Brian (II)
Brian held the pager in his lap for the duration of the twenty-five-minute drive into Lexington, Kentucky. He rode in the passenger seat, his portable oxygen tank tucked between his ankles, while Becci drove.
Normally, when Becci drove, she did so one-handed, her left hand perched on the bottom of the steering wheel while her right elbow leaned against the armrest that separated their two seats. Not today, though. Today, she sat up straight and leaned forward over the wheel, both hands clutching it in the proper ten and two positions, her grip so tight that her knuckles were white. Brian knew the city traffic made her nervous – in fact, before he’d gotten sick, he had always done the driving when they went out together – but that wasn’t all this time.
“Relax, honey,” he told her, over the low hum of the radio. “There’s no hurry. You know it’ll just be more waiting when we get to the hospital.”
“I know, but the sooner we get there, the sooner they can start testing you, and maybe the better your chances for getting this heart.” Her voice tremored. Brian sighed. He reached out to pat her thigh.
“I don’t think it’s first come, first serve, Becs. Don’t get your hopes up. I told you, the nurse said I’d only been paged as a back-up. It probably won’t be me today.”
“But it could be,” Becci insisted, stubbornly optimistic. “That’s why we have to… God!” She slammed on her brakes as the traffic in front of her slowed, and their car jerked to a stop. “I don’t get stop-and-go traffic. If everyone just kept going, no one would have to stop! Go!” she yelled, pounding on the steering wheel.
Brian suppressed a smirk. His wife had the patience of a saint, until you put her behind the wheel when she was running late. He shuddered to think what she had looked like speeding home from the elementary school to pick him up.
It seemed like Becci had just left for work when the phone rang. Really, she’d been there for an hour and a half already; Brian had fallen back to sleep, and it was the ringing of the phone that had awoken him. By the time he’d shaken himself out of his stupor enough to realize it and answer, though, the ringing had stopped, and all he’d heard when he’d picked up the receiver on the bedside table was a dial tone. It was then that the pager had started to vibrate, and he’d made the connection: the hospital was trying to reach him. There was a heart.
With shaking hands, he’d grabbed the phone again and dialed the number that had flashed on his pager. The hospital receptionist who answered had put on a nurse from the transplant team, who’d given him what few details she could. There was indeed a donor heart, which matched him in size and blood type. He wasn’t at the top of the UNOS list, and he wasn’t the only one in the area who had fit the preliminary match, but they wanted him to come to the hospital anyway and undergo some tests. It was possible that the other potential recipients who had been called wouldn’t be perfect matches after all, in which case the heart would go to him.
It was a long shot, but worth the drive. As the sights of the city replaced the country scenery that surrounded their home in Wilmore, Brian marveled over the changes that had taken place just since the last time he’d been out and about. “Hey, they repainted the Walmart,” he noticed, looking out at the newly tan exterior of the Supercenter.
“Mm-hm,” Becci responded, distracted, uninterested. Brian continued to stare out the window. A line of cars idled in the turn lane, waiting to turn into the sprawling parking lot, while others streamed out. Regular people, going about the everyday errands of their everyday lives. Nothing more than the typical worries on their minds: what to cook for dinner that night, what the credit card statement was going to look like that month, whether they could afford the brand name cereal or if they should stick to the store brand, if Michael was going to do well on his science test that morning, or if Jenny would make the soccer team.
There was nothing everyday about going in for a heart transplant.
“Was that the Chick-Fil-A they bulldozed?” Brian asked, trying in vain to keep both his and Becci’s mind on the mundane, as he puzzled over the pile of dirt and rubble where there had once been a small building.
“Yep.”
“I know you’re mournin’ the loss of that fine establishment,” Brian teased, trying to prod more than a one-word response out of her.
Finally, a smile. “Can’t say I’ve shed too many tears over it. You know their so-called ‘chicken’ always made me nauseous. The fact that anyone prefers Chick-Fil-A to KFC is a sin.”
“A sin? The fact that you think KFC is true Kentucky fried chicken is pure sacrilege, woman,” Brian shot back. “You Illinois girls don’t know nothin’ about authentic Southern cuisine. My mom’s fried chicken… now that’s some real Kentucky fried chicken.”
