I shouldn’t feel guilty about speaking my truth, but I do. I’ve become so accustomed to my inner circle of friends and family knowing the intricacies of my medical condition that I don’t need to worry about shocking them with my blunt honesties about my ailing heath.
Ellis is different. He used to be a part of my inner circle. Hell, he was the center of it for long enough. Not anymore, though. Yes, he knows about my history but only to a point. There’s so much he hasn’t been around for, but that was then and this is now, and I have a whole new catalog of problems he’s not been privy to.
My delivery was callous, and regardless of our past or even my inability to decide on an appropriate emotion toward him now—hatred, contempt, God, even love?—I shouldn’t have said anything. Not here. Not like this.
Of course, the moment I realize all of this is a second too late. I’ve told him I’m dying without any forewarning; no gentle ease in or steady build up, and it’s undoubtedly the reason for my guilt. To my horror, it manifests in an entirely unexpected way—my eyes begin to well. I’ve cried more these past twenty-four hours than I have in the last decade and it’s not me. I’m not the person who wears her emotions on her sleeve. I abhor it; I’m stronger than this.
Maybe it’s the distraught contortion of his face that summons my tears, or the unmistakable aura of helplessness that rolls from him in heavy, suffocating waves. He rests his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. I watch the way he drives his fingers roughly through his hair and into his scalp, his knuckles whitening with the force.
I blink, hoping the traitorous tears won’t spill from my bleary eyes. I know it’s all in my mind, but I swear that everyone in the diner is listening in and watching for my next move.
“You’re dying.”
The words are whispered so softly I’m not sure he meant to speak them at all. Certainly not to me, he hasn’t even lifted his head. They feel like a lead weight sitting on my chest, and I’m shocked at how much they scare me, how much they still hurt. I’ve voiced them to myself an inordinate amount of times, but other people don’t say them. I’m paralyzed for a moment, shaken to my core. Whoever said that a healthy dose of reality every now and again is a good thing is an asshole. It’s not like I’d forgotten my heart was irrevocably broken in every sense of the word, but I must have anesthetized my own mind to it. Watching Ellis’s response makes me feel like I did when my doctor first told me things had gotten worse: powerless.
“We all are really, if you think about it.” His head snaps up, his eyes red and his mouth set in a grim line. “I just have a heads up, is all.”
I slip into my counselor role, one I’m comfortable in. The one I can control. The need to soothe him takes precedence over the bad blood between us. It’s not a feeling I have a conscious govern over, it’s intrinsic, no matter my plight with him. My life could be written as a Shakespearian tragedy; my only love actually is sprung from my only hate, and as much as I wish it weren’t true, I may never have enough time to make my peace with that.
“You say that like you don’t think you’ll get a heart,” Ellis says, reaching across the space between us to rest his hand over mine.
I should move it, but I don’t. Instead, I ignore the fizz of electricity flowing up my arm.
“It’s not that,” I respond. “I’m just a realist. I’m not at the top of the transplant list yet, and even if I were you know as well as I do that my blood type dramatically lowers my chances of finding a good donor match. I’m hoping for the best but prepared for the worst.”
“But there’s still hope that you’ll find a match, right?”
I don’t have the strength to give him the stats and reel off the probabilities, so I do what I know I shouldn’t. I placate. I tell him what he wants to hear versus what he needs to hear. It’s an omission rather than a lie, and I do it as much for him as I do for myself.
“Yeah, Ellis. There’s always that chance.”
Breakfast was a fucking disaster of epic proportions. Once we’d both finished pushing food around on our plates that neither of us could stomach, we’d talked a little more. I know now that he’s been living in an apartment in Greensboro since his release from Morrison Correction in Hoffman County. The realization that it’s only an hour’s drive from home sits uncomfortably in the back of my mind. We walked back to my mom’s, and I dropped him off at his car before I could screw my mind up any further. I was so desperate to lighten the mood that I’d plummeted us both into the dangerous waters of reminiscing, and now I feel worse than ever, wondering if we’ll come back up for air. Kissing him last night has awakened a sleeping giant, and recollecting happier times with him now feels akin to placing a band-aid over a gaping shotgun wound. Futile.
