Chapter 7: Showdown with Billie the Kid

I CAN’T THINK OF A WORSE PLACE to die than a hospital. So I tend to avoid them. I finally got myself out of bed Monday morning and looked in a mirror at the damage Davy the doorkeeper had done to my face Saturday night. I wasn’t much surprised when Riley drove me straight through the pelting rain to the hospital instead of to the office.

“I don’t need to see a doctor. I just got punched in the face. It’s not like I had a heart incident or anything,” I complained.

“Dag,” Riley said patiently, “if you want to play punching bag for guys who are half your age and twice your size, that’s your business. I’m not going to interfere. But you’ve got an appointment with Dr. Roberts this morning.”

“Newel? Why?” I asked.

“This is the first Monday of the month. It’s your regular monthly appointment.”

“Damn, Riley. How could I forget that?” I’d been seeing Newel Roberts, one of Seattle’s finest heart surgeons at least once a month since my heart attack last March. I must be getting pretty pre-occupied with this case. I didn’t even realize it was Monday. “Well, I’m glad you remembered. Thanks, Riley.” I looked at her. She was still a little ticked off at me for the whole Saturday night affair.

Scratch that word. It was not an affair.

Anyway, she seemed to believe that if she’d gotten there sooner I wouldn’t have gotten hurt. I needed to debrief on what she learned Saturday night, but it would have to wait until after I’d seen the doc. She dropped me off at the hospital and I went in for my appointment.

“Dag,” my cardiologist said to me. “This just isn’t looking good to me. The wall of the left ventrical is so thin you can practically see through it. We’ve got to accelerate you on the program. If we don’t get you a new heart soon, I can’t guarantee that you’ll be around for Christmas.”

It was bleaker than I’d anticipated. Different symptoms told me that things weren’t exactly right, but I’d been telling myself I was getting stronger. I’d followed all the routines he’d given me. Eat right, stay trim, get as much light exercise as I could, lots of liquids, don’t get stressed. Well, that last one was a little harder to live by. I suppose getting clocked on Saturday night isn’t exactly avoiding stress. Remind me to apologize to Riley.

I supposed my cup of espresso each morning wasn’t exactly on the program either.

“What do I need to do?” I asked.

“There’s not a lot you can do that you haven’t been doing, though I’d try to quit running into things if I were you.” He looked at the cut and bandage job Riley did on me Saturday night. “I’m moving you onto the active list. We’ve got to try to find a match for you and get you a new heart.”

“When do you think?”

“You know the donor situation. There’s probably a heart in a morgue someplace in Seattle right now that would be a perfect fit,” he said, “if the corpse had been a donor. But we’ve got to watch a couple of other things with you as well. Your blood type is not the easiest to match and we’ve got to get you on the right anti-immune drugs before we put someone else’s heart in your chest. That means you are going to be more susceptible to illness, which means you’ll have to be even more careful about your health.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m planning any big illnesses this month,” I joked. “I’ll be sure to wash my hands.”

“Okay, smart aleck. I’m prescribing the drugs and I want to see you once a week now. And if I call, be here in 30 minutes or the heart will go somewhere else.” Newel Roberts scrawled out the prescription and I took it a little shakily.

“Don’t worry, Dag,” he said. “Our success rate with this is pretty remarkable now. In all likelihood you’ll live to be eighty if we get this taken care of.”

“Thanks, Newel,” I answered. “I’m looking forward to getting old.”

“You will,” he said. He put a hand gently on my shoulder before he left and I got dressed.

Damn.

I’ve known it was coming. According to the reports, I’d been going through a gradual deterioration of my heart muscle most of my life, caused by a childhood disease. It had been so gradual that no one noticed until my jackpot heart attack in Las Vegas last spring. Since then, the assessment was that the deterioration was accelerating. This old ticker was headed for the grave with or without me. It scared the crap out of me, but I was frankly willing to let it go first. The meds were making me feeble minded, too. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten it was time for my monthly appointment.

Out in the waiting room I stopped at the reception desk to make an appointment for the following Monday. When I’d finished I turned and almost stepped on a small person with a high voice.

“You got a bad ticker, mister?” she asked. Maybe nine years old, my little assailant was dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a red bandana. “Dr. Roberts says mine’s gonna kill me if I don’t get a new one soon.”

“Billie!” An exasperated mother rushed to her side from the other receptionist. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Sometimes she is so blunt.”

“That’s okay,” I answered. “Do you mind?” I gestured toward Billie and squatted down until I was about her height. “It’s a tough life, isn’t it Billie?” I asked the little girl.

“Not so bad once you learn to live with it,” she answered. “It’s really hard getting anybody else to understand though, don’t you think?” This was a precocious youngster, I thought.

“Yes,” I said, “unless you’ve got it there’s really no way to understand it. What happened to yours?”

“Dr. Roberts says its con...” she looked quickly at her mother, closed her eyes and concentrated, then spit out the word, “congenital. I was born with a bad heart and it’s been going downhill ever since. How about you?”

“Uphill all the way,” I answered. “I got sick when I was a bit smaller than you and it damaged my heart somehow. Now I’ve got to get a new one.”

“Or you’ll be sorry,” she chimed like the ad on the radio. “You know what, though?” she asked innocently. “Somebody else has to die in order to get a new heart. That’s not fair is it? I want to grow up to be president of the United States, but it’s not fair for someone else to have to die so I can grow up.”

“That’s true, Billie,” I said, “but people die every day. People have accidents or get sick. We don’t have to kill someone to get a new heart. We’re not going to take anything that they need.”

“I know,” Billie looked straight in my eyes. “I just want them to be proud in heaven when they see who got their heart.”

I was near tears when the nurse called, “Billie Martin.”

“Oops, gotta go.”

“Come on, Billie,” her mother said, reaching for a hand. I could see that our conversation had affected her as well.

“I need a few minutes alone with Dr. Roberts, Mom.” She turned to me. “What’s your name?”

“Dag Hamar,” I said.

“Mr. Hamar, would you keep my mother company for a few minutes so I can ask the doctor some personal questions? Thank you.” She marched over to the nurse and called back over her shoulder, “I’ll call for you in a few minutes, Mom.” Then she left with the nurse.

I stood and looked at Billie’s mother and decided to introduce myself.

“I’m Dag Hamar,” I said holding out my hand. She took it hesitantly.

“Wanda Martin,” she responded. “I’m really sorry if my daughter bothered you Mr. Hamar.”

“Not at all. She seems very mature for her age.”

“She had to grow up fast,” Wanda said. “Even faster than I did. I never wanted my baby to go through this.” Her lip was quivering so I led her to a chair and sat with her.