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He shoots me one last concerned, curious look, then leaves.
I drum my fingers against the desk, then unlock my phone and pull up the number for Walker-Moore Memorial Hospital. I’m on hold for a few minutes before a tired-sounding woman answers and then transfers me to the Oncology department. A man answers, then transfers me a second time, to the doctor who is supposedly treating my mother.
I spend every second of the fifteen-minute process second-guessing making this call.
There’s a click, then a man’s voice says, “Dr. Meyers speaking.”
I clear my throat. “Hi. My name is Holden Adams. I was told you’re treating my mother. Lana Harris?”
Her last name is a guess. She and my dad never got married, but I have no idea if she is now.
“Yes, she’s a patient of mine.”
“How long does she have?”
I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.
Dr. Meyers sighs. “I’m afraid I can’t share any patient information. That’s all kept confidential.”
“I’m her son.”
The words burn like acid coming out, a truth I’d adamantly deny under any other circumstance.
“Regardless of your relation, she needs to agree to any information being shared. The hospital has a legal obligation. If you’d like, I can contact your mother and request her permission?”
Part of me wants to let this doctor reach out to her. See how she reacts to me giving a shit about her health. But the rest of me knows she won’t agree, and I’ll get nowhere.
“I heard she needs a transplant. I’ve been doing some research online, and I…is it true you can donate a liver and live through it?”
Silence. I can hear the hesitation in it as the doctor deliberates whether or not to respond. I wonder how well he knows my mom. How long he’s been treating her. If he had any idea she has kids.
“Yes, that’s true,” he finally says. “The liver is an incredible organ. With a living donor, we take about half to transplant. There are risks involved, like with any surgery, but the donor’s liver will regenerate to its normal size. After a recovery period, they’re able to live a normal life. And save a life.”
“And is it true that family members are often matches?”
A longer silence this time.
Dr. Meyers has obviously figured out where I’m headed with this. Maybe he knew as soon as he answered the call.
“We don’t know if someone is a match until we’ve done testing. But certain factors, like blood type, are hereditary. It’s true that a family member has a better chance of being a match than a stranger off the street.”
I stare down at the floor, tracing the grain pattern in the wood with my eyes. Uncertainty gnaws away in my gut. I was hoping he’d tell me I was wrong. That her rude companion was wrong, and there’s no need for a transplant. That they already have one lined up for my mom. That there’s no chance I could be of any help.
He isn’t saying any of those things.
“How do I get tested?” I ask.
“Holden, that’s a big decision. You should talk with your mother and—”
“We don’ttalk,” I snap. “She left when I was five. I have no relationship with her. But…I don’t want her to die. So if I could keep that from happening, I want to at least know.”
“It’s not a simple process, Holden. We would run blood tests, take a chest X-ray, do an electrocardiogram, and also do an ultrasound of your abdomen. And if all those tests suggested that you could be a viable donor, we would have to do a CT scan to make sure that your liver is big enough to donate a piece.”
“I want to know if I can donate,” I tell him.
“In those circumstances, the transplant recipient’s insurance typically covers the costs of the donor, beginning with evaluation. It hasn’t come up as a possibility in your mother’s case, so I need to check and see if—”
“The money isn’t an issue. I can pay for the testing if I need to.”