2000
It had taken my entire first year at Duke to figure out who and where I wanted to be in my life. Spending so much time at the medical center talking with counselors, doctors, and other people with similar heart conditions to mine had opened my eyes. I started attending group sessions for people with heart complications a few months into my first semester. Ellis had pushed a pamphlet under my nose that he’d picked up at Dr. Butcher’s office. I’d been sitting in the center of our bed, tangled up in the yellow comforter feeling sorry for myself. My parents had left a little while before, and I was completely drained, both mentally and physically.
They visited more often than was probably accepted as normal, but it had its perks—Mom always brought food. I missed her homemade pies; the couple of times Ellis and I had ventured away from anything that needed more than microwaving, it never ended well. I could burn water, and if Ellis deviated from the three or four things that he knew how to cook, he’d wreck the kitchen so badly that it looked like we’d been burgled. The cupboards would be bare, and there wouldn’t be a single piece of kitchenware left unused. The cleanup operation was a bitch, and if the food was worth the labor I could overlook it, but it never was. Ellis was pretty awesome at most things—annoyingly so—but cooking wasn’t one of them.
My parents grilled me each and every time they visited. Had I been to my appointments? What were my results? Was I taking care to not overdo things? It was like the Spanish Inquisition: Mom fired questions, I answered then Dad over-analyzed what I’d just said, and questioned me further. If the FBI were ever recruiting middle-aged interrogators in our area, Mom and Dad would have been snapped up in a heartbeat. I knew they worried about me and were only trying to ease their own minds, making sure their little girl was okay, but their visits were exhausting.
“You look tired,” Ellis had said as he passed me the pamphlet and crawled onto the bed, pulling me down onto his chest. “I picked this up for you, I thought you might be interested. There’s a group that meets every couple of weeks on Thursday nights. From what Dr. Butcher said, it’s a great place to go and talk with other people that understand what you’re going through.”
“I’m kind of over talking about myself and reassuring everyone that I’m okay,” I bit out more harshly than I intended. He was comfy and warm, and there were better things we could be doing in bed than talking. I stretched over his wide chest, tossing the paper onto the bedside table.
“That’s the thing, though, Harlow. You’re constantly trying to reassure me, your parents, even your friends. This group wouldn’t be like that. They’re not expecting you to turn up and try to convince them all that you’re fine and that you don’t really want to throat punch the next person that asks if you’re feeling all right. They already know what it’s like. They live it too. I think it would be good for you. You should at least give it a try, even if it’s only one time.”
He’d been tracing figure eights on my shoulder as he spoke; he knew it was basically like hypnotism to me.
“I’ll think about,” I conceded, and he paused and kissed the top of my head. I wriggled to get him to carry on with the stroking, and he let out a soft chuckle.
“You’re like a lazy house cat that just wants to be petted.”
I lifted up onto my forearm and looked at him. His gray t-shirt made his eyes look stormier than their usual clear blue depths. He had a severe case of five o’clock shadow, and his golden hair had grown so long that it had a distinct wave to it, and when I pushed my hands through it I could grab a thick handful. It was unfair how soft his hair was, or how impossibly long his eyelashes were. Guys shouldn’t be allowed to be as effortlessly hot as he was. He woke up looking like an advertisement for Abercrombie. I woke up looking like I’d been dragged through a hedge backward, and that was on a good day.
“I feel like a burden. You’re always taking care of me,” I admitted, shocking myself. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the second it passed my lips I realized that it was the truth. I’d spent months waiting for him to get pissed with being my babysitter. I was scared that he’d start to resent me. That he felt like he was trapped in a situation he didn’t want to be in but was staying out of obligation. What guy our age wanted to stay home on weekends and spend his free time going for gentle walks, instead of partying ‘til all hours and doing dumb shit like the rest of his friends? I was holding him back.
He pushed backward up the bed to sit against the dark wooden headboard, looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite fathom.
“Why would you think like that?” he asked, the hurt evident in his voice. “You could never be a burden to me.”
I wanted to believe him, but there was a small part of me that couldn’t wrap my head around him not tiring of worrying about me.