“Oh, don’t you ‘Illinois girls’ me, Brian Thomas Littrell,” Becci chided. “My dad grew up in Kentucky-”
“And you grew up in our fine neighbor to the north, so don’t you go actin’ like a native. You’re a transplanted Kentuckian, and as long as you keep that Yankee accent of yours, you always will be.
His words hung in the air. Becci had no smart reply, and he knew why. Transplanted. The word stopped them both in their tracks, reminding them why they were here, in the car together, heading into downtown Lexington on the middle of a Tuesday morning. Brian wanted to forget, to delay the reality a little longer. “Pity,” he said, “about the Chick-Fil-A bein’ gone, when I’ve got a perfectly good excuse to stuff myself full of their greasy goodness. Who cares about clogged coronaries when your heart’s failin’ all on its own?”
“You’ll want those coronaries in good shape when you get your new heart,” replied Becci, her voice sharp, determined. “Which is going to happen. Today.”
Brian chuckled, his own heart staccatoing with the first jolt of fear as she turned off the street and into the parking lot of Saint Joseph Hospital.
He rode in a wheelchair to the heart institute, where a nurse from the transplant team welcomed him with a bright smile and a warm handshake. “Mr. Littrell, I’m glad you could make it. I’m Rose; we spoke on the phone earlier this morning. If you’re ready, I’ll take you to your room; we’ll get you all set up for your tests and find out if today’s your lucky day!”
If you’re ready… How could he ever really, truly, be ready? It was practically a paradox, this business of waiting for a transplant. On one hand, he wanted it. He wanted to feel good again. He wanted to be active without becoming light-headed or short of breath. He wanted to be able to put his hand on his chest and feel a heartbeat that was strong and steady and didn’t make him woozy. He wanted to be free of the fear that his heart would suddenly give out, though he suspected he never would.
On the other hand, he was terrified of going under, even more terrified of not coming out of it. His heart, the heart he’d been born with, was keeping him alive, sick as it was. Once they took it out, there was no going back. If the new heart didn’t work, he was dead. If he rejected the heart, he was dead. If anything went wrong – and there were so many things that could – he was dead. Dying naked on a cold operating table with his chest split open seemed much worse than dying in his own, warm bed, with Becci holding his hand. He didn’t want to go that way.
But he swallowed the fear, forced the unpleasant thoughts and images out of his mind, and managed to return a thin smile as he told the nurse, “Let’s do it.”
***
Less than three hours later, Brian found himself lying on a gurney in the pre-op room, holding Becci’s hand. In his other hand was an IV, delivering a combination of antibiotics, anti-rejection drugs, and a mild sedative. His chest and groin had been shaved, consent forms had been signed, and in a matter of minutes, he would be whisked into an OR suite to be put under. When he awoke – if he awoke – a new heart would be beating in his chest.
“You were right, hon,” he said, looking up at his wife with a faint smile. “You said it was gonna happen today, and you were right.”
“I’m always right. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” Becci winked, smiling back, but he could see the corners of her mouth quivering and knew she was on the verge of tears. He had a feeling she was going to break down as soon as he was wheeled into the OR, if not before. He hoped she would hold it together, because if she lost it, he likely would, too.
After such a long wait, during which he had always imagined he would feel excitement and relief when he finally got the call for a new heart, the morning’s events felt like a blur. Everything had happened so fast: the pager going off, the call to Becci, the ride to the hospital, the last-minute blood tests, and finally, the news that the heart would be his. He hadn’t expected it. He’d always known he was a back-up, an alternate, an understudy, the third-string candidate. The chances of the heart bypassing the other candidates – those who were sicker and higher on the list – before him were slim. But somehow, he had beaten out the lead players and proven to be the best match for the donor heart. The next thing he knew, he was being prepped for surgery.
