A Heart For Valentine’s Day

Chapter 1

“I think the new doc wants to hit. No, he’s definitely trying to get into my panties.”

An Oscar-worthy spit take escapes me, and I just manage to prevent my water from shooting out of my nose.

“You aren’t wearing any,” I cough, spluttering for breath.

I can hear my sister laughing, and when I look up, she’s casually opening a box of tissues from the bedside table. She offers it to me, and I take it, dragging a sheet out and hastily wiping my face. “Damnit, Alecia!”

Alecia’s laughter redoubles, but the joyous sound just as quickly disintegrates into a fit of harsh, rattling coughs that rack her whole frame.

My heart aches for her as I watch her struggle for every breath. I shake internally, helplessly watching her body quiver with each violent spasm, desperate to rush to her side and offer comfort. Instead, I wait for the wheezing to subside, using every ounce of willpower I have to stay put. Finally, it becomes too much. I have to force myself to look anywhere but at my sister right now; my heart can’t take it. I’ve been telling myself not to smell this sickly sweet smell or notice how shallow and labored the space between breaths has become, not to see how frail she appears even as she tries to hold herself with pride despite her illness, or allow myself to hear every rattle in her chest as she gathers breath for yet another violent series of coughs that leaves her body quivering.

But she would tear me a new one for fussing, and I don’t want this visit to end in an argument. But how can I not show concern, with the doctor’s words hammering into my brain? We’re running out of time.

My gaze darts around the room from its pale blue walls that fade to white where they meet the ceiling; the television on the far wall is on, set to mute. The window shades are cast open to let in the bright sun; it’s surprisingly fair weather for a February day. The outside world simply passes by, oblivious to the life-and-death battle raging in this very room.

What my eyes land on next destroys me.

My sister grasps a few tissues from the box, and I hear her wet and heavy coughs. Recently she’s been coughing up blood.

I can’t stay still any longer and jolt forward in my seat, desperate to help her, but she halts me withdrawing the tissue from her mouth with a faint grin.

“No blood this time. I’m good,” Alecia croaks, revealing a relatively clean tissue.

I breathe a sigh of relief, but I’m still worried.

“You have that big sustainable housing project at work to think about, don’t you?” She asks suddenly. “How’s that coming along?”

It’s obvious what she’s trying to do; she’s stubborn and hates to see me concerned about her. “It’s been coming along well enough, even though they shot down my idea for a community center. I’ve been working on our team’s proposal to send to a few investors; The Community Renewal Initiative already sounds interested.”

“You need to focus on that,” she says, and I open my mouth. “No buts. Work, work, work. You can’t fuck this up; you’ve got your heart set on that promotion anyway.” She attempts to sit up straighter in a way that’s so characteristic of her and only manages to look pained instead of the regal bearing it’s supposed to produce.

Alecia’s almond eyes are not what they used to be—they now carry what I know is suppressed pain, and dark circles rest underneath them. Her eyes remain red and puffy from endless nights of sleeping fitfully or not at all. For all her condition has affected her, she is still undeniably beautiful—but at the age of thirty-one, her life was unexpectedly rocked by a diagnosis of cardiomyopathy that left her wasting away.

“I’m more than capable of worrying about work and your health at the same time,” I say. Seeing her like this, I can only wish I’d gone into medicine instead.

She winks and fixes me with that broad smile, an expression I could always trust completely. The one I loved, always loved. She’s my sister, my rock. I tell myself that she won’t leave me like mom and dad did.

Alecia’s lips slant up into a lop-sided smile. “The new doc looked at me like I’d make it to Christmas.” She utters lightly.

She may as well have been laughing at death itself. “That’s not funny,” I mutter, my eyes darting away. Still, the tension in the room begins to ease in the aftermath of the episode.

“Better than crying.” She shrugs with a hum. “It feels good to laugh. This is what I want to do until I can’t do it anymore. If I only have a little while left—why not enjoy it? Just make sure y’all actually choose a cute picture of me for the funeral, or I’m haunting all of y— “

“Stop. It’s not your time yet, so don’t you dare speak that into existence.”