“You say that but I’m not stupid, Ellis. You run around after me like I’m your responsibility and I’m not. We’ve thrust ourselves into a situation that most people don’t end up in until way after college. Think about it. We live like an old married couple, and I keep waiting for the moment that you figure out that it doesn’t have to be like this. You’re not the one who has to live this lifestyle.”
His expression darkened, the softness morphing into annoyance as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He was quiet for a few beats, taking in what I’d said, and I shifted uncomfortably, waiting for him to agree.
“You really think I’m that shallow?” he asked but didn’t give me time to respond. “That I’d walk away from us because you have health issues? I’m not in any situation that I don’t want to be in. I live with you because I want to wake up next to you every day—not because you have a heart condition and I’m too chicken to walk away. Jesus! Is that what you think? I’m here because I daren’t not be?”
He’d run his hand through his hair and expelled a frustrated breath through his nose. I hadn’t expected his reaction; the whole time Ellis and I had been together I could probably count on one hand the number of times that I’d seen him look pissed. He was always laid back; I couldn’t even remember the last time we argued, or what it had been over.
“I try my best to take care of you because I love you,” he sighed. “That’s the only reason I do anything. You’re not, and never could be a burden, Harlow. Granted, you can be a pain in the ass and stubborn as hell sometimes, but never a burden.”
I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. My heart pounded painfully in my chest as I digested his words. My relief was mixed with a pang of guilt for doubting him, but when you have someone in your life that’s seemingly perfect, you can’t help but look for faults. He shook his head and rose from the bed to walk out the room. I watched him as he looked back to where I was sitting, the disappointment clouding him like smoke. He didn’t say anything else, just walked out of our bedroom leaving me feeling like the most ungrateful girlfriend a guy could have, drowning in her own self-pity. That was the night I decided to give the Hearts & Minds group a go. I owed it to Ellis just as much as I owed it to myself to give it a chance. I had no idea when I walked through the door a week later that it would end up changing the course of my future forever.
“Fresh meat! Welcome, come and grab a drink,” a girl with green dreadlocks shouted as I stepped through the door in the medical center. It had a whiteboard with “Hearts & Minds, tonight 7-9pm” written on it.
I looked around hoping her comment wasn’t directed at me, even though I knew it was. My pulse thrummed as I twisted my hands together nervously and gave her a weak smile. I made my way slowly around the circle of blue plastic chairs until I reached the foldaway table that had been set up in the corner of the room. Tall glass jugs of juice and plastic cups had been haphazardly stacked high on it. I noted the plate of cookies, most of which had already been demolished despite it only being 6:55.
“Hi, I’m Tori,” the girl with the dreadlocks offered, thrusting her hand out for me to shake.
“Oh, um, hi. I’m Harlow.” I shook her hand before moving past her to busy myself pouring a drink. I scanned the table looking at the different containers, trying to deduce where the coffee was.
“It’s juice or water, I’m afraid,” Tori said, answering my unspoken question. “There’s no tea or coffee. I guess they don’t want any of us to drop dead from the caffeine,” she said rolling her eyes. I nodded and poured myself an orange juice.
“This is your first time then,” she stated rather than asked. “The guy with the black Henley on over there is Richard.” She pointed to a guy sitting in one of the plastic seats. He looked a little older than me, but not by a whole lot. I’d have guessed mid-twenties. “The guy he’s talking with, that’s Teddy. The older lady sitting over there is June, she’s like the momma bear of the group, and the quiet girl with the black hair sitting beside her is Larissa. She’s not very vocal in the group, but if you happen to bump into her at Shooters, well, it’s like meeting a whole different girl.”
“Okay,” I nodded, taking in the different names and knowing that I’d probably forget them within five minutes. “So who leads the actual group?” I asked assessing the people she’d pointed out.
“Oh, that’s Martin,” she said with a smirk I didn’t quite understand. “He’s not here yet, he’s never been on time once.”
I took a sip of my OJ and placed the cup back down on the table.
