Page 3 of Heart Sick

But how do I say yes? How can I live knowing I said yes to ending my son’s life so another can live?

“We don’t have much time,” the doctor says softly.

“Who is it?”

“We are not at liberty to—”

“If I am giving you my son’s fucking heart, then I want to know it’s going to someone who deserves it!” I remove my hands and blink back my tears.

The doctor peers around the room to ensure no one can hear. “It’s a young man, a little older than your son, and I can assure you…he will look after Misha’s heart.”

“What’s his n-name?”

The doctor appears torn whether to reveal this information to me, but she knows this will make all the difference. If I can humanize this match as not merely a number but a person, she knows I will say yes.

“Dutch.”

“What sort of name is that?” I ask abruptly, sniffing away my tears.

“It’s a unique name for a very unique man. He will honor Misha because his heart is theirs. It’s because of Misha that Dutch can live. Please.”

Peering over at Misha, I can’t help but think he would actually like Dutch’s strange name because Misha never judged. He accepted everyone.

I watch the rise and fall of his chest and memorize every single breath. But this won’t be the last memory I have of my son.

I come to a shaky stand and forget where I am as I climb onto the hospital bed and press my ear to Misha’s chest. I listen to the tender rhythm of his heart, the heart which was always too big for this world.

Wrapping my arms around him, I sob quietly. I don’t think I’ll ever run out of tears. “I’m sorry, Misha. I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this. You deserve to live. If I could give you my life, I would, because I am nothing without you. Please forgive me. This is my fault.”

Clutching Misha, I remember his smell, the softness of his skin. I remember that no matter what happens, in life or death, he will always, always be my son.

“Okay,” I whisper, choking back my tears. “You can have his heart because mine is fucking broken.”

And those are the last words uttered as I succumb to the darkness, wishing to never see the light again.

This is fucked up.

There is something incredibly morbid about being excited to accept the heart of another to help you live because you know for that to happen—they have to die.

But here I am, in an Uber, on the way to the hospital because I got “the call.”

When Dr. Norton called, it was apparent she was more enthusiastic than me. She explained the donor was a healthy male and was on life support. She didn’t give me any other details. With her colleague, Dr. Sterling, they had run the tests and he was a perfect match.

But that seems like the wrong phrase to use when speaking of taking someone’s heart and making it your own.

I hate that I need it. I wish we both could live and if this were a perfect world, that’s what the outcome would be.

I think of his family, how they probably hate me for doing something their loved one can’t—live.

I was born with a congenital heart defect, a hole in the heart which should have closed over, but didn’t. I had surgery which “fixed” it. For a little while, anyway.

I lived a relatively normal life, doing all the things a kid with a normal heart can do. But the doctors told my parents I wasn’t to do anything too strenuous. I stayed away from sports as my overprotective parents were worried I would overdo it and undo the surgery. Not possible, but lucky for me, I didn’t like sports.

But music…music was my calling.

I was six the first time I heard Beethoven and fell in love. I then listened to every piece of music I could get my hands on. My fondest memories are laying on my bedroom floor with my dad’s oversized headphones as I listened to the classics on vinyl.

I loved every instrument as each one has the ability to transport you to another world, but I soon learned that piano was my soulmate.

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