Alecia only rolls her eyes and laughs again.

I never understood why my sister had this never-ending urge to tell such morbid jokes, but perhaps I would do the same if I were in her position. Instead of tears or denial, she chose to laugh—maybe it’s the only thing getting us through this unimaginable ordeal.

The doctor’s prognosis was that she had two, maybe three weeks if we were lucky. Not years, not months, but weeks. How could I possibly use that sliver of time to save the most important person in my life?

“C’mon, sis,” Alecia sighs softly, her deep eyes locking onto mine. “You’re serious enough for both of us. It’s nice to have someone act normal around me for once.”

But nothing is normal about any of this, I want to scream at her. What’s normal about being stuck in a hospital bed with a thousand IVs sticking out of her body, a thousand machines beeping their damned alarms because whatever was working just isn’t working anymore? Or having her entire life dependent on a waiting list that seems to be getting longer instead of shorter?

“You might be spending Valentine’s Day alone this year for real this time,” she teases with a sly grin.

My heart feels like it’s tripped over itself as those words reach my ears, echoing in the walls of my mind. She has no idea how much that thought terrifies me.

Every year since we were teenagers, we had spent the holiday together because ‘Fuck Boys’, as my sister so artfully put it. A decade later, and here we are still carrying on the tradition, all because Alecia’s old flame from years ago had stood her up for a Valentine’s Day date. Very mature of us, of course. But now I really can be alone this year because, in a few weeks’ time, my sister could be dead.

With a tight smile, I try to shove down my emotions, “I can’t believe you.” Despite myself, my eyes sting with tears, “What happened to fuck boys?”

Alecia chortles weakly, her lips tugging into a smirk. “But Dr. Hanson isn’t a boy. I saw his dick print; that’s a man–“

“Please don’t,” I beg. “I’d like to talk to the man with a straight face the next time I see him.” A burst of laughter escapes between us both.

“Maybe you could fuck him, it’s cuffing season anyway, and you look like you need it.” I glare at my sister as she laughs and flips me the middle finger. “You need to put a ring on that finger sooner or later.”

“That is not where the ring goes.”

Alecia continues laughing. But I can sense what she’s implying beneath all that laughter and the jokes; her need for me not to be alone when she’s gone. Her desire for me to have some strength and courage of my own. Suddenly, her courage becomes all too real to me. She’s already accepted what’s waiting for her at the end of the battle that she’s fighting with everything in her.

“Whatever, the important thing right now is that you do everything possible to deliver an amazing presentation. You can take a couple of days off to be with me, but no matter what, promise me you’ll keep going.” Alecia lifts herself up on her hands, suppressing a cough. “Well, I won’t keep you, but know that I’m proud of you.”

“Stop making everything sound so final.” I try to smile back, “You’ll have plenty of time to be proud of me.”

But there isn’t time for more small talk. The coughing soon returns with a vengeance, and blood now coats her lips and runs down her chin. I rush to the call button, desperate for the nurse to get here fast and help, just as Alecia’s hand clutches her chest.

The nurse ushers me out of the room and into the hall as she administers oxygen, and Alecia’s grip on her chest tightens. All I can hear is the dull hum of fluorescent lights, the hissing of the oxygen machine, and the heart monitor beeps.

Time stands still while I wait outside, agonizing over whether this will be Alecia’s last day alive. It feels like hours before I can see the doctor, and when I finally do, my chest constricts, and I find myself fighting back the urge to cry again.

I enter Dr. Hanson’s small medical office and sit with trepidation opposite him at his desk.

“Miss Coleman,” he says in greeting with a gentle smile and sympathetic eyes. His calm grey eyes radiate a warm and reassuring aura, combined with his stature and handsomely coiffed sandy hair with a distinguished wave, it’s easy to understand why my sister is so taken with him.

I hate that I can’t hate this man for his inability to save my sister, even though I know it isn’t his fault.

“Dr. Hanson,” I reply, then murmur, “I’m sorry we couldn’t talk more yesterday.”

