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“Akito?”
The nurse who cared for me following my surgery stares in surprise. “Brian. What are you doing here?”
“This man found Nathan and stayed with him while he waited for us to find him,” her husband explains.
“Oh, thank you so much. This young man can be so impatient,” she says, stroking her son’s cheek.
My mind reminds me of what she had told me about her partner having Brugada. I glance at the two children and blurt out. “You have kids?”
The man frowns, but Akito seems to understand my particular comment. She smiles and looks at her husband. “This is Brian. He’s the patient I told you about. He was on my floor a few months ago. He’s got Brugada and received an ICD like you.”
The man’s eyebrows rise up and his lips curve into a smirk. “Brugada can be a real pain in the ass,” he declares.
I snort. “Yeah, excellent description.”
The two of us let out a chuckle, and I’m surprised to connect with someone I hardly know.
“Let me treat you to something from the barista bar,” Akito offers, gesturing toward the line of people waiting for their orders.
“Oh no, you don’t have to do that,” I reply.
“It’s the least we can do,” the boy’s father interjects, nodding at his son as he speaks.
Nathan frowns, unhappy with his father’s suggestion.
“None of that now,” he chides. “You’ve chosen to disobey our order and walk away, so you’ll thank Brian accordingly by getting him a drink.”
“But, Dad—”
“No Dad-ing me, Nathan.”
Akito rests her hand on her son’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”
The man chuckles as his wife leads their son toward the long line for service.
The man smiles, then looks at me and introduces himself. “I’m Niko. What about your Brugada? Any issues?”
“One shock, after I earned this medical device,” I say, tapping my chest.
Niko nods. “Did you know you had it?”
“Yeah, my dad died from it when I was a teenager. So when they found out what caused it, they tested me. You?”
“Oh, I didn’t know I had it until I got a fever and had an attack while watching TV. It was a surprise. But with the help of my doctor, they figured it out. They did a generic screening and saw I had the gene. Then I got another severe attack, and they put in an ICD.”
I take a deep breath before asking my burning question. “How old are your kids?”
“This one,” he says, pointing to the stroller, “is Hana. She’s two and a half years old, and Nathan is seven.”
My vision goes from the little girl asleep in the stroller to Nathan, who is smiling from ear to ear at something his mom said.
“Do you have children?”
I shake my head in response while still staring at Nathan. One single thought teases the edge of my mind until the man speaks again and answers it. “Nathan inherited the gene.”
My heartbeat thumps in my ears as I gaze at the now loud, laughing young boy.
“Thankfully, he’s healthy so far; no symptoms.”
