From Your Heart to Mine

Why am I here?

Dr. Bertrand would say it's because of the forty-five years of smoking. And that other doctor -- I can't remember her name -- would say I was an alcoholic. (What head chef doesn't drink on the job?) It wasn't until after my second heart attack that I quit both drinking and smoking, just in case.

I admit I could have lost some weight, or at least stopped gaining it. But once I retired, I had all the time in the world to sit around and eat the delicious food I'd been cooking for everyone else all those years.

What I want to know is why no one listens to me when I tell them there's nothing anyone can do. It's just my genetics. All the men in my family died of heart disease before the age of seventy: my dad at sixty-five, my brother Ken at sixty-two, and my brother Phil at sixty-eight.

I turn seventy next month.

I'm doing better than all of them.

I won't lie; I don't feel great. I can never catch my breath and I have a persistent headache. I'm dizzy whenever I stand up, which isn't often. My niece, Gina, thinks my L-VAD isn't working as well as it used to. I told her I didn't need to go to the emergency room, but she threatened to call an ambulance if I didn't get in the car.

So that's why I'm here. I'm in a triage room with Gina on a chair in the corner, bouncing her kid on her lap. How old is he again? Two. He's a pretty good kid. He doesn't cry a lot like other babies. I just don't like kids much.

Ever since I moved in with Gina and her husband, they've been nagging me to spend more time with little Enzo. "Take him for a walk in his stroller. Get some fresh air and exercise," they say. But what if, halfway through, he needs a new diaper or something? No, thanks.

People might think I'm just a crotchety old man, but, at my age, I don't see why I should have to do anything I don't want to do. I've worked hard my whole life. I made it through high school and the Culinary Institute. I slaved away to feed hungry, rich people for four decades before I finally retired. I deserve to be happy and lazy.

I guess I've always felt that way.

"Everything in moderation" was never something I believed in. If it felt or tasted good, I enjoyed as much of it as I could. Good liquor, good food and a good smoke were what I craved. Women, too, of course. But now that I've lost all my teeth and can't get off the couch even if I wanted to -- which I don't -- I'm not having any luck with women. Also, "Hey, pretty lady, come back to my niece's basement and have a seltzer while I plug my L-VAD in to charge" isn't much of a turn-on.

Gina asks me if I appreciate the hospital keeping me alive. As if what they're doing is actually keeping me alive. As if what I'm doing can even be considered living.

Pratt Memorial is renowned worldwide for its cardiovascular department. They've kept my heart beating when it wanted to stop, I guess. Other than that, what do I really have to live for? Gina's my only family left. I have no energy for hobbies or to do much of anything other than watch TV. Am I ready to just let nature take its course?

The thing is, I'm scared of dying. I don't want to feel pain or struggle to breathe, so I keep coming back here and letting them poke and prod me until I feel better. I just want to feel better.

Waiting in a hospital triage room is like waiting in purgatory. When will the nurse come in and tell me what's going on? What will happen next, and when? It's never soon. It's always, "When Dr. So-and-So comes in for his or her next shift," which is never now, or even today, usually.

I close my eyes and try to breathe. Each breath is a struggle, and I hate to struggle.

I wish Enzo would stop babbling. Better yet, I wish Gina would just take him home and leave me alone.

Let me rest.

I wake up to hushed, urgent voices. Two nurses are racing to the automatic doors but stop just inside of them. They wait with anxious expressions, one staring at her cell phone while the other crosses her arms and stares out the glass doors, tapping her elbows impatiently.

They're talking quietly back and forth. I can just make out the words "accident," "trauma" and "surgery." I have a weak stomach, so they better not be bringing someone in with gaping wounds or anything.

I've been in hospital emergency rooms more times than I can count, and I still haven't seen anything too bad. I'm thankful because I can't stand blood and guts. Good thing I was just young enough to avoid the Vietnam draft. I couldn't handle it.

I don't even like to see other people suffer or worry. Whenever I'm in the hospital, I make it a point to joke around with the doctors and nurses as much as possible. When they're smiling and laughing, I don't have to see looks of concern on their faces, which makes me panic.

When the ambulance screeches to a stop outside the doors, I can't help but look up. Maybe my eyes are drawn automatically to the body being wheeled in on a stretcher. It's not a person but a faceless body, not moving or making any noise. The EMTs are pushing the stretcher as fast as they can while one puts pressure on gauze covering what would be the face. Dark blood is seeping through the gauze. My stomach roils.

I see hands, just clearly enough to notice there's not even a scratch on them. The rest of the body -- while clothed -- seems to be in one piece. No guts, thank God.

It's clear the nurses and EMTs are in a hurry to get this body somewhere or to someone who can help right away.

As quickly as they arrive, they're gone. The emergency room goes back to mostly hushed voices and beeping from machines. A woman on another bed nearby has her eyes closed and her cheek resting on her palm. She looks pale. Maybe a nasty case of the flu?

Across the room is a mother with an adolescent son who appears to be holding his thumb, as if it's been broken. I say a silent prayer of thanks that I never had any children. Maybe that's why my marriage fell apart. I don't want to have to care for someone else when caring for myself is enough work.

My niece is the only relative I have left. She's Ken's only child by his marriage to Felicia, who left him years before he died. Gina was the only one I could ask when the doctor told me they'd need to train someone in how to change my L-VAD drive line bandage. That's when she asked me to move in with her family, so she could do the bandage changes every night.

After a year, the hospital gave her new training and new supplies that could be used for every-other-night bandage changing. She and her husband seemed happy about the less frequent responsibility.

Sometimes Gina messes up and I get a rash, but the doctor says it's just dry skin and gave her a special ointment to rub on it.

I fall asleep again, probably out of boredom, or being hypnotized by the melodic machine beeping.

When I wake up again, it's because Gina is crying.

What happened?

She's at my bedside, holding my hand, and her husband is in the corner now with Enzo. When did he get here? He's giving me a weak smile and waving goodbye, saying something about bringing Enzo home to bed and he wishes me the best of luck.

Now there's a doctor on my other side, telling me we don't have much time. He wants to make sure I can consent. Then I hear the word "transplant." My hands tingle and my pulse starts pounding in my ears.

I'm being wheeled out of triage and into an elevator with a doctor and a couple of nurses. Gina's there, too, still holding my hand.

"They found a donor," she's whispering. She keeps talking, but I've heard all I need to hear. There's something about a possibility of the donor being Covid-positive, but he has a strong heart. They want to know if I understand what's happening.

I nod. I think I squeak out some words, but for all I know, it may have been gibberish.

I feel hot tears streaming down my face, but I don't know why they're there. Am I scared of dying during surgery? I've had more heart surgeries than I can count. I should be used to it by now.

This is really happening. I feel relief. The slab of junk in my chest is finally going in the trash. But at what cost? I'm taking a heart from someone else. Someone healthy and clean who didn't abuse his body with cigarettes, alcohol and excessive trans fats.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. I'm being prepped for surgery. Gina kisses my forehead before leaving the room.

It's all happening so fast, there's not much time to think about anything else. As I count down from ten, the last thing I picture is the man on the stretcher.

Is he my donor? Did he enjoy his time on Earth before his brain died? Did he deprive himself of all the things that felt and tasted good in order to keep his heart healthy enough to donate to me?

Our paths crossed only briefly, going in opposite directions: he toward death and me toward life.

I will never be able to thank him.

I will be able to take care of his heart better than I took care of mine.