He offered me a thin smile and extended his hand to shake. “Jonah. Good to see you. Sorry to have kept you.”
I half-rose to my feet on watery legs and shook his hand. “No trouble,” I said, eyeing the file folder tucked under his arm.
That file that told a far-fetched story of a perfectly healthy young man—who’d never been sick in his life but for a bout of tonsillitis in the fifth grade—struck down by a virus that destroyed his heart. It was thick now, filled tissue-type analyses, diagnostics, blood work, lab work, an urgent surgery, a mile-long list of immune-suppressant medications, and finally, biopsy results. Seventeen of them. Number eighteen was the day before. Its results would be on top.
“Theo,” Dr. Morrison said with a nod. He didn’t offer his hand and Theo didn’t rise from his seat, only nodded in return. His leg jounced faster.
Dr. Morrison moved behind the large mahogany desk to sit in the leather chair. He set the folder on his desk but didn’t open it. He folded his long-fingered hands. Those hands had removed my diseased heart from my body fifteen months ago, and then cradled a new one. They’d gently lowered it into the empty space, reattached all that needed reattaching, put my rib cage back in its rightful place and sewn me back up.
Instead of welcoming the new heart, and despite the various cocktails of immunosuppressant drugs I’d been taking religiously for the last thirteen months, my body attacked. A slow but relentless attack, hacking away at this foreign intruder piece by piece, leaving behind wounds that became scars. Ultimately it was the scars that were killing the new heart. And killing me.
Dr. Morrison inhaled. “The results of your latest biopsy are not what we were hoping for…”
He spoke and I heard the words, a string of medical jargon that I had become infinitely familiar with over the last year so that I didn’t require a layman’s translation. Words like atherosclerosis, stenosis, cardiac allograft vasculopathy, and myocardial ischemia. A bunch of Latin spliced with English, sewn together with science and authority, and distilled into the most final of bottom lines.
“I’m sorry, Jonah,” Dr. Morrison, his voice heavy and low. “I wish I had better news.”
I nodded mutely. I’ll to have to tell my mother.
The thought burrowed deep into my guts like a boiling poison, burning the last numbness away. I nearly puked in my lap. Somehow, I spoke instead.
“How long?”
Dr. Morrison steepled his fingers on his desk. “Given the rapid progression of the CAV, six months would be a generous estimate.”
I nodded, mentally doing the math.
Six months.
My art installation was due to be finished for the gallery exhibit in October, five months from now.
That’s cutting it close…
Theo bolted from his chair, bringing me back to present. He paced behind me like a panther, his dark eyes fixed on Dr. Morrison. The anguish in his voice struck me with every syllable.
“Six months? What happens in six months? Nothing. Screw your six months. He goes back on the list, right? The donor list? If this heart is failing then you give him another.”
Dr. Morrison pursed his lips. “There are some ethical implications—”
“Fuck the implications,” Theo said. “If he’s on the list, he’s on the list. A new heart comes up, he gets it. Right?” He turned to me with blazing eyes. “Right?”
I couldn’t take another heart from someone else on the list who could live a long and happy life with it. I had a rare tissue type. The rarest. Finding a donor who was a close match was almost impossible. Thirteen months ago, in a rush to save my life, they’d given me the best heart they could, the closest match, and my immune system was wrecking it. It would only do the same to another.
I wasn’t a martyr by any stretch, and I didn’t need to be. Medical ethics and procedures would take the decision out of my hands. Dr. Morrison’s next words confirmed it.
“Yes, Jonah is back on the donor list.” He turned to me. “But your rare tissue type will again be a factor, and the chronic rejection manifested here, as well as the way your kidneys are handling the immunosuppressant medications. I can’t say I’m optimistic the Board will approve a replantation…”
I could feel Theo’s rage like a hot wind at my back. “What do you mean they won’t approve it? They’ll just…they’ll let him…”
He was on the edge, I could hear it, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to protect my little brother, just as I always had. Keep him safe.
I rose to my feet, my legs strong now. “Thank you, Dr. M.” I offered my hand. “We’ll be in touch.”
Dr. Morrison stood up as well, but didn’t shake my hand. Instead he patted my cheek in a grandfatherly manner. “You’ll be in my prayers, Jonah. Tonight and every night.”