“She has a heart condition,” she said to the EMTs.
She’d found out almost at the start of when I began working for her. It’s true what Irina says: it’s impossible to hide anything from her. I am grateful for her discretion all these years. She has never made me feel anything less than capable, and she has always looked out for me.
I was rushed to the ER. A process I knew too well. It’s strange, in all the years I’ve been at this, in all the hospital stays and procedures and scary surgeries, I never believed I might die. It was foolish not to—I should have. Everyone else did. And I knew, intellectually, maybe, that it could come, that maybe it was coming. But I never felt like it was now. I never believed in my real, tangible mortality. At least, until then.
I’m going to die, I thought.This is how my relationship with Hugo ends.
It seemed so clear. I did not know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner. We were so deep in. Of course, finally. The obvious.
It turned out, I had stenosis in an artery. Which means one of my arteries was too narrow to properly pump blood.
“This is solvable, Daphne,” Dr. Frank said, a phrase I had heard seldom if at all. “But with you and your history, it carries more risk than we’d like. And I don’t love what it’s signifying to us.”
It meant something was progressing. It meant all was not well under the surface.
“We can put a stent in,” he said. “We can go through yourgroin, so open-heart is not necessary. This is a simple procedure, usually, but less simple with you.” He nodded at me. Dr. Frank was direct; I liked that about him. He didn’t treat me like a child. “Normally patients leave the same day, but we’ll have to hang on to you. We should act quickly. Have you been feeling more tired? Any swelling?”
I thought about it. I had, lately, been feeling like I was moving through quicksand. But I often felt that way. It was hard for me to determine what feeling good was. It had been so long—nearly a decade now—that I had experienced anything I might compare to radiant health.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”
Dr. Frank grunted.
“How bad is this?” I asked him.
“Normally I’d tell a patient getting a stent that they had a less than one percent chance of death.” He took a breath. “With you,” he said, “it’s different.”
I know I am the patient, but sometimes in the hospital I can forget, we all can. We are a team, we are making decisions, analyzing data, collecting intel. I am a member of that team. My heart is a whiteboard, with lists and surveys scrawled on it. Sometimes I forget it’s inside my body.
My parents came to the hospital. They dropped Murphy off at Wagville—one less thing to worry about. We scheduled the procedure for the next day.
I have a team of doctors—cardiologists and pulmonary experts and a psychologist. Everyone has a role. The team agreed with Dr. Frank—we’d act quickly.
Dr. Lisa, my pulmonary doctor, likes to refer to my heart asan ecosystem—like it has plants and fruits and birds and trees all its own. Like it’s raining in there, keeping all sorts of tiny creatures hydrated and sustained. Except it isn’t, of course. That’s the problem.
When my parents went downstairs to get coffee, after the path forward had been clearly marked, I picked up my phone. I had four missed calls from Hugo, one voice mail, and a slew of text messages beginning withWant to have lunch?toDaphne, I’m worried. Call me.
I called him.
“Daph,” he said. “Are you OK? Where are you?”
I swallowed. “I’m at the hospital,” I said. I could feel the tears building. I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to so badly. But I was too scared. Too afraid this might be our last call, and then? “My dad is having some tests run.”
“Jesus, Daph. Cedars? I’m getting in my car.”
“No,” I said. “You can’t. He doesn’t want anyone here.”
I could feel the hot sting of a riptide. I kept them shuttered.
“I’m not coming for him,” Hugo said. “I’m coming for you.”
I moved my arm, and a needle pulled at my vein. I wanted to unstring myself from this hospital bed and run. Run as fast and as far as I could before, what? My heart gave out? At least I’d be in motion.
And then I thought about what it would be like to be in Hugo’s arms right now. To have him crawl into this hospital bed and hold me. To press my face into the warmth of his chest and forget who I was, what body I possessed, that my number might be called. I could feel it physically—my desire for him to be there. I wanted to tell him to come.
Hurry. I need you.
But I couldn’t. Hugo did not know. I had never told him this giant piece of my puzzle. And introducing him to this—to all the complications of it, now—did not seem possible. Our time was almost up.
