A Brush of Wings (5 page)

THE SITUATION WITH
Mary Catherine was getting critical.

Aspyn and Ember had been there tonight—invisible—in the apartment when Sami came home from the Youth Center. They had hoped Mary Catherine would tell Sami the truth. About her need for a heart transplant. If Sami knew, then she would encourage Mary Catherine to immediately fly home from Africa when her symptoms grew worse. Or better, convince her to stay in Los Angeles.

If Mary Catherine didn’t make it back from Africa in time, she would die. In which case, the mission would fail.

Earlier in the day, Ember had arranged for an extra project to land on Mary Catherine’s desk. Because of that she left work late and didn’t make a trip to the ocean. A victory for Aspyn and Ember. They had to keep Mary Catherine away from the beach. Even a few hours of exertion on her already damaged heart could take days off her life.

Days she didn’t have.

The angels had done everything right. But still Mary Catherine had avoided the conversation about her heart. Now Aspyn and Ember were headed once more to Camelback Ranch for another idea, one that involved Marcus Dillinger.

If only Mary Catherine would cooperate.

3

M
ARY CATHERINE HAD BEEN
dreading this appointment for weeks.

A few days ago she’d gone into Dr. Cohen’s office for another round of tests. Today he would give her the results. The nurse called her name minutes after she arrived.

The floor shifted as she stood, and spots clouded her vision.
Calm down,
she told herself.
Don’t be afraid. Breathe.
Whatever was happening inside her chest, God already knew. He had a plan for her life—a good plan. Mary Catherine believed that completely. But somehow her heart felt tight as she followed the nurse down the hallway to an exam room.

Mary Catherine slipped into a paper gown and crossed her legs. Outside temperatures were in the mid-eighties. Warm for Los Angeles in early March. But here on the exam table, Mary Catherine’s teeth chattered. Her fingers were freezing.

Not more bad news. Please, God . . . not now.

Again the wait was brief. Dr. Cohen knocked first, and then joined her. He shut the door behind him and immediately she knew. The look on his face told Mary Catherine two things: The news wasn’t good. And she was about to get more restrictions.

Dr. Cohen held her chart in his hands and for a few seconds he looked at her, his expression pained.

“Bad news?” Mary Catherine’s voice trembled, her words soaked in fear
. I need more time, God . . . please.

She held her breath and waited.

“Your functions are worse.” He sighed and opened the folder. “The insufficiency is more pronounced. Your heart’s enlarged and thicker—which is a precursor to heart failure, as you know.”

Mary Catherine nodded. She pulled her paper gown more tightly around herself. “Did you expect it to happen more slowly?”

The doctor brought his lips together and stared at the contents of the folder. “I had hoped.”

Her trip to Uganda was set, so Mary Catherine didn’t mention it. “What happens next?”

“I’d like to officially place you on the heart transplant list. But even then I’m not sure we’ll have enough time. You’re deteriorating very quickly.” He breathed in sharp through his nose and looked at her. “How’s your activity level? We talked about adrenaline last time you were in, trying not to overexert yourself.”

Mary Catherine stared at the floor for a few heartbeats. She hated this, hated having to ration her brightest moments, the times that took such a toll on her life. She looked at Dr. Cohen. “I haven’t been skydiving.”

He smiled, patient with her. “You know what I mean. What about the ocean?”

She thought about her flat tires and the late assignment the other day. “I haven’t been. Not lately.”

“Mary Catherine . . .” The tension in the room doubled, and a heaviness weighted the doctor’s tone. “This is very serious. You absolutely cannot spend time in the ocean. I’d like you to walk five to ten minutes a day, no more. And only at an easy pace.” His expression was intense. “No bike riding, no running, nothing that will put extra strain on your heart.” He hesitated. “You understand, right?”

“Adrenaline is bad for my heart.” It wasn’t a question. Mary Catherine already knew.

“Not just that.” He straightened and set her file on the counter. “Any unnecessary activity means heart strain. The harder your heart works, the fewer days you’ll have before you need a transplant.” He let that sink in. “Do you remember the statistics about getting a heart transplant?”

Mary Catherine had memorized them.

God worked outside the numbers, but even so, the reality was grim. Between five and ten thousand people were on the wait list for a heart at any time. But only two thousand transplants were performed in the United States each year.

Which meant most patients died waiting.

Dr. Cohen didn’t ask her to recite what she knew. Instead he pulled a piece of paper from her folder and handed it to her. “I’d like you to look over this information sheet. It’s about the transplant. I’d like to put you on as a Status Two patient. The less urgent ranking.”

Panic took punches at Mary Catherine’s calm demeanor. She looked over the fact sheet and her mouth felt dry. “You remember . . . I’m headed to Uganda?”

A frown darkened Dr. Cohen’s face. “You were still planning on going?”

“I was.” She paused. “I am.” Never mind her hesitancy the other night. With this news, nothing could change her mind. “It might be my last chance.”

Dr. Cohen shook his head. “We’ll talk about Uganda in a minute.” He narrowed his eyes. “The transplant list has two levels—Status One is for patients already in the hospital. That’s the urgent list. People in grave condition with very little time. Days, in some cases.”

Mary Catherine caught a full breath. Finally, something to be thankful for. At least she wasn’t Status One.

He continued. “The other is Status Two. Patients who need a new heart to survive, but the situation isn’t as urgent.” Dr. Cohen nodded at the fact sheet. “You’ll notice Status Two patients can wait six months to several years in some cases.” He crossed his arms. “Which is why your name will be added today. As long as you want to be considered for a new heart.”

