The journey took almost an hour to get to the hospital, and I spent most of it gazing out the window, watching the world blur by in streaks of color. As my mother drove, I couldn’t stop the ache that rose within me—the thought that I’d never been like the other kids in the neighborhood. They played soccer in the streets, ran through sprinklers on hot summer days, and screamed with laughter as they zipped around on their bikes. Their voices would filter in through my window as I sat inside, taking slow, measured breaths, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in my lungs. They made living seem so effortless. For them, life was something to enjoy, something to embrace.
As if sensing my mood, my mother turned up the radio a little, the soft strains of music filling the silence in the car. I closed my eyes, letting the melody wrap around me, dulling the edges of my thoughts. Music had a way of doing that, of taking away the sharpness of reality for a while.
Eventually, my mother’s voice broke through the haze. “We’re here, honey.”
I opened my eyes and looked up at the looming hospital, its tall, gray walls casting a shadow that seemed to stretch on forever. My mother parked, and I could feel her glance in my direction, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn’t have to say anything; her face said it all. She was worried, had been for years.
We stepped out of the car, and I followed her inside. The familiar scent of antiseptic and sterile air hit me instantly as we walked through the doors. The reception area was bustling with doctors, nurses, and patients, each on their own hurried path. As we made our way through the hallways, I saw familiar faces, nurses who greeted me with warm smiles as they passed. I had spent enough time here that they all knew me, their greetings were part of my routine.
“Diego!” A voice called from behind, and I turned to see William, my nurse, a tall, sturdy man with a kind face and a permanent look of empathy in his eyes. He wore his usual blue scrubs, and as he approached, he gave me a small pat on the shoulder. “Ready for another round of tests?” he asked, his tone light-hearted, though I could sense the tension underneath.
I gave a small nod, managing a weak smile. Together, we walked to the check-up room, where he guided me through the usual routine—blood pressure, oxygen levels, breathing tests. After a while, I lost track of the tests as they wheeled in machines, their blinking lights and beeping monitors filling the room with a sense of coldness. X-rays were taken, scans recorded, my breathing tracked. It felt endless, each test adding to the growing weight in my chest.
Three hours later, I was finally free, and I wandered back toward the waiting room, drained. There, I found my mother seated in one of the chairs, her head tilted back, eyes closed as she dozed. A nearly-empty cup of water rested on the table next to her, condensation pooling around its base. She looked tired, the lines on her face deepened by the years of worry she had carried for me. For a moment, I just stood there, watching her, feeling a pang of guilt twist in my gut. She didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve to be trapped in this never-ending cycle of worry and fear. Why did she have to suffer?
Before I could sink further into my thoughts, I heard a voice call out from across the room. “Diego?”
I looked up to see Dr. June Mayfield standing in the doorway of her office, clipboard in hand. She was a kind woman, with a gentle smile and sharp, discerning eyes behind her glasses. Her coat was pristine, white as freshly fallen snow, and there was a confidence to her demeanor that always seemed reassuring.
“Hi, Dr. Mayfield,” I said, managing a small smile as she beckoned my mother and me to follow her into her office.
As we stepped in, the room’s sterile brightness seemed softened by Dr. Mayfield’s presence. Her office was neatly organized, shelves lined with thick medical texts, a few small potted plants placed around to add a touch of warmth. She gestured to the chairs in front of her desk, and we took our seats.
“Diego, how have you been feeling? Any better?” she asked, her voice warm as she looked at me over the rims of her glasses.
“About the same,” I replied, trying to keep my tone casual. “A little tired, I guess.”
My mother leaned forward, her worry slipping through as she asked, “Is he okay, Doctor?”
Dr. Mayfield hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering between us, before she let her eyes rest on me. “Diego, would you mind stepping out for a moment? I need to discuss a few things with your mother.”
My stomach twisted as a faint worry began to creep in, but I nodded and got up, stepping outside and closing the door behind me. I took a few steps down the hall, trying to distract myself by looking at the posters on the walls, the ones reminding patients to wash their hands, to breathe deeply, to stay strong.
But curiosity gnawed at me. Something in Dr. Mayfield’s tone, the way she had looked at my mother, had unsettled me. Silently, I crept back to the door, pressing my ear against it, straining to hear.
Inside, Dr. Mayfield’s voice was a low murmur, barely audible. “His health… it’s deteriorating faster than we anticipated.”
I felt my heart plummet as the words seeped into my mind. The world seemed to narrow down to that single sentence, a crushing weight settling over me.
“How bad is it?” my mother asked, her voice shaky.
“Very bad,” Dr. Mayfield replied, her tone gentle. “It’s remarkable that he’s made it this far. His condition is progressing quickly. The only chance he has now is a lung transplant, but finding a matching donor could take months—time he might not have.”
A strangled sound escaped my mother, a soft sob that seemed to tear through the air. Tears prickled at my eyes, threatening to spill over as I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to keep quiet.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Martinez,” Dr. Mayfield said, her voice filled with compassion. “Diego has always been a fighter. He’s made it farther than most would in his situation. And I’ll do everything I can to help, but…”
“But…?” my mother’s voice cracked, filled with desperation.
Dr. Mayfield’s voice dropped to a whisper. “If we don’t find a donor soon, he may only have a few months left. Three, maybe less.”
The room fell silent after that, the quiet heavy, suffocating. I stood there, my mind reeling, as the words replayed in my head. Three months. That was all the time they thought I had left. I wanted to burst into the room, to tell them they were wrong, that I was stronger than they knew. But instead, I stayed frozen outside, tears streaming down my cheeks, my world slowly crumbling around me.
After a moment, Dr. Mayfield spoke again. “Please, Mrs. Martinez, it’s important that he doesn’t know. We don’t want to burden him with this. Let him enjoy his days as best as he can.”
My mother’s voice was barely a whisper. “I just… I just don’t know if I can pretend, Doctor. Every time I look at him… it breaks me.”
“I understand,” Dr. Mayfield said softly. “But Diego needs you to be strong, for as long as he has. It’ll mean everything to him.”
The door creaked open, and I quickly stepped back, pretending to have just been waiting. My mother stepped out, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked at me, forcing a smile as if nothing had happened, as if her heart wasn’t shattering into a thousand pieces right there.
“Let’s go home, honey,” she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly. I nodded, following her, my mind still swirling with the reality I wasn’t supposed to know. But now, I did. And it changed everything.
YOU ARE READING
BORROWED HEARTBEATS
RomanceDiego has lived most of his life with a diagnosis hanging over him: emphysema, a rare disease that makes each breath a struggle. At 19, he learns he has only three months left, a brutal countdown he faces with resignation. But when his childhood fri...
