down unit this morning, and our focus now is on adjusting the medications to their optimal doses. But it could take two weeks.”
“And during that time she will be here, in this hospital.” Felix spoke slowly, calmly. It was no different than walking: left foot, right foot; one word, next word. “Then what happens?”
“We often see remarkable results with careful medical therapy, watching, and waiting.”
“And the cases that don’t fit the remarkable-results category?”
“The heart can also continue to get weaker.”
“What are my options if that happens, Doctor?” Ella said.
“Possibly an implanted battery-powered device called a left ventricular assist device, or an LVAD for short. This would be a bridge to a transplant.”
“Transplant?” Ella whispered.
“You would make an excellent candidate, Ella. You’re young and healthy—”
“Why not bypass surgery?” Felix said.
Dr. Beaubridge laced his fingers together, palms down, and placed them on his thigh. “Unlikely in your wife’s case. Her initial infarction was extensive, and muscle damaged to that degree will likely not recover. This recent incident extended the MI, and given the anatomy of your coronary arteries, Ella, I believe you would not benefit from a bypass operation. The arteries are diffused and narrowed, and there isn’t enough normal heart muscle left to save. To be blunt”—he looked at Ella; she nodded—“we’re talking inoperable heart disease, which is why a heart transplant might be the solution.”
The door banged opened, and a cleaning lady began to wheel in a large trash can.
“Not now, please,” Dr. Beaubridge snapped.
“Sorry, y’all,” the woman said, and backed out of the room.
Did this cleaner have family, a husband? Did she understand what it meant to stare into the abyss of unimaginable loss? Were there other spouses in this building, maybe even in the room next door, in the same state of utter despair as Felix?
“Thank you, Dr. Beaubridge,” Ella said.