Heart Break

I knew my dad was different the day after his transplant.

I wasn’t allowed to see him until mid afternoon, after they’d checked his stitches for the millionth time, did an ultrasound to check it’s position, and handed him a mountain of meds to take.

Even with an artificial heart, it seems your body can still try and reject it. Even if it was made specifically for you.

My dad and I had never really been that close. Being the middle of 5, all high achievers and now high earners, I’d always been the overlooked kid, the forgotten one. The one no-one really cared that much about.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never been as good as my siblings. Knowing you’re not enough for your family changes you, gives you a totally different outlook on life and relationships than those who are close, bonded together. I’ve never felt that, not with dad.

Not really with anyone.

Maybe that’s why I’m more objective with them. I see them differently; my heart isn’t in the way, colouring all my decisions with a rose tint, hiding the truth and showing me what I want to see. Because, I want to see him, see them, for who they really are. Not who they pretend to be, for each other.

For the world.

The cards have all flipped now, though. I’m stuck, like I was as a kid, with little in the way of friends, opportunities, and future prospects. While my brothers and sisters were out there, winning trophies and awards and scholarships, sending them all across the world, I was stuck here, in my box bedroom at the back of the house. Playing Cinderella, of all things.

And even though we’re all grown up, all changed and moved on, I’m still stuck, playing that game.

There isn’t anyone else here for him now.

Alex moved to New York when he was 20. Hasn’t been back for more than a week since. He’s married now, apparently. His husband works at an AI company, though I have no idea what he does. At first, I thought that maybe Alex was married to an AI.

Actually, I still do.

Henrietta is a dentist. She’s worked hard for it, I know she has. But it seems like an awful lot of her patients need expensive, experimental treatments for minor things like toothache all the damn time.

I only know because I’ve seen the lawsuits posted all over social media. I’m glad she uses her married name - I don’t want the few people in my life to think I actually know her.

The twins, younger than me by only a year, still do basically everything together.

Well, almost everything. They are brother and sister, after all. There are some things in life that even they can’t share.

All successful, all happy, and all living really, really far away.

Which means I’m the one left here, looking after dad while he recovers from surgery.

I didn’t really understand why needed it - there wasn’t anything wrong with his heart, as far as I was aware. Though, how much would he tell me anyway?

He called me up a few weeks ago, and didn’t bother with any ‘Hello’s’ or ‘How are you’s’. He just told me that he’s having a heart transplant, and needs me to look after him and the house for the time.

I should have said no. I know I should have, but… He’s still my dad. I have an obligation, a duty, to look after him. Even if he didn’t raise me the same as the others, he did raise me. He gave me a roof, food, and a bed to sleep in. It’s my responsibility to provide the same back for him.

The surgery went well, according to the nurses I spoke to. They wouldn’t give me any more information about it, though. Not about why he needed it, or if the issue was genetic, or if it changes his life expectancy. Nothing that might tell me what the hell was going on.

My siblings called to check on him, hours after I’d messaged and let them know he was out. With how fast we can get in touch with people these days, it really surprised me they took so long. I knew they’d seen it - the icon popped up in the corner. They didn’t really seem to care.

He was different from the moment I walked in the room. It took a while to put my finger on it…. But it was there. The change. It had worked its way from his new heart all through his body, altering every cell, adapting every nerve and muscle.

When he first looked at me, he was…calm. Not mad or disappointed or annoyed. Just calm. He actually looked rather bored, or as bored as one can be after a 6-hour operation inside his chest, removing his most vital organ and replacing it with… something else.

I didn’t know it was artificial until I signed the release papers, stating I’d be his caregiver while he recovers. When I quizzed him about it, he didn’t have anything to say other than ‘I needed it.’

He behaved differently, too. He wasn’t slamming doors anymore, or leaving piles of dirty dishes or laundry for me to clean. He was a part of the household again, like he was with my brothers and sisters when we were kids. He did chores he always claimed he didn’t know how to, without me begging or crying for him to help. He did everything a dad was supposed to, just…

He didn’t show any emotion. Not anger, nor happiness nor disappointment. He was blank-faced, not cold exactly, just bare.

I realised he hadn’t spoken to any of the others when Alex called, asking if dad was still alive. They hadn’t spoken for weeks at this point, so I asked if he’d only just remembered that our father had a heart transplant.

He said he didn’t know. He said he thought it was to remove his appendix.

I told him I thought he was being ridiculous - dad’s appendix was removed when he was a teenager. He’d told us the story a million times, how could he have forgotten?

Alex sent me the messages, screenshots, of dad talking about an appendectomy. Everything after that was different. They talked less, shared less. Dad didn’t initiate another conversation, which showed a lot about how much Alex actually cared.

The others all said the same thing. And I figured it out.

The new heart was artificial. Made in a lab, carefully curated using cells taken from different parts of dad’s body weeks before the surgery. Apparently it was becoming common, making hearts from scratch instead of waiting for a living donor - it makes sense, I guess.

I took time to research the hospital and how exactly they do this: using 3D printers. Still new-ish technology in the medical field, only been in use for around 20 years or so. My dad’s heart was the 123rd they’d made and successfully transplanted into a living recipient (of the 235 patients they had).

I gathered my research and went to see him. His medical records (which I read through during his hospitalization - they were in the room!) showed no signs of needing a new heart, so I asked him again why he needed it, why he chose to do this to himself.

Instead of getting mad or brushing me off, he sat me down on the couch. He showed me a letter he’d handwritten weeks ago, dated July 9th 2048.

My old heart can’t take this pain much longer. I’ve seen the effects of the surgery and I’m all for it. If I live, I’ll be happier than I’ve been in decades. If not, then my misery will have finally come to an end.

Morgan has already agreed to stay and help me. The others still think it’s about my appendix. Everything we’ve done for them and they can’t even remember it’s been gone for years?

It’s breaking my heart into a million pieces, seeing what I’ve done to that girl. My daughter. I’m still doing it now, keeping things from her. She’ll figure it out soon, I know it. She’s the smartest of the lot.

Hopefully this new heart will change everything for us. If I can stop feeling, for just a minute, we could be better, and she can have the dad she wants. And I can finally be the dad I should have been from the beginning.