He graciously shakes his head. “Not at all; I understand. Everyone’s grieving process is different, and you’ve been going through a difficult time.” There’s genuine sorrow in his voice.

Yesterday, he told me there was no hope for my sister without surgery, and unfortunately, no heart was available for the transplant. But I couldn’t handle it, so I broke down and cried. He had no choice but to wait until I composed myself. I don’t know how long it took me to calm down.

“I’m sorry—I thought she was having a good day today,” I say with a quivering voice, trying to move the focus away from me. I struggle to push back another torrent of tears and desperately seek some glimmer of hope that perhaps things could be different this time.

Dr. Hanson smiles faintly, “Your sister really is a force of nature, Ms. Coleman,” he pauses before continuing with a solemn tone, “But nothing has changed regarding her condition, I’m sorry to say.”

I feel my shoulders sag.

He clears his throat before continuing, “You might want to look into hospice care to ensure her comfort in her final days—”

I cut him off with an indignant shout. “No!” My voice echoes in the chamber, startling us both. I steady my breath and declare more calmly, slowly, “No sir, I won’t give up on my sister. Taking her home just to wait for her to die? That’s not an option I’m willing to accept, no matter what fancy term you call it.”

Dr. Hanson remains silent, possibly assessing my sanity, but I don’t care. How can I make him understand that while Alecia was just another patient to him, to me, she was all I had? She had been a parent to me when we’d lost our mom and dad; she’d been my sister when I needed support and my best friend when I needed someone to call.

Alecia went to night school and simultaneously worked a job to put food on the table for the both of us. And when she found her passion was caring for others, she even gave back to the community, volunteering whenever she could—until she suddenly couldn’t, because that’s just how Alecia was.

How did I make the doctor understand that I couldn’t give up? If the roles were reversed, Alecia wouldn’t hesitate to steal a heart if it meant saving me.

The thought makes me pause as everything suddenly falls into place: Alecia would steal a heart if she had to! A shiver runs through me, and that’s all the resolve I need.

“Ms. Coleman?” Dr. Hanson’s voice pulls me back to the present, his brow creased with confusion. Had he been calling my name?

I snap my head up, guilt already coursing through my veins as his face comes into focus.

“I’m sorry, doctor,” I say, unable to keep the fear from my voice. “What were you saying?”

“Your sister was the one to suggest we start looking into palliative care,” he says after a moment.

This realization makes me tear up, but my resolve deepens. Alecia may be unable to fight anymore, but I can do it in her stead. “I’ll get started on making arrangements right away.”

I rise quickly from the chair and don’t even hear the last words he says to me as I grab the brochures he offers me from his desk and stuff them in my bag before turning towards the door. Before I even reach it, his last words are already lost in my wake.

Alecia has been on the heart transplant wait list for well over six months now, but she doesn’t have any more months left in her. The hospital staff has done all they can, and now it’s my turn to step up and take matters into my own hands, regardless of the repercussions.

I’d done the same when we initially got Alecia’s diagnosis, and the healthcare system had failed us miserably anyway.

Initially, every doctor we visited had been dismissive of Alecia’s complaints of fatigue, palpitations, and breathlessness. One had gotten visibly impatient; another hastily diagnosed her with anxiety and suggested she needed to relax more. Others attested that her numbers looked okay and couldn’t imagine what could be wrong. After ruling out all the usual suspects, they sent us on our way without answers. But I knew better; I just knew that something was wrong, and unfortunately, the medical system didn’t always take the concerns of women, and women of color at that, seriously.

I spent night after night searching for solutions, pouring over medical journals and articles, grasping at any hint or clues I could find. In the end, it took several doctors and multiple opinions to find one that took her suffering seriously. Finally, we found a doctor who would listen to us with compassion, Dr. Morgan – an angel disguised in a doctor’s coat – who vowed to get to the bottom of the medical mystery and began running extensive tests. Only then could we put a name to the culprit; myocardiopathy, caused by a genetic defect of the heart. But the diagnosis came too late; her heart was beyond repair. All the time we were in the dark left us little time to treat her, leaving me with an impossible task – to find my sister a heart.