“I have more sex,” I say flatly.
She laughs. “Good for you. But that shouldn’t pose a problem, not if you exercise regularly without any chest pain or arrhythmias.”
I button up my shirt, thinking. “I have drunk some alcohol in the past couple of weeks.”
She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Anything else? Stress? Maybe work-related?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I’ve been working longer hours. I have been stressed. You think it’s that?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s also a matter of time passing and the septum thickening.”
“The what?”
“The intraventricular septum is the wall separating the lower chambers of your heart from one another. Yours may have grown too big and thick. By removing part of it, we’ll improve blood flow and reduce mitral regurgitation.”
Whatever that means.
Wait a sec… “Remove? What do you mean?”
She gives me a serious look. “We need to operate, Ryan. Your medication just isn’t cutting it anymore.”
“Goddammit.” I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Are you sure there’s no other—”
“It’s your best option. If all goes well, you can live a good, normal life afterward. If you leave it… Are you listening to me?”
I nod, lower my hands.
“If you leave it, you may suffer a heart attack at any moment and die.”
Jesus.
“I’ll perform a septal myectomy,” she’s saying. “It’s open-heart surgery. We’ll need to make an appointment now, and set a date very soon. I’ll push you to the top of my list, Ryan.”
Fucking hell.
She keeps talking, but I’m not listening, a rushing sound in my ears. Black spots dance in my eyes.
Open-heart surgery.
This is it.
The thing I’ve been most afraid of.
She probably sees something in my face, because she puts a hand on my arm. Just like Brylee or Riddick would do.
It’s not as comforting. “Your mother dying on the operating table doesn’t mean you will, too.” When I don’t reply, she continues. “She let it go on for too long without medication, without control. But most surgeries go well. You’re young, and strong. You have all the odds in your favor.”
I reply something, not even sure what, push off the table and walk past her to get out of the office. She’ll call me to let me know the date, apparently. And everything will be okay.
Yeah, keep blabbing on, Doc. We both know what the outcome will be.
I knew this was coming. I only thought it’d be later rather than sooner.
I thought I had more time.
***
There are small things, like reading over your will one last time and giving the okay to your lawyer, smoking a cigarette with your Scotch for the first time after years, or agreeing to see your father for coffee mid-week, that tell you something big is coming.