#1 wattpad teen 12/05/2020
#2 Nigerian teen 12/05/2020
#34 Newbook 12/07/2020
#23 New Author 9/05/2020
#18 Naija 10/07/2020
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"A beautiful story about two young hearts merged together to save a dying one..."
A...
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5| ℬᎾℳᎯ
HE CALLS MY NAME. As if wanting to make sure I heard him. I did. Even though he said it like he just wants to get done with his shift.
My internal organs are failing, failing one by one.
I drag my myself back from oblivion. "Dr Hart told me they would get worse as I grow older, but I didn't think older was seventeen."
"How can you tell without more tests?" Mom asks. The voice sounds too thick to be hers and she's more eager to hear that she heard wrong than to believe that her worst fear has been confirmed, and then there goes the doctor, whose job is to explain his diagnosis even though it's only going shatter the heart of a poor single mother with a single daughter.
"The echocardiography results, the continued hypertrophy and fibrosis in her heart, as seen on the MRI. From the ultrasound, the enlargement in her liver is not profound and we can manage that, but the failing heart and collapsed lung are enough to confirm the organ failure. "
"She didn't say it would happen so fast." I think aloud. The five years didn't happen so fast, truthfully, what happened fast was that I thought it wasn't going to happen, I chose to believe my weird silent positive affirmations meanwhile life was just going to do her thing. Again. I've always been half foot here and there all the same, but now—just like that—I'm officially dying.
Wow, life sucks. No jokes.
"Since the heart attack and initial fibrosis, it's been about five years and the life expectancy for this complication is usually five years. Dr. Hart should have told you–"
"That I'm dying?"
"Bomate." Mom stops me.
The doctor opens his mouth, then closes it. "We could try–"
"I don't want any treatments." I snap. "How has all of them worked? Tell me, I'm dying, aren't I?"
"Bomate, stop asking that will you?" Mom says. I feel the pain and instant stress in her voice.
"How long do I have?" I change the question. There's no point asking if I'm dying.
"Boma–" she holds her face in her hands.
"HOW LONG DO I HAVE?" My voice hits so hard that it shakes even me.
"Typically, five months of quality life without support."
"Five months? I know you can't joke about something this serious, but are you joking?"
"That is if a transplant is not done. It could be shorter or longer but five months, on average."
