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Chapter Twenty-Five


"I freaking love your mother," Leighanne said thirty minutes later as she dropped her bag onto the guest bedroom's bed. "She is so sweet."

My mother had met us in the lobby of the airport holding a sign that said Baby Duck on it. She'd greeted Leighanne with a big hug and proceeded to chat about hair color with her while my father, who was waiting in the car outside, filled me in on the latest news about the Wildcats. The ride home had been a jumble of voices and chaos and when we'd arrived back to my parents' place, my mom had sent us upstairs to freshen up, warning us dinner was in her crock pot and would be ready in just a few minutes. "Just heatin' up the sides," she said, "So fresh up quick."

I'd showed Leighanne to the guest room. I leaned against the door frame. "So um... my parents," I said slowly, unsure how to bridge the trail of thought I was about to meander down, "They're pretty um... they're really -- you know, they're strict Christians..."

"No whoopie, got it," Leighanne smiled.

I nodded. "Right."

She came over and kissed my cheek. "No problem."

"We can make up for lost time when we get home," I said.

Leighanne laughed.

At dinner a few minutes later, as my mom was piling potatoes onto my plate because I apparently looked "too skinny", I cleared my throat. "Ma.. Dad... Thanks for letting Leighanne and I stay over."

"Of course Baby Duck, this is your home." My mom started piling carrots on, passing the bowl of potatoes off to my father.

I locked eyes with Leighanne, whose lips were just starting to curl into a smile. Her eyes sparkled. "Well, see, the thing is, it was really important to me that you meet Leighanne --"

"We've been just dying to meet you," my mom interrupted me, turning to Leighanne. She handed my dad the carrots and grabbed the green beans. I got a generous helping of those, too.

"Ma sit down for a second," I said, stilling her hands.

She paused. Fear creeped into her eyes. "Brian, what's the matter?" she asked.

"Just sit a second, I wanna tell you guys something."

She dropped into her seat like her knees had given out from under her. "What is it?" she asked, breathless and nervous.

"Relax Ma," I said, laughing, "It's a good thing."

"What is it?" my father asked, "Say it before Jackie has a tizz fit."

"I'm not having a tizz fit," she said, waving the serving spoon at him.

Leighanne bit her lower lip in anticipation.

"On my birthday," I said slowly, "I asked Leighanne to marry me."

My mother's jaw dropped. My father stared at the pot roast in the center of the table. Leighanne gnawed her lower lip. I looked between the three of them slowly, studying each of their faces. The longest, most incredible silence fell over the room.

And then my mother burst into noise.

"MY BABY DUCK IS GETTIN' MARRIED!" she bellowed. She leaped back to her feet and ran around the table to Leighanne. "To such a beautiful girl!" she squeezed Leighanne into her tightly, and my dad reached over and clapped me on the back, nodding in approval. "Champagne! CHAMPAGNE! We need champagne!" She rushed off into the kitchen.

"Congratulations son," my dad announced as Leighanne, now freed from the squeze, caught her breath and fixed her hair.

"Thanks," I answered, relieved.

My mom came running back into the room carrying a stack of paper cups and a bottle of sparkling cider. "This is all we have," she said. She quickly poured cider into each of the cups and handed them around to all of us. Her hands were shaking and her eyes pooled on the verge of tears, "Oh my Baby Duck you're all grown up," she gasped.

"I am," I nodded.

"Praise the Lord for this day," she said, tears beginning to flow, her voice breaking, "I done thought it'd never come, the day you would be all grown up, never thought it at all because I was just so thankful you made it far as you did..." She wiped her eyes.

"What your mother's trying to say is we're proud of you, Brian," my dad said.

We all cheersed and my mom proceeded to pull her chair up next to Leighanne to talk about wedding plans. Leighanne pulled her ring out of her pocket to show my mother, and my father and I ended up finishing up filling our plates and talking about the Wildcats again while we ate.

The next morning at breakfast, my mother proposed she and Leighanne get lunch and go shopping together. Leighanne had originally planned to come along with me to the doctor's office, but I assured her I was fine and that she should go with my mom. After all, I told her, it was a good thing for them to bond and all Dr. Carlsbad was going to do was give me some new meds or something and send me off home. Plus, it was a good distraction for my mother, so she wouldn't ask questions and find out that I had a doctor's appointment.

It sort of surprised me it was easier for me to tell my parents about my getting engaged than about the fact that I had a doctor's appointment.