“So how long have you been coming to the group, Tori?” I suddenly felt like I needed to at least attempt to make polite conversation. What I wanted to do was take a step back from her so I could take her in all at once. It was like looking at a rainbow. Her bright green dreadlocks hit just above her waist, and she was wearing what looked to be a homemade-knitted sweater that was every shade of orange and red you could possibly imagine. Her gray jeans had different pieces of fabric sewn all over so they resembled a patchwork quilt and she was wearing a pair of bright yellow Doc boots. She should by all rights have looked ridiculous, but she didn’t—everything seemed to fit together perfectly.
“I’ve been coming for just under a year,” she said almost as brightly as her clothing, ignoring my blatant stare. “My mom convinced me to come after my bypass—I think she was worried that I wasn’t ever going to leave the house again.”
“Bypass?”
“Yeah, ASD.” She pointed to herself. “It’s basically a hole in the part of the septum that separates the upper chambers of my heart. I never knew I had a problem until I collapsed at a music festival. I think everyone just thought I was drunk or high because the group of friends I was with at the time was both. Thankfully, someone realized I needed help and before I knew what was happening, I’d had surgery to correct the problem and now here I am.”
I wanted to respond but wasn’t sure what to say. I mean, what can you say to that? I took another sip of my juice as the door flung open and a guy I could only assume was Martin rushed in.
“Sorry I’m late, guys,” he said dumping a brown satchel and a hefty load of papers down on one of the empty chairs, then pulling out the one next to it to sit down.
“That’s our cue to park our butts,” Tori whispered, steering me into the circle. I pulled out the chair nearest to us, and the legs scraped along the gray tile floor, sounding like nails on a chalkboard. Suddenly every pair of eyes in the room was trained on me.
“Sorry,” I offered lamely, feeling my cheeks flush as I bit the corner of my lip and sat down on my hands. I wasn’t normally a shy person, but I didn’t feel particularly comfortable in my surroundings yet and was hoping that I could slip in and out of the group unnoticed. No such luck. Martin smiled widely as he looked me over.
“Ah, we have a new face tonight, people,” he declared. If anyone hadn’t noticed me yet they sure as shit did now. Great. “My name’s Martin Sharpe, I am a cardiac nurse here at Duke Cardiology EP Clinic. And, yes, you heard me right. I’m a nurse,” he smiled. “Contrary to popular belief, men can be nurses too. I’ve been here almost six years and took over the group around eighteen months ago. The group is for anyone who’s experienced or is currently living with chronic cardiac illnesses. We meet once every two weeks here at the center to provide people with a venue to discuss any fears and anxieties they might have.”
Martin didn’t look like a nurse, not that there were any pre-defined specifications, but he just didn’t. He was clean-shaven, had large owlish brown eyes, and a buzz cut. He had what I guess you could call a baby face, so his age was hard to determine. The only telling sign that he was a little older than most of the group were the crinkles that formed around his eyes when he smiled. It had taken a minute before I realized that the group had gone silent while I’d zoned out, analyzing Martin’s features. I turned to Tori, who was stifling a smile.
“He’s waiting for you to introduce yourself,” she somehow managed to whisper without moving her mouth. She’d make a great ventriloquist.
I looked back to the group. “Oh, hi. I’m Harlow Stevens,” I announced and gave a lame little wave.
Martin waited a few seconds, allowing me time to elaborate and no doubt spill my story. I didn’t oblige, and when it was clear that I had no intention of baring my soul five minutes into my first visit, he glossed over my aversion to sharing and carried on with the session.
Two things happened that I wasn’t expecting. The first was that hearing everyone speak was inspiring. I’d been so sure listening to them talk about their experiences would be depressingly monotonous, but it wasn’t the case. Most people focused on the progression they were making and shared their triumphs no matter how small or inconsequential they seemed. The second was that I found myself wanting to talk. I held back, listening to the others but the urge to join in had taken me by surprise, and the fact that I left that night knowing I’d be back was oddly exciting.
It took three sessions for me to feel comfortable enough to share my own story with the group, and five before I spoke with Martin and decided I wanted to major in psychology. I liked the feeling of freedom that came with discussing my condition with the group, and I quickly decided I wanted to be the person that helped others to find that same openness.