BOUNDLESS (Mama's Story) (19 page)

The doctor joined us soon after.

“We haven’t seen the response that we wanted to from the treatment options we tried,” the doctor said, confirming my fears. Jules hadn’t been getting better because they didn’t know how to make her better.

“So what does that mean?” Marshall asked, his face carefully blank. Jules slept on, exhausted and oblivious.

“It means we exhausted our options and there’s only one more possibility,” the doctor said. “Jules needs a heart transplant.”

“That’s our last option?” Marshall asked. “That’s the only thing we have left to try?”

“Your wife needs a heart transplant, or she’ll die,” the doctor said simply.

Marshall gripped his hand into a fist and pounded it in his other palm, then gripped his hands together, trembling. His strong face dissolved feature by feature—the lips shaking, the nose reddening, his eyes watering, and finally he began to cry.

A heart transplant. It was too much to take in. A heart transplant or Jules would die.

“How is this happening?” Marshall whispered, the question raw and desperate.

“It’s going to be all right,” I said, because what else was there to say? I opened my arms to him, not knowing what else to do. He fell into them, shaking, crying, scared.

And, for the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I held my son, trying a mother’s best to comfort him in the face of something that none of us understood.

Jules woke up to Marshall’s sobbing, and she blinked blearily at us.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice slurring with her tiredness. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing, sugar,” I told her, rocking Marshall back and forth. “Everything’s going to be just fine.”

It had to be. I had to make it all right.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can not change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” I said quietly, looking at myself in the mirror. There were things that I could do, right? There just had to be. Maybe they were things I needed courage for. Things I could change. We didn’t have to accept Jules’ fate just like that. If she was as high-spirited and rambunctious in the hospital, railing at the doctors to let her out of her room, I could also vow to not accept the bad news.

My son, however, was floored. He’d probably never even thought about the possibility of living his life without his wife.

After Jules’ diagnosis, Marshall had slipped into a profound depression. I’d caught him dead drunk, the bottle of whiskey half gone, the stench of him making me feel halfway repulsed and halfway wistful.

“I don’t want you following my path,” I told him as I put him to bed, making sure a garbage can was right next to him, in easy reach. “You’re a good man, Marshall, and Jules is going to be all right.”

“Not if she can’t get a new heart,” he slurred, his head lolling. “Then she’ll die. I’ll be all alone.”

That night, I threw all of the liquor away, breaking the bottles to ensure that I wouldn’t come looking for them in anybody’s trash bin. I didn’t need that temptation, and neither did my son. I hated that I’d practically bequeathed a likelihood of alcoholism in him. Couldn’t I impart anything positive to my boy?

I spoke with Jules’ doctors on my own, nurses who worked the floor, anyone who would stop and answer my questions.

“I know your daughter-in-law’s condition is very grave,” a nurse said, “but the truth of the matter is that there are people in even more dire situations—many, many people. There just aren’t enough organ donors in the system, and certainly not enough hearts to go around. We have to wait until she’s at the top of the list for a transplant, and she’s just not there yet.”

“There needs to be more outreach for potential donors,” an orderly told me, “more of a push for people to sign up. There’s this whole idea that if a hospital finds out you’re an organ donor, they won’t work as hard to save your life if you’re sick or injured in order to harvest your organs. That’s ludicrous. ‘Do no harm.’ That’s what we function on. Organ donors get the same quality of care as everyone else. There should be media campaigns, or something. Speakers at schools. Anything. There just aren’t enough donors.”

“The tricky part is finding a good match,” a doctor said. “If the donor didn’t have a compatible blood type, that would be the first red flag. There are so many variables going into a transplant—particularly a heart transplant—that even if a candidate is at the top of the list, it might be a while before the right heart becomes available.”

From looking at her charts, I gleaned Jules’ blood type. Through the blessed Internet, I researched more about what was required for a successful transplant. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I loved that girl fiercely enough to go gun someone down in the street, cut his heart out, and carry it, dripping, to the hospital for her. But I knew that wouldn’t go over very well for anyone involved. Instead, I did what I could do—cleaned the house, visited Jules in the hospital, cooked for Marshall, and tried to keep busy.

In the spirit of donation, I went to a blood bank to donate what I could for the cause. Out of everyone I’d talked to, there was one similar consensus—there weren’t enough people donating organs. I could at least donate my blood to help someone who needed it. Plus, it gave me something to do in between AA meetings and worrying about Marshall and Jules. Marshall became more desperate every day that they didn’t get the call for a donor. His work had put him on a leave of absence. I suspected that he was getting drunk at bars between the hospital and home, but I didn’t confront him about it. The woman he couldn’t consider as his mother breathing down his neck would only drive him away.

He needed all the support he could get.

I tried to relax, tried to meditate on the situation while my blood drained into a bag. There had to be a solution to this problem. I had to be able to change Jules’ fortune somehow. They deserved that. She and my son were so happy before I came along. I needed to find some way to make this specter of disease go away.

An attendant stopped by to pull the needle from my arm and slap a Band-Aid on the puncture.

“All set,” she said cheerfully, placing the bag of blood in her cart and checking off boxes on my form. “Hey! You’re blood type O.”

“Is that a good thing?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” she chirped. “That’s our favorite blood type here.”

“I didn’t know there were such things as favorite blood types,” I said, sitting up slowly and taking the juice box she offered me.

“We like blood type O because that means your blood can go to anyone,” the attendant said. “You’re a universal donor!”

A universal donor. I marveled at that while sipping on the juice box. I could give my blood to anyone.

The solution to the problem hit me like a slap to the face.