There had hardly been time to think, to mentally prepare, for what he was about to undergo. It was a race against time now: the heart was being flown in by helicopter from another hospital, and it was only viable outside the body for a matter of hours. The transplant team had to be ready and waiting when it arrived, in order to transplant it into Brian’s body within the accepted margin of time. That meant there was no delaying, no reconsidering. This was it.
“I know, I know,” Brian murmured, running his thumb over Becci’s knuckles. “You’re always right. How could I forget?”
“We’ll blame the sedative,” replied Becci, squeezing his hand. “Is it helping you relax at all?”
“I guess. I feel kinda foggy… but at least I’m not freakin’ out. Wouldn’t wanna tax the ol’ ticker too much before they take it out of me. Gotta take it easy…”
With her free hand, Becci reached up and smoothed his hair away from his forehead. “You’re gonna be fine,” she said, as she did this. She had always liked to run her fingers through his curls. It felt good, soothing, perhaps because it reminded him of how his mother had comforted him when he was sick as a child.
“Will you call my mom and update her on what’s going on?” he asked suddenly. He knew his mother was aware of what was happening, because Becci had called on her way home from work to ask her to keep Calhan longer.
“Of course,” Becci smiled, nodding. “I told you, I called her while you were getting prepped, to let her know it was a go. She said to give you her love and that she was already praying, remember?”
“Oh yeah…” The sedative really had put him in a fog, he realized.
“I’ll call her again once you’re in surgery. Maybe she’ll want to bring Calhan up for awhile.”
A picture of Brian’s son swam hazily in his mind, and for the first time, tears sprung to his eyes. He swallowed hard and tried to collect his thoughts, wanting to make himself clear. “If something goes wrong, tell her and Dad that I love them. And tell Cal…”
“I know,” Becci said quickly. Her eyes were now bright with tears, too, and her voice sounded thick as she continued, “And I’ll make sure he knows, too. But Brian… don’t worry about it, alright? You’re gonna be fine. If there’s anyone who can get through this, it’s you. You’re strong…”
“I know,” Brian echoed her. “Just in case…”
“Just in case,” she agreed, squeezing his hand again. Then she looked away, and he could tell she was trying to collect herself, trying to hold the tears at bay. He swallowed again and blinked his own back, trying to reassure himself that this conversation was unnecessary, that he’d see her again in a matter of hours, in a world of pain but with a healthy new heart beating life into his body. He didn’t want to consider the alternative, that this could be the last time he saw his wife, and that he would never see his son, nor the rest of his family, again.
The curtain that sectioned off his corner of the pre-op room suddenly rattled open, and Brian recognized his transplant nurse, Rose. “The heart is en route, and Dr. Robert is scrubbing in,” she announced, with a cheerful air of anticipation. “You ready to get this show on the road?”
There it was again, that word ready. Brian felt he would never be completely ready to let go of Becci’s hand and have his heart cut out. But, knowing he had no choice – or, at least, no rational choice but this – he nodded.
Becci walked alongside his gurney as Rose wheeled it out of the room he was in and into the hallway. Another nurse was waiting to help transport him into the OR. “This is where you say ‘see ya soon,’” said Rose to Becci, putting a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll have you wait in the family room down the hall, to your right. I’ll try to come update you at least once during the operation, but don’t worry if you go a few hours without hearing from anyone. The surgery usually takes four to six hours, but it can take longer, and that doesn’t always mean something’s wrong.”
Becci nodded, before bending down to Brian. She gave him an awkward hug, which he returned one-armed, and whispered, “I love you,” her warm breath caressing his ear.
“Love you too,” he murmured back. “See ya in a few hours.”
“See you soon,” she echoed as she straightened up again. He could see that her eyes were full of tears again, and her chin was quivering with the effort not to let them fall. She had been his constant companion and caretaker for the duration of the long wait, and it all came down to this moment. Struck by his love for her, he flashed her a wide grin, which she returned, tearfully.
It was that last image of her that he held in his mind as the two nurses wheeled him away. In the operating room, when the anesthesiologist placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and instructed him to breathe deeply and count back from ten, Brian closed his eyes against the brightness of the lights overhead and pictured his wife’s bright smile instead, as he counted himself into darkness.
***
