Free A Small Matter by M.M. Wilshire Page B

spacious office somewhere deep inside the
Division of Cardiothoracic Surgery at UCLA Medical Center, were in
deep conference with Mulroney’s cardiologist, a woman who wielded
the blade with international renown. The world class hospital--set
into the West Los Angeles foothills like a mighty temple of
healing--presided over the southern end of the sprawling UCLA
campus bordering the semi-posh--albeit bohemian--Westwood shopping
district.
    “The trouble is,” Dr. Lerner said, “everybody
wants to be Winston Churchill--he ate and drank and smoked cigars,
he never exercised, he had a high stress occupation--and he still
lived to be ninety. They say the only exercise he did get was
walking from the car to the funerals of his friends.”
    “It’s okay,” Mulroney said. “I know it’s time
to pay for my sins. All those tacos and hot-dogs have finally added
up.”
    “Of course, we could go in and replace
everything,” Lerner said. “Our specialty is transplants, after all.
Or you could let us freeze you for now and bring you back in a
couple of years once we get the stem cell thing together.”
    Mulroney’s face drooped.
    “That’s a joke,” Lerner said. “Sorry. I guess
I'm trying to lighten the mood. You’re in for a rough journey. Even
with efficient heart-lung machines and modern anesthesia, the plain
truth is that hearts don’t like to be handled--in fact, they can
get downright irritable.”
    “I get the picture,” Mulroney said. “You can
go ahead and sharpen your knife now. Do you want me to remove my
shirt first?”
    “You’ll have to spend the rest of the day
here,” Lerner said. “We’ve got a lot of poking and prodding to do
before we put you on the table in the morning. Do you have any more
questions of me before I start you through the process?”
    “I guess not,” Mulroney said. “Although I
must admit, the thought of lying on a gurney somewhere, drugged,
scrubbed, shaved, stripped of all my worldly possessions and
wrapped in gauze does give me pause to consider.”
    “Well then,” Lerner said. “Pause to consider
this--you’ve got two total occlusions of two coronary arteries.
Your life is entirely dependent on a critically narrowed third
vessel. We both know your angina hasn’t responded well to the nitro
or other drugs.”
    “I’m a walking time bomb,” Mulroney said.
    “As you know, Mulroney,” Lerner said, “it’s
been my strong opinion for the past year that you should have
immediate surgery. For the life of me, I can’t believe you made it
this far. It’s time to operate for the simple reason that it’s
safer to have it here and now in the finest hospital in the country
than to wait until you’re forced to undergo the procedure
on-the-fly in an emergency room out there somewhere where they’ll
use the technical equivalent of a flashlight and a razor blade to
do you.”
    Vickie had to give Mulroney credit. She could
see a certain amount of fear in his eyes, but he didn’t flinch.
    “We were planning on getting married in a
couple of days,” Vickie said. “Will that still be possible?”
    “No,” the doctor said. “It’s out of the
question.”
    “But I figured I’d be up and about in a few
days,” Mulroney said. “I know a guy who had it done here, he said
your staff of Nazi’s got him out of bed and on his feet that same
day.”
    “Unfortunately,” Lerner said, “because of
your age and physical condition, after we go in, you’re going to be
temporarily worse off than when we first started. During your time
in intensive care, you won’t even be lucid. After you regain
consciousness, you’ll barely be able to communicate through the
thicket of tubes and lines--plus all that buzzing and beeping of
the monitoring machines will be driving you crazy--you’re going to
lose all track of time. Day and night will come and go without you
even knowing it.”
    “C’mon, Doc,” Mulroney said. “You don’t have
to sugar coat it for me--give it to me