In a conference room several floors above the ICU, the transplant committee met for an emergency vote. Dr. Mills presented Jared’s profile and case history as well as the urgency of the situation.
“It says here that he’s suffering from congestive heart failure,” one of the committee members said, frowning at the report before him.
Dr. Mills nodded. “As I detailed in the report, the infarction severely damaged the patient’s right ventricle.”
“An infarction that most likely stemmed from injury sustained in an automobile accident,” the member countered. “As a general policy, hearts aren’t given to accident victims.”
“Only because they don’t generally live long enough to benefit,” Dr. Mills pointed out. “This patient, however, survived. He’s a young, healthy male with otherwise excellent prospects. The actual cause of the infarction is still unknown, and as we know, congestive heart failure does meet the criteria for transplantation.” He set the file aside and leaned forward, facing each of his colleagues in turn. “Without a transplant, I doubt this patient will last another twenty-four hours. We need to add him to the list.” A note of pleading crept into his voice. “He’s still young. We have to give him the chance to live.”
A few of the committee members exchanged skeptical glances. He knew what they were thinking: Not only did this case lack precedent, but the time frame was too short. The odds were almost nonexistent that a donor could be found in time, which meant the patient was likely to die no matter what decision they made. What they didn’t mention was a colder calculation, though no one on the committee gave voice to it. It had to do with money. If Jared was added to the list, the patient would be counted as either a success or failure for the overall transplant program, and a higher success rate meant a better reputation for the hospital. It meant additional funds for research and operations. It meant more money for transplants in the future. In the big picture, it meant more lives could be saved in the long run, even if one life had to be sacrificed now.
But Dr. Mills knew his colleagues well, and in his heart he knew they also understood that each patient and set of circumstances was unique. They understood that numbers didn’t always tell the whole story. They were the kind of professionals who sometimes took risks in order to help a patient now. For most of them, Dr. Mills guessed, it was the reason they’d gone into medicine in the first place, just as he had. They wanted to save people, and they decided to try again that day.
In the end, the recommendation from the transplant committee was unanimous. Within the hour, the patient was given 1A status, which awarded him the highest priority—if a donor could miraculously be found.
When Dr. Mills broke the news to them, Amanda jumped up and hugged him, clinging to him with desperate force.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you.” Over and over, she repeated the words. She was too afraid to say anything more, to hope aloud for the miracle of a donor.
When Evelyn entered the waiting room, one glimpse at the shell-shocked family was enough for her to know that someone had to assume control of their care. Someone who could support them, not someone who needed supporting.
She hugged each of them in turn, holding Amanda longest of all. Stepping back to inspect the group, she asked, “Now, who needs something to eat?”
Evelyn promptly herded Lynn and Annette off to the cafeteria, leaving Frank and Amanda alone. Amanda couldn’t fathom the thought of eating. As for Frank, she didn’t really care. All she could do was think about Jared.
And wait.
And pray.
When one of the ICU nurses passed by the waiting room, Amanda raced after her, catching her in the hallway. Voice trembling, she asked the obvious question.
“No,” the nurse answered, “I’m sorry. So far, there’s no word on a possible donor.”
Still standing in the hallway, Amanda brought her hands to her face.
Unbeknownst to her, Frank had emerged from the waiting room, reaching her side as the nurse hurried away.
“They’ll find a donor,” Frank said.
At his tentative touch, she wheeled around.
“They’ll find one,” he said again.
Her eyes flashed. “You of all people can’t promise me that.”
“No, of course not…”
“Then don’t say anything,” she said. “Don’t say things that are meaningless.”
Frank touched the swollen bridge of his nose. “I’m just trying to—”
“What?” she demanded. “Make me feel better? My son is dying!” Her voice rang out in the tiled hallway, turning heads.