And so off they went. And off I went, too.

Dr. Carlsbad's office always smelled of a certain scent - something I could never quite place a name to, but it was very distinct. I sat in the waiting room flipping through a magazine and waitined for my name to be called. People milled around the waiting room around me, and I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, siting in a corner by a large plant.

Finally, a nurse called my name and led me into an exam room, where she gave me one of those goofy gown things and took my blood pressure and temperature, and asked the routine questions. She excused herself, promising that Dr. Carlsbad would be in shortly, then slipped out of the room, leaving me alone to look at all the anti-smoking charts and so-called artwork that dotted the walls. I shifted my weight, making the paper cackle beneath me, and hesitantly changed out of my jeans and t-shirt and into the patient attire.

After what seemed forever, Dr. Carlsbad came into the exam room. He was carrying a chart and walked over, hand extended. "Brian," he said, "it's been awhile."

"I know," I nodded and shook his hand.

"Missed a couple appointments we booked," he noted, looking at the chart. He looked back up at me, "How have you been feeling?" he asked.

"Good," I answered, "Very good actually. Extremely good." I felt my face flush.

He blew onto the stethescope to warm it up. "You aren't lying to me are you?"

"No sir," I answered.

"Cos I'll find out," he warned jokingly, pressing the stethescope to my back.

"Well..." I drew a deep breath. "There was this one thing in California a couple weeks ago."

"Hmm?" he hummed, moving the stethescope, "What kind of thing?" I told him about shooting hoops and Nick having to bring me into the hotel room and the dull ache that had been bothering me for quite some time now. He nodded and drew away, turned, writing something on his clipboard and pulled a chair over. He sat down. "And how have you been treating this?"

"Aspirin," I replied.

"How many have you taken?" he asked.

"I dunno, a couple bottles," I answered.

Dr. Carlsbad stared at me, his eyes serious with disapproval. "Brian," he said, "You should've been here weeks ago. You should've been here at the first sign of pain. Why didn't you come sooner? Why didn't you call?"

"It's really not all that serious," I answered, "I really am healthy as a horse! You should see the show - it's crazy..."

"Brian, it may be serious," he said.

"What?" I asked.

Dr. Carlsbad's words came slowly, "Brian, your heart beat is very irratic, and there's some sounds going on that has me concerned. We need to run some tests. I need to look at that heart of yours. I need some blood, an x-ray, and an echocardiogram."

"Can't you just give me meds to keep it from hurting?" I asked.

He sighed. "I told you last year when we looked at it that your heart was inflammed, remember?"

I nodded. "Yes." I paused, "But since then I've been exercising a lot. I'm in really good shape. I mean we do this like two-hour show every night and it's almost exclusively cardio..."

"I'm glad to hear you're exercising, Brian, but sometimes it's not enough. Particularly with congenital defects where the tissue started out damaged in some way. You can't repair damage that's already there, only strengthen the muscle."

I shook my head, "I know that, but I'm really fine. I'm in good shape."

"Brian I spoke to you last year about the possibility of needing surgery very soon," Dr. Carlsbad said slowly, "And then you neglected coming back for over a year. Now, I need to look at your heart better - I need some scans and stuff so I can see how your heart is doing - really doing. Especially given your recent scare. But I'm telling you from what I just heard listening to your heart beat... Your heart is pumping much harder than it needs to be."

I stared at him, my throat tightening. "Okay."

"I know you don't want to hear this - nobody wants to hear this type stuff..."

I stared at my knees.

Dr. Carlsbad sighed. "Look, don't go feeling down about it until I've looked, okay?" he placed a reassuring hand on my knee, in my eye range. I looked up at him. "We'll tackle this thing one step at a time."

So I signed some forms and I was carted off to tests and the like, and hours later than I thought I would be I found myself still laying in a bed, waiting to see Dr. Carlsbad again. I hugged the blanket I'd been issued to my chest, a strange, sinking, awful sort of feeling crawling through my veins. I stared at the window, where the sun was starting to fade off over the parking lot, turning the windshields of the cars outside all golden.

Please God, I found myself thinking, Please, don't let me need surgery.

The idea of surgery terrified me because everyone I'd ever known who had gotten surgery had passed away. Despite my years of battling a heart condition, I'd never had surgery. Dr. Noonan had always insisted my heart would work its own kinks out over time, and so even though I'd spent so much time at the hopsital as a child, it truly was only for check-ups and general visits, never surgery.

