She rushed past him in a blur of light blue and indistinguishable patterns, moving as if she had been shot from a cannon. The horns sounding were out of sync with and the lights flashing their obnoxious reddish, orangish color, creating a confusing cacophony of deafening sounds and bright flashes. His wife was brushed away by the blue blur as she worked with the equipment.
This was not how he had envisioned his final days. He lay like an invalid – no, actually an invalid, begging for a heart. He wanted a healthy heart to pump the rich life-filled mixture through his arteries and veins, allowing him to walk and talk, and hug his wife and kids. He wanted to finally write the book he had always dreamed of.
He was – that is, had been – a prominent attorney, handling the states most difficult death row cases. He worked the courtroom like a maestro, saving lives and decrying the needless death of hundreds. He did good. He was good.
Now all he wanted was a heart.
He saw his beautiful wife come close, the litany of alarms silenced.
“Brandon,” she said, “I’m so sorry I can’t do something for you…”
Her voice trailing off with tears forming chaotic streams on her porcelain skin.
He smiled weakly, “You’re doing a lot.” His voice a whisper. He attempted to reach for her – to hug her, but the weakness in his arms and the tubular jungle laying across his chest formed a barrier between them.
“Rest,” she said, “we’ll see the doctor soon.”
As if on queue, his physician appeared in the doorway.
“Good evening. I’m very sorry to come so late at night,” he said somberly, and walked toward them, brow furrowed. The quiet hushing sound of the machinery and the slow methodical flash of the indictors now felt more intense, as if in anticipation. Brandon and his wife hardly felt themselves breathe. It was as if the doctor’s presence sucked all life from the room. The walls seemed more stark and the overhead fluorescent light more glaring.
“We knew this was coming,” he began, and Brandon immediately slipped from the narrow ledge of hope to which he had been clinging. He was going to die. He had lost, and he saw no hope of winning this final case.
He began to cry.
“You will be dropped from status A-1; we can’t hold the spot,” the doctor continued. “You have survived longer and done better than anyone could have predicted.”
“But I’m going to die anyway!” Brandon croaked out weakly. It was not a question.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m sorry. I would encourage everyone to make quick preparations.”
“Quick?” his wife asked. “How soon?”
“Soon,” the doctor said, “hours, not days…”
She gasped, put her hand to her mouth and began to sob. Brandon’s quiet tears streaked his face and dribbled onto his hospital gown.
The doctor walked out, and the husband and wife cried. Like most things over the the last 18 years, they did this together. They were hand in hand, her forehead on his hand as it rested on the bedrail.
“We have prepared for this,” he sobbed at last, not attempting to fight the emotion.
“I never prepared for this,” she said, her sobs audible down the hall. “I always expected a miracle!” she exclaimed, and then spat out, “Where was my miracle?!”
She did everything right, she thought, just like she was supposed to. Where was the miracle?!
She kissed his cheek and walked from the room. She seethed, and she had nothing to hit and no one to unleash on. She then saw the doctor and thought he might do as a punching bag.
“Doctor!” a nurse shouted from across the desk. She motioned for him to take a call.
He picked up the phone and nodded. His eyes met hers and he gave a thumbs up sign.
“We have a heart!?” she mouthed putting both hands over her mouth. He nodded.
His wife ran back to Brandon’s room, and sang out loud the miracle words she longed to say, “We have a heart!”
“What?” he said.
“We have a heart!” she said just as the doctor walked in the room.
“That’s right!” he confirmed. “We will get you prepped and surgery will take place tonight.”
Then he paused, “Ok, its 10:30PM now, so we’ll begin around 1:00AM.”
“Wonderful!”
Brandon asked, “So soon; is it close?” This exertion caused him to cough slightly then wheeze.
The doctor motioned for a nurse.
Before entering the room, she looked at the doctor and whispered, “The execution will take place exactly at midnight, but they said thye would have it here by 12:40AM. Everything is arranged.” The nurse walked into the room.
“Execution?” Brandon asked, almost too weak to form a question.
The nurse gave him a shocked stare.
“We don’t tell patients where the heart comes from,” she spoke softly. “I’m sorry you heard me.
“It doesn’t matter,” his wife quickly said with assurance. She looked at Brandon, “I get you back and the kids get you back. That’s all that matters.”
Brandon shut his eyes and rolled his head back slightly, “It does matter.”
“Yes, you get me back, but because of something that’s wrong – something I’ve fought. Wouldn’t it be wrong for me to take a heart like this?”
He paused briefly to try and regain strength. He then spoke softly but forcefully, “If you do a bad thing for a good reason, you’ve still done that bad thing.”
“Brandon,” she said, her hands in praying position, “please do this. Please don’t say No!”
The tears again.
He saw his wife, thought for several moments, and his mind filled with pain and doubt.
“Please get the doctor,” he said.
The blue blur, a blur no longer, walked from the room.
His tears stopped, and they were replaced by resolve.