Heart Throb

Thais had treated dozens of patients in room 205 over the years. She didn't remember their names, just the diagnosis. "The appendectomy"; "kidney stones"; "bowel resection." And now, here she was, "pending heart transplant."       

Being treated as a patient in the hospital she worked at had its perks. Her colleagues stopped in often, which helped to keep her mind occupied while she waited for a heart. She spent as much time as her weakening condition allowed reviewing patient records, visiting their bedsides, and discussing treatment plans with attending physicians who welcomed her input. 

But when 203, compound fracture to both femurs, was admitted Thais' heart stuttered and she forgot about her desperate, life and death hunt for a donor. The football player's gorgeous face radiated stupid high levels of health and vigor; the staff swooned. Instead of using a diagnosis to identify him, the nurses dubbed him "heartthrob."

After examining his chart, Thais whispered to Nurse Lang, "Dang, he's my kind of medicine!"

Heartthrob was immediately attracted to Thais' disheveled, auburn tresses, her clingy, white robe, and her almost obsessive concern for his wellbeing. She adjusted his IV drip and bowed her head in deep concentration while pressing a stethoscope to his well-muscled chest. He found her intense interest in his shattered bones strangely appealing.

"Is 203's blood clot regime aggressive enough?" She quizzed the ortho. "Have you considered upping his anticoagulants—don't want heart damage or stroke, do we?" 

The staff found the infatuation entertaining and chose to ignore Thais' inappropriate, almost proprietary, meddling and fussing. "Pending heart meets heartthrob; the perfect match," they told one another. 

But time was ticking faster than her worn-out pump and, eventually, Thais was too sick to leave her bed. She started wearing hospital gowns and slept for hours while she waited for the person with her heart to die.  Poor Heartthrob looked forlorn and hollowed out by Thais' abandonment. His texts unanswered, no one fiddling with his tubes.  

"So-so tired," she told her doctor.

"Hang on a little longer," he urged.  

"Patient appears to be giving up." Nurse Lang charted. 

Just when it looked like time would run out for Thais, the cardiothoracic surgeon gave her a thumbs up. "On my way to harvest the perfect heart, the nurse is coming to prep you for surgery."

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In the recovery room, Thais listened to the comforting sounds of beeps and buzzes and voices as she struggled to swim out from under the anesthesia. 

"She couldn't have gone another week, heart like a used-up sponge." Her surgeon was saying. "Damndest thing, healthy young athlete dying with no apparent cause and right across the hall from her. What are the chances?"

"It's like a tragic love story," Nurse Lang said. "She literally stole his heart."

Thais pressed her hand against the stitches in her chest, felt the familiar robust beat. She didn't like to think of it as stealing, really. Just one of the perks of the job. And a bit of fiddling.