Under My Skin by Laura Diamond

doesn’t guarantee I’ll have a normal life span. “I don’t know.”
    “You’re just nervous. We all are.” She tucks into bed … um, cot. It doesn’t look comfortable at all. My mattress is a thousand times cushier in comparison, and it’s not that great either.
    “Don’t stay up watching TV all night,” she says.
    I should turn it off now, but I’m not tired. Well, my body is fatigued, but my brain gallops onward. How long will I be in the hospital? If my heart recovers some, do I have to stay until the heart comes, or will I be bumped down the list again? What if my heart gets worse before a donor comes along? Dr. Jervis had also mentioned things like LVADs—left ventricular assist devices—machines attached to my heart via tubes running into my chest and external pumps designed to keep my blood flowing.
    I suppress a full body tremor. I really will become Frankenstein’s monster.
    It’s unnatural to cheat death this way. How far can things go? Can I depend on a machine? Can I handle knowing someone else must die so I can live?
    I close my eyes. It’s clear to me now. I don’t deserve life if I’m stealing it from someone else. I don’t.
    It would be kinder, more humane, if I were to die.
    I take in a shaky breath. A tear slides from my eye. I let it trickle down my cheek unchecked.
    I should text Dr. Shaw, but it’s too late. Maybe I shouldn’t tell her. We’ll have enough to talk about when we meet. She’ll probably come to the hospital to see me. She’s done it before.
    At midnight, I shut off the TV and lay flat in bed, afraid to move lest I jostle the leads and telemetry pack.
    At three AM, I’m still awake, listening to my pulse rushing in my ears. When—no, if —I get a transplant, it’ll be another person’s heart pushing blood through my body. I wonder if it will sound the same, feel the same. I wonder if I’ll know it’s not mine.
    I squeeze my eyes shut to push the questions and blinding fear from my mind. For a moment, it works and I float in blissful, quiet darkness.
    In the depths of infinite blackness, a vile idea claws its way to the surface. Blood drips from its fangs and its yellow eyes ooze contempt.
    It snarls, mocking me.
    I might die on the operating table.
    I shake my head, rattling the idea. Of course I’m going to die on the table. The surgeon will be removing my heart and replacing it with someone else’s. I’ll be dead in those minutes between. I’ll only come back to life if the surgeon has magic in his hands.
    Mary Shelley was decades ahead of her time.
    I slide my gaze around the darkened room, abandoning any hope of sleep. My phone rests on the bedside stand, neatly tucked next to Frankenstein . Perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of reading material. I stick my tongue out at the book for good measure, then pick up my phone.
    Selecting the web browser app, I wrack my brain trying to remember the ridiculous name of the newest drug Shaw prescribed. I doubt Mum would’ve given it to me if the risk was too high.
    I type Z-I-P-R and Google does the rest.
    Ziprasidone pops up. I select it and get a list of links. Clicking on the second one, I gulp.
    Ziprasidone: For the treatment of Schizophrenia, Bipolar Disorder, and hallucinations .
    What the hell? I’m not schizophrenic.
    I scan the rest of the article, skimming over phrases like take twice daily and take with food for better absorption and halt at the words:
    Although rare, ziprasidone can cause significant QT prolongation, leading to a potentially serious unstable rhythm of the heart .
    I sit up in bed, clutching a palm to my chest. My raspy breaths fill the room. I don’t know what the bloody hell a QT is, but I do know Shaw had given me a drug that could affect my heart.
    Surely, she knows about this side effect, especially since she works with heart transplant patients.
    The question then is: Why did she prescribe it for me?
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    Dr. Shaw stops in after lunch.
    I chew on the