Page 105 of Poetry By Dead Men
I want a tale that the choirs will sing
Epics to be read again and again
I want a love like the ones written and spoken and sung
A love like in poetry written by the dead
—An excerpt from "Poetry," written by Beth Winters, performed by Robert Beckett
As I sit at Bobby's bedside this afternoon, I don’t stop working on my novel.
Ican’t.
I know it’s irrational, but the need to finish it, to get our happy ending down on paper, is as hot and fervent as a wildfire.
Maybe I can write it into existence—Bobby getting a heart, him and I living happily ever after.
I shift, switching hands as I shake out my tingling arm. I’ve been typing with one hand, refusing to let go of Bobby. Both Kimberly and I snap upright at a sudden commotion in the hallway. The door to Bobby’s room slides open, and my heart pounds in my throat as a nurse walks in, maneuvering around me to listen to his lungs.
“Your friend here is about to get very popular,” the nurse says, switching the stethoscope to the other side of his chest.
The nurse's words don’t have time to register before an entire team of people file in, immediately pulling down the sheet and disconnecting lines.
I roll myself back to let them do their job. "What’s happening?" I ask, my voice shaking, terrified to ask the question desperately trying to escape my lips. The only time I've seen this amount of activity in Bobby's room was when he coded, but the line on the monitor remains jagged, peaks and valleys beeping every so often to remind us that his heart is still beating.
“Wait. Does this mean…” I can’t even think it.
"We have a heart," the surgeon says as he strides in, pulling out his own stethoscope and listening to Bobby's lungs.
"We have a heart?" Kimberly’s voice cracks, and she walks over to me, clasping my hands in hers. We cling to each other, desperately waiting to hear those words again. The surgeon is silent for a moment as he moves the stethoscope around Bobby's chest.
"We have a heart," the surgeon confirms as he stands back up, grabbing Bobby’s chart.
For the entirety of this week, I’ve done my best to hold it together. For Bobby’s sake. Just in case he could hear me. But hearing that Bobby will get his transplant in time shatters me completely. A sob breaks free from my chest, and my head falls into my shaking hands.
Bobby's getting a heart.
It's a miracle, and I promise myself that if Bobby makes it through this surgery, I will never let a misunderstanding break us again. I will spend the rest of my life earning his love, just as I know he will do the same. Because a love this big is a precious gift, one we’ve almost lost twice now.
"We need to prep him," the surgeon says, speaking to Kimberly. "The sooner we can do the transplant, the better the outcome will be. We’re not out of the woods yet,” he reminds us. “His body has suffered quite a bit of damage. We'll be bringing him back to pre-op in just a moment. Say your goodbyes." The doctor turns to a woman in scrubs and a white coat and begins discussing medications.
"You’re going to be okay," I say to Bobby through my tears. "Youhaveto be okay. I’ll be right here. I’m not leaving. I’ll be right here when you wake up." Kimberly helps me stand from my wheelchair and I lean forward to give Bobby a kiss on his forehead, my lip shaking and my hands trembling as I cup his face. "I love you," I whisper against his skin. "I love you, Bobby Beckett. Please come back to me."
It takes every bit of control I have to sit back down and move my wheelchair back, allowing Bobby’s mother a chance to say goodbye. We’re ushered from the room and into the waiting area, and Kimberly’s given a phone, which she passes off to me. "They'll call you with updates," a nurse says before disappearing back in the direction of Bobby's room.
Molly jumps up from her chair the second she sees my red nose and tear-streaked face. "What's happening?" she asks, kneeling next to me.
"We have a heart," I say, smiling and crying at the same time. It’s an odd feeling, the mixture of complete, overwhelming joy and utter terror, but somehow they coexist within me, making my pulse leap and my stomach twist.
Molly’s eyes widen as she sucks in a breath. She grabs my hands, squeezing, her eyes welling with tears.
“Okay. Coffee, I think. Yes?” she asks, fidgeting as she stands to brush off her perfectly clean pants and pull her hair into a ponytail.
I nod, knowing I won’t drink it. Just the thought of putting anything in my stomach is enough to make it roll with nausea, but Molly needs to feel useful, and I need a moment. A moment for what, I’m not exactly sure, but suddenly, this room feels too small. Too full of other people and their worries and hopes and grief.
Once Molly clears the doorway, I excuse myself. Kimberly asks if I need help, but I wave her off with a small smile, telling her I’ll be right back.
I wheel around the hospital, and for some reason, the movement is therapeutic.