Want to be considered? Dizziness washed over Mary Catherine again. She gripped the sides of the exam table so she wouldn’t fall off. “I’m sorry?” Was she really sitting here? Listening to a doctor tell her it was time to be added to a transplant wait list? She blinked slowly, keeping her eyes shut extra long.
Focus,
she told herself.
Dear God, what’s happening?
“I’m . . . I’m not sure what to say.”

“Mary Catherine . . . do you want a new heart?”

Of course she did. She wanted to live. Absolutely. If she could blink and walk out of here with a new heart she would do so without any hesitation. If only it were that easy. “Yes.” She uttered the word and nodded her head. “Yes, I do.”

“So then”—he paused—“you need to be on the wait list. When a heart becomes available it is evaluated against the profiles of those waiting. We look for a blood match first, from the urgent list, and then at the health of the recipient, how long he or she has been on the wait list, location, that sort of thing. If we don’t find a match on the Status One list, we move to Status Two.” He paused. “Are you okay with that?”

What choice did she have? Some of the fog in her mind cleared. “I can still go to Uganda?”

A quiet sigh slipped between Dr. Cohen’s lips. He took hold of her file again and opened it. For a long time he sorted through the pages. Finally he lifted his eyes to hers. “If your name is called while you’re in Uganda, you will lose your chance at a heart. That will go on your file, and you may be passed over the next time a matching heart comes up. We typically give transplant patients a beeper so you’ll know immediately when a heart is available. Of course, a beeper does you no good in Uganda, Mary Catherine.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “You said it could take a while to get a heart.” She wiped at a couple of tears. “Can I be on the list and pick up the beeper when I get back?”

“It’s risky.” Dr. Cohen looked nervous. “I’d rather you stay here, catch up on your reading, and keep your beeper as close as your cell phone.”

Another tear slid down her cheek. She forced herself to stay composed. “The thing is”—she searched his eyes—“I could do that and die waiting.” She sniffed. “Right?”

It was a rhetorical question. They both knew the answer. Most people died waiting. “I’m trying to help you live.”

“Me, too.” She sat a little taller, unwavering this time.

They were at an impasse. Mary Catherine found a new strength, something deep inside her soul. “For me, there’ll never be a better time to go to Uganda. After the transplant—if I get a transplant—I’ll have medicines and follow-ups and every day will be a gift. I won’t be able to leave for at least six months.”

Dr. Cohen didn’t speak. Clearly he could say nothing to refute her.

“Here’s the thing . . . I’ll never get married or have children. I won’t skydive or ride the waves at Santa Monica Beach. I promise.” It took everything to keep her composure. “But Uganda . . . that’s something I can do. It’s
very
important to me. Besides, there’s a hospital there. I can let them know about my situation.”

He nodded, his eyes softer than before. After a long while he exhaled again, resignation in his tone. “I understand.” He stood and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll hold the beeper for you.”

Fresh tears blurred her eyes and Mary Catherine could do nothing to stop them. She covered her face with her hands. When she spoke her voice was barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

“One thing . . . you need to tell your family and friends about the transplant. You’ll need a support team.”

Mary Catherine said nothing. She hated this part of the conversation. Her parents would be devastated about the news. She wanted to wait as long as possible before telling them. Marcus was busy with spring training and Sami was in the happiest season ever. Why tell any of them now about the transplant? They’d find out soon enough.

“Every heart patient needs a support team.” The doctor took a pen from his pocket and reached for her file again. “Why don’t you give me three names and their contact information?”

She let her eyes drift to the window. As long as she was the only one who knew, the idea of a transplant seemed like something from a nightmare. Not altogether real.

“Mary Catherine?” Dr. Cohen still had the pen poised over her file. “The names?”

Her heart pounded harder. She looked at the doctor. “Can I get that to you? Later? I can call the office in the next few days.”

Dr. Cohen looked doubtful. “That part isn’t optional.”

“I understand.”

“Okay.” He came closer. “Lie back. I’d like to listen to your murmur.” The doctor listened to several locations across her chest. Then he put the stethoscope away and took a seat opposite her. “You’ll need to get the proper shots before you go. Each of them holds a greater risk because of your condition.” He paused. “But I don’t think that’s going to change your mind.”

“It isn’t.” She sat up, holding the gown closed again.

He thought for a few seconds. “In an ideal world you’ll come back from Africa right about the time we find you a heart.”

“I think that’s what’s going to happen.” She nodded, convincing herself. “The timing could be perfect.”

“Yes.” Dr. Cohen stood and looked at her, right through her. “You believe in prayer, right? You’ve told me several times.”

“I do.” She was reminded of God’s role in her life and it brought a surge of hope. “Absolutely.”

“Well.” The doctor shook her hand. “This would be a great time to start praying.”

“Yes, sir.” She didn’t need to go into the fact that she prayed constantly about her heart. He seemed ready to get to his next patient.

The doctor turned for the door and then looked back at her. “And Mary Catherine?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Be careful in Uganda.” His slight smile was colored with concern. “I’ll see you in six months.”

Mary Catherine got dressed, checked out at the front desk, and headed for her car. The news was terrible and getting worse. She turned on the radio, rolled down her car windows, and took Pacific Coast Highway home to her apartment. Along the way she let the ocean breeze fill her lungs. She would not cry again, no matter how discouraged she felt. No matter what tomorrow held, today she would choose joy.

She remembered the mission trip to Africa and the orphans she’d helped when she was in high school. The team of women had handed out gifts of food and built a kitchen for the village. The children clamored around the volunteers, starving for attention. The looks on their little faces was something that had stayed with Mary Catherine. It was as if they’d never been loved like that before. From that moment on, Mary Catherine knew that one day she would be back, loving kids like those again. What was the purpose of life if she couldn’t take a season to make a difference?