The closest I'd ever come was stitches, like the ones I'd had after falling off the trunk in Indiana.

When the room door opened and Dr. Carlsbad entered the room, his face was somber. He walked to the x-ray light cubes counted on the wall, turned them on and hung up three scans in front of the light. He turned to me. "This here," he said, pointing to the first one, "Is the average heart in a man of your height, weight, and race."

I nodded. Suddenly, I felt dizzy as I realized where this talk was probably headed...

"This one," he pointed to the next image, in which the heart was bigger than the first one - nearly twice as large, "Is the average size of a heart which we need to operate on in order to keep it functioning properly."

I looked at the difference between the second and the third images he'd hung, and I felt my spirit sink. "And the third one?" I asked, bracing myself.

Dr. Carlsbad pointed to the third one, which was easily the biggest of them all. "It's yours."

I stared at the picture hovering before me and my stomach twisted. "Good Lord," I whispered.

Dr. Carlsbad sighed and sank into the seat my mother normally would've filled beside the bed I sat in. "Brian," he said, "Your heart is more than twice the size it should be. It's bigger than what I would expect a guy built like he's an NFL line backer to look like." He took a deep breath. "You have what is called a Ventricular Septal Defect, which has developed from the murmur that you were diagnosed with as a child."

"And what is that?" I asked quietly.

He got up and walked to a white board hanging beside the light box. He pulled a dry erase marker from the tray at the base and quickly drew an anatomically correct heart. He circled the bottom quarter of the muscle. "Here are your ventricles, they're the two lower chambers of your heart. They're separated by a thin wall called a septum. A normally working heart will pump unoxygenated blood through the right upper chamber - the atrium - into the right ventricle..." he drew a blue line through the chambers as he spoke. "That blood is then pumped into the lungs, where the blood is oxygenated as you breathe, and then it comes back up into the left ventricle, the left atrium, and out into your arteries and veins to oxygenate your entire body."

I stared at the illustration. "Okay," I said, "So what does a Ventricular Septal Defect do differently?" I asked.

Dr. Carlsbad switched markers and, using a green one now, he drew as he spoke once again. "A patient with a VSD essentially has a hole in the septum, allowing blood to pass from ventricle to ventricle. Either unoxygenated blood contaminates the oxygenated blood flow, or the oxygented blood will have a splash-back effect. In your case, Brian, you have a VSD with the splash-back. Basically what is happening is your heart is passing the blood through to the lungs okay but instead of going to the left atrium to be distributed correctly, your oxygenated blood is sneaking into the VSD and recirculating through your lungs. This is overworking your heart, as it's being forced to pump a greater volume of blood than it is designed by your height and weight to pump, and causing a lower oxygen level in the rest of your body."

I closed my eyes; I wanted to shut the world out. "What happens," I whispered. "Does it kill people?"

"Yes," Dr. Carlsbad said, "Left untreated, this could eventually kill you. Eventually, the overworked ventricle will fail and you'll suffer from pulmonary congestion and congestive heart failure."

I twiddled my thumbs. "And what do you do to fix it?"

Dr. Carlsbad took a deep breath, "It's a complicated surgery," he said slowly. "And because of that, I'm going to recommend you to a more skilled cardiologist. My friend Gordon Danielson works at the Mayo Clinic. He's an extremely gifted cardiothorastic surgeon."

I closed my eyes again.

"I'm going to get you started on a couple IV medications today that are going to help prep you for Dr. Danielson to arrive -- an antibiotic, and a couple others to help the venticle relax and remove excess fluid..."

"Wait, wait, hold on," I said, shaking my head, "An IV?"

"Of course," Dr. Carlsbad responded. "The antibiotic is especially important as you'll need to constantly fight infection..."

"Wait, wait," I waved my hand, "Hold up a second. I can't get the surgery now," I said.

Dr. Carlsbad shook his head, "No, Dr. Danielson is based in Rochester, Minnesota."

"No I mean because of my schedule," I argued, "I mean to say that I can't have it right now. I have to be in Jamaica in less than a week. I have a tour, a fiance, I have all this stuff going on, I don't have time for surgery."

"You need this surgery immediately Brian, you've already gone far too long without it," he argued back.

"I can't stay here right now," I said firmly, "There's no way I can rearrange the schedule..."

Dr. Carlsbad frowned. "Brian, you need this surgery or you're going to die."