Page 31 of Dirty Little Secrets
“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’syourjob 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 canlive, Miss Jones,” Dr. Yang states. “And that’s more than the 3,500 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“Withdrawn, I suppose.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 twenties hooked to an LVAD waiting for another organ 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.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter, heading to the door. “Have a good weekend, Dr. Yang.”
“No smoking!”
I flash the receptionist a flat smile as I exit the medical center and run through the rain toward my car.
It never ends. The testing. The check-ups. The monitoring. Twenty-eight years of being poked and prodded and treated like some lab rat. New treatment. New medicine. New doctor. Eat this. Take this. Drink this. Lay down. Sit up. This might sting. Lay still. Don’t move. Deep breath.
It’ll never end. This is my life. For the rest of my miserable fucking life, I’ll be a dancing monkey for the health care system. But no, I can’t complain, because if I complain then I’m ungrateful, ungracious, and undeserving. As if I chose this life. As if I decided to be born with a fucked up heart. My heart’s been broken since I opened my eyes, and they’ve never been able to fix it. Not in the way that matters.
“Em!” Tom hollers from down the block as I unlock the Mercedes. “Emery!”
“Tom?” What is hedoinghere?Stalker 2.0. Should we be flattered or scared?I frown at him. “What are you doing here?”
“You never called me back,” he pants, removing his glasses and wiping the lenses on his pants. “Figured I’d catch you here.”
