Page 2 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
I fell back into the chair, shaking my head.
“I’ve spent the better part of my life dancing with death. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to be lulled into a false sense of security? That this time is going to be any different from before?”
Dr Mason watched me carefully, her expression unreadable. I wondered what her mind sounded like as she worked through me, like I was an overcomplicated Rubik’s Cube she just couldn’t quite solve, but continued to think she was getting close.
“You speak as if you’re still dying, Ellis.”
I let out a humorless laugh and looked at her. “Aren’t I? I mean,technically, I could argue that we’re all dying.”
Her gaze softened, and a small smile tugged at her lips, but she didn’t let up. “You aren’t dying, Ellis.”
I hissed between my teeth and looked up at the ceiling, trying to disengage from the burning behind my eyes. Running my palms over my jeans, I took a steadying breath.
“How long do heart transplant patients typically live?” I asked aloud, voicing the morbid question I had typed into my search bar so many times that my phone could autofill it after just seeing the wordhow.
“The first year is the most critical,” I recalled, remembering the conversations I’d had with specialists and doctors. Good old Google always backed up their statements. “So if that’s the case, then I should be celebrating, right? Well, I mean, Iwillbe. Mom’s hosting this huge party tonight to celebrate the wholeliving another yearthing, but also my birthday.”
“Well, everyone has a party on their birthday,” Dr. Mason murmured, a little facetiously, if you asked me. “We all celebrate making it another year, you know? A birthday isn’t unique to you.”
I ignored her and continued, wanting to drive the point home.
“I’m one of the lucky ones. Basically, if I was going to reject the heart, I would have by now. I mean, there’s still a possibility I could. It’s not like I’m out of the woods, I’m just not running through it screaming bloody murder.” I refilled my glass from the small jug. “I’m not stupid. I’m not going to think that suddenly my bodyknowsa year has passed and my immune system will be like,Hey, it’s been one whole year. Let’s not turn on this foreign organ in our body. Like, really?”
Dr. Mason said nothing. She just let me go. Let me get it out.
“Ten to fifteen years.”
My voice dropped on the words, and I rested my elbows on my knees, frowning at my now-full glass, recalling the statistic I had read over and over again.
“That’s the number that sticks out the most. It’s the answer on every website. Every medical journal. Every blog post from some unlucky sucker who’s already gone through this shit and needs another heart.”
I sucked in a breath and shook my head.
“In ten years, I’ll be thirty-one. In fifteen, I’d be thirty-six.” My voice wavered, but I pushed forward. “That’sifI even make it that far. And what happens if I do? Would I be lucky enough to find another donor? Do I have to go through it all again? Or does this so-called miracle just turn into chronic heart failure or… or coronary artery disease?”
Dr. Mason pressed her lips together but remained quiet. I took a calming sip of water, the glass sounding too loud when I set it back on the table.
“And look, if none of the above kills me,” I continued, “it’ll be the side effects from the immunosuppressants I’ll be on for the rest of my life. Kidney failure. Infections. Cancer. Take your pick. It’s like a lottery for health risks.”
I ran a hand down my face in some futile attempt to calm myself.
“So forgive me if I don’t feel like celebrating. Forgive me if Ican’t…if I can’t just move on and pretend like I don’t have an expiration date stamped on my chest.”
My words hung heavily between us. Dr. Mason watched me carefully, tapping her pen once against the notebook before leaning back in her chair.
“So, what does that mean for you, then, Ellis?”
I frowned. Had she not been listening?
“I mean, what does that mean for the rest of your life?” She set down her pen and leaned forward slightly. “You’ve spent an entire year researching, right? Preparing? Mapping out every possible way this could go wrong for you. But what about mapping out what happens if it goes right?”
I blinked at her. “Goes right?”
“Yes.”
I let out a dry laugh, staring at her in disbelief. “I don’t think about shit like that. Hopeful thoughts of happy endings left me a long time ago. There’s no ending to this nightmarish loop I’m stuck in. Just death—when it eventually comes for me. I don’t get anafter.”
“An after?” Dr. Mason murmured, picking up her notepad again. “Explore that with me. What does that mean. Where does that statement come from?”