I was the solution. The heart beating inside of me, the blood that it pumped through my body—I could very well be the donor that Marshall and Jules were hoping for.

I couldn’t live without a heart, though. Was I willing to die to make sure that my son and daughter-in-law lived a long, happy life together?

In a heartbeat.

Everything started falling into place. I’d been an awful mother to my son, but now I had a chance to make up for it. He’d never be able to accept me as his mother—he said so himself. And I would never be able to accept that, even if I couldn’t change it.

This was the solution to the problem. This was the reason I was here. This was the right thing to do.

The reality of the situation, though, was that I had a lot more to do than just cut my heart out and show up at the hospital. The attendant at the blood bank had said I was a universal donor, but I had to be sure.

I’d buddied up to many of the hospital personnel since Jules had been admitted. I just pleaded honest curiosity and motherly concern when I wanted to see the results of crossmatching her blood and mine.

“She needs a heart transplant,” the technician said, taking my blood. “That’s not something you can give to her, I’m afraid. Not while you’re alive.”

“Once she gets her heart, who knows what might happen down the road,” I said. “I want to know that I’m a good match for her should she ever need a kidney or something else I could give.”

“It’s a natural feeling, to want to do all that you can,” the technician said. “I’ll call you with the results. It might take a few days. No longer than a week.”

I trusted my instincts and had already met with a lawyer to draw up a living will by the time the technician got back to me.

“You’re a match,” he said. “Rest easy knowing that you’ll be able to provide her with whatever she might need in the future. I’m praying that we find that heart soon.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I have a good feeling about that heart.”

What other arrangements needed to be made? Now that I knew that I would be a good match for Jules, I entered into an end game. The will was complete, directing what little assets I had to Marshall and Jules. The lawyer had raised his eyebrows at me when I told him the part about the heart, and what I planned to do, but we had a lawyer-client confidentiality agreement. All he could do was offer me advice to make my plans airtight. Jules was going to get my heart. There was no legal way out of it. Plus, I doubted that any medical professional would let a heart go to waste, no matter what the circumstances in obtaining it were.

“Do no harm,” the orderly had told me. The doctors wouldn’t be doing any harm to anyone. They’d be saving Jules’ life with my heart. It was that simple.

When I got home from the lawyer, the house was empty. Drawers in the master bedroom gaped open, and I could only assume that Marshall left in a hurry. My phone buzzed, and I looked at it. A text message from him.

“Can’t talk,” it read. “Jules took a turn for the worse. Come if you can.”

It was time, then. I was glad that I’d gotten everything prepared as quickly as I had. Once I’d made up my mind, everything had really fallen into place. This was the right thing to do. This was meant to be.

I went through Marshall’s drawers and found what I knew he’d have—a gun. He’d experienced bad things as a child, and it was only natural that he had a gun on hand to protect himself and his family. I checked the clip. It had probably never even been fired.

It was going to save a life tonight.

For what I was about to do, I was remarkably calm. I set the loaded gun on the table and picked up the cell phone. Three little numbers. I’d called 9-1-1 for Jules once before. This, too, was for Jules. For Jules and my son.

For their future.

I took a deep breath and dialed.

“Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”

“I’m going to shoot myself in the head,” I said.

“You don’t want to do that,” the dispatcher said immediately. There was probably some sort of training for this, dealing with kooky or depressed callers, looking for a way out of what they had resigned themselves to do.

“No, I do want to do this,” I corrected. “This needs to happen. I understand now.”

“There’s so much to live for,” the dispatcher said. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Wanda Dupree, and there is so much to die for,” I said, making sure I was speaking loud and clear. My voice didn’t shake for a second. “My name is Wanda Dupree, and I’m going to shoot myself in the head. When I’m dead, I want to make sure that my heart goes to my daughter-in-law, Jules Dupree. She’s on the transplant list, but she needs a heart sooner than that. She needs a heart now.”

“Mrs. Dupree, this is highly irregular,” the dispatcher said. It was her voice that was shaking, not mine. I was calm as I could possibly be. This was what I was meant to do. It was why I’d been through everything. It all seemed so clear now.

“This needs to happen,” I said. “I’m going to give you my address. When the EMTs get here, I’ll have the front door open. They’re to come right in, and I’ll be in the bathroom. Do you understand?”

“Mrs. Dupree, you’re going to be fine,” the dispatcher said. “We’re sending people over to help you right away. Why don’t you just stay on the phone with me for a few minutes, until they get there?”

“The EMTs are on their way?” I asked, looking at the clock. How long would it take for them to get there?

“Yes, Mrs. Dupree,” the dispatcher said. “Now, talk to me about your daughter-in-law, Jules. I don’t think she’d want you to shoot yourself. Do you?”

Probably not. If anyone wanted me to shoot myself, it would be my son. Marshall just couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive me for my transgressions. In time, perhaps he could’ve moved past the nightclub and everything I’d done there. But he’d never forgive me for leaving him to begin with—no matter what the reasons had been. I was sure I didn’t even remember what they’d been anymore.

“Mrs. Dupree?”

“This is the right thing to do,” I said firmly. “I’m ending the call now. I have some things to do.”

“Mrs. Dupree, don’t—”

I mashed the button to disconnect and dialed Marshall’s number, picking up the gun and walking to the bathroom. I needed him to understand what I was doing and why I was doing it. I needed him to know that I could do things right sometimes.

“Mom, now’s not a good time,” he said, his voice hurried, not a trace of the sweet child I’d raised. Marshall was a man. I’d missed his entire childhood chasing some fool dream. God, how stupid could I have been?

“How’s Jules doing?” I asked.