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However, I wasn’t a cardiac nurse.
I was hoping that things weren’t as bad—even though I was deluding myself—as I was thinking.
I was wrong.
They were worse.
Way worse.
Murphy coughed beside me, and I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the doctor to make sure he was okay.
He’d been doing that a lot.
I didn’t think he even realized just how much he was coughing—especially while he was asleep last night.
Sleep that was restless at best—another sign that he was in end-stage congestive heart failure.
The next five minutes, Dr. Battle explained it all, starting with Murphy’s first heart attack, ending with one he’d suffered just a few months ago—two days after he’d delivered my baby—and ending with what was next for Murphy.
Which was a whole lot of hoping, praying, and waiting.
“We’ve had Mr. Romano on the donor list for about four months now.” He paused. “Ideally, he may look like he’s doing well on the outside, but he’s struggling hard. I give him about two weeks, and then he’ll be on oxygen.”
I didn’t think he was looking good.
I could see the decline in his health very obviously now that I knew the signs.
“What are the chances that he’ll find a heart?” I asked the hardest question I’d ever had to voice.
“One in ten people on the donor list that need a heart, get one,” Dr. Battle explained.
“Fuck,” I whispered softly.
“It’s a hope, wait, and pray game.” Dr. Battle admitted. “He’s on the list. He’s young. He’s healthy other than his heart. He has a very high likelihood of receiving a heart if one becomes available to him.”
Meaning, someone had to die for Murphy to live.
At that moment in time, I prayed for someone to die.
That might make me selfish.
That might make me a bitch.
That might make me evil.
Whatever you called it, I didn’t care.
What I cared about was Murphy.
“What about working out?” I asked. “That can’t be good for him.”
I tossed Murphy a glance, seeing his face fully blank.
The man could pull off blank better than anyone I knew.
“I discussed that with him last week.” Dr. Battle sounded frustrated. “He agreed this would be his last week working out.”
I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat.
I’d never felt more blindsided in my life.
I felt betrayed.
I felt…raw.
“What can we do to make this better for him?” I wondered. “What do I need to do?”
Dr. Battle looked from me to Murphy and back.
“Quality of life from this stage forward is just going to get worse. When it gets to the point where Murphy can’t make it to the bathroom and back without needing help, we’ll start him on oxygen.” He paused. “Soon, he’ll need it even sitting still.”
I felt my heart all but sink.
“His appetite will go. He’ll sleep fitfully. And pretty much, from here on out, there will be a decline in all aspects of his life. We’ve already started him on drugs that’ll help with those things, but at this point, there is only so much medically we can do to help.”
Meaning, he would die.
There was no other option.
Either get a heart and live, or don’t get one and die.
I literally felt sick to my stomach.
There were no words, either, for what I was feeling.
Sorrow. Hatred. Despair. Utter exhaustion. Sickened.
Jesus, the entire Webster’s Dictionary couldn’t help at that moment in time.
“What now?” I asked. “Where is he on the transplant list?”
The doctor frowned as he shrugged. “I could contact the hospital but…”
But it wasn’t good.
Whatever number he was at, it wasn’t going to be any time soon.
“As for what’s next…next we just try to stay as healthy as possible. That means no going out to stores. Continue having groceries and your errands ran,” the doctor continued, but my head went a little fuzzy.
My sister had been delivering him groceries for months. Six of them almost.
He’d known for six months at least that things were really bad.
“…I highly recommend no more CrossFit. I know you like it, but it’s time to admit that it’s not going to happen for you anymore.”
I felt my stomach sink.
“We need to be careful because you could also suffer another heart attack,” he continued. “So you need to be sure to have someone with you at all times. Or, if that’s not possible, then we need to be sure to have a way to contact someone if something goes wrong. I want you to always carry aspirin.”
He continued to list all the things that Murphy couldn’t do, and by the time we were walking out of the office, I felt like my head was going to explode.
I’d, of course, gone silent.
There wasn’t a single thing that I could do to fix this, and it was seriously getting on my nerves.
We got into my van, and I sat silently fuming for a few long seconds while he navigated his way out of the parking lot.
