Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 13: The Anti-Hero

EMERY

"125 over 80. A little high." Dr. Yang removes the sphygmomanometer from my arm. I wince, rolling down my sleeve. "Have you been having any difficulty breathing or chest pain recently?"

"No," I say, counting down the seconds until I can leave this fucking office. "I feel great. Can we hurry this along, Dr. Yang? I need to drive to Manhattan soon."

Dr. Yang tilts her head. "This is important Miss Jones. I'm sure whatever is waiting for you in Manhattan can wait." She clears her throat, opening my file. "Your red and white blood cell counts came back normal. Cholesterol looks good. The angiogram came back clean. Everything looks normal." She glances up at me. "For now."

"That's good, right?"

"You took a pledge, Miss Jones," Dr. Yang states, disappointment dripping from her Johns Hopkins educated voice. "No alcohol, no tobacco."

I swallow. Shit. "I'm aware."

"I can smell it on you, Miss Jones," she states, shaking her head. "We talked about this." She passes me a pamphlet for a smoking cessation program. "You've been given a gift. A gift thousands of people are waiting for, Miss Jones. It's your job to take care of it. No more smoking."

"I can't smoke, I can't drink, I can't eat red meat or butter or fucking cake," I grit, fisting the edge of the exam table. "I can't do anything that brings me a tiny bit of joy."

"You can live, Miss Jones," Dr., Yang states. "And that's more than the 3500 people currently on the transplant list can say." She softens her tone. "Is the Celexpro working?"

She thinks I'm ungrateful. She thinks I don't understand how lucky I was to receive a new heart. A healthy, young heart. This heart saved my life. I would've died. A week later, I would've been dead. Sometimes I wish I were. Then maybe someone who saw life as a gift would be sitting here instead of me. Maybe someone who smiled at babies, who danced in the rain, who was capable of feeling love and being loved, could be here, instead of me.

"It gives me headaches," I mumble, ashamed of myself.

"But is it working?" she asks. "How do you feel most days?"

"Detached," I reply honestly. "Most days I feel detached."

Dr. Yang scribbles on my chart. "Explain what you mean by detached."

"Withdrawn, I suppose. Disinterested." I shrug. "Like nothing matters."

Dr. Yang frowns. "Have you had suicidal thoughts recently, Miss Jones?"

"Don't worry," I snort. "I have no plans to off myself, Dr. Yang. But if I do, I'll be sure to call you first. I know how desperate you guys are for organ donors."

Dr. Yang doesn't laugh at my attempt to lighten the mood. "I think it would be a good idea to reconnect with Dr. Umb—"

"Absolutely not." I hop off the table, readjusting my dress. "I don't need a shrink."

"It helped before—"

"Listen, Dr. Yang, while I appreciate your concern, I'm fine," I state, grabbing my purse off the chair and flinging it over my shoulder. "Now, is there anything else we need to go over or am I free to leave?"

Dr. Yang sighs. "Are you taking the immunosuppressants?"

I blink at her. "No, I'm not Dr. Yang. I'd like my heart to reject and spend the rest of my 20s hooked to an LVAD waiting for another O-donor."

"Miss Jones..."

"Yes, I'm taking the damn immunosuppressants," I huff. "Jesus."

"I'd like to schedule an echo for next month," Dr. Yang says, closing my file. "My office will call you for an appointment."