Free Nervous Water by William G. Tapply

said.
    â€œHe’s had a heart attack,” he said. “He should recover. He was lucky. With that aneurysm of his, it’s a miracle it didn’t rupture and kill him. He’s a—”
    â€œWait a minute,” I said. “What’s this about an aneurysm? Does he know about it? What kind of aneurysm?”
    â€œIt’s an aortic aneurysm,” Dr. Drury said, “and of course he knows about it. It was only a few weeks ago when we diagnosed it. He said he’d been feeling tired, listless, short of breath lately, and a friend of his finally talked him into seeing me.”
    â€œHow bad is it?”
    â€œHe’s had it for a while. It’s getting bigger, the vessel walls are getting thinner.” He looked out the window for a minute. “It’s bad. It’ll kill him. Probably within a year.”
    â€œIsn’t there anything you can do?”
    â€œSure,” he said. “We can operate.”
    â€œBut?”
    â€œYou know your uncle,” he said.
    I realized I didn’t know my uncle very well, but I could guess what Dr. Drury meant. “He refused?”
    The doctor smiled. “Said he had a string of lobster pots to tend, didn’t have time for no damn operation.”
    â€œI’ll talk to him,” I said.
    â€œOh, I talked to him,” said the doctor. “I explained the situation as straightforwardly and graphically as I could. I told him how the walls of his aorta are being stretched with each beat of his heart. It’s blowing up like a balloon. I told him how one of these days that thing’ll just explode inside his chest, and then, just like that, he’ll be dead.” A little smile twitched at the corner of Dr. Drury’s mouth. “Know what he said?”
    I nodded. “I can guess.”
    â€œHe said,” said the doctor, “ ‘Sounds good to me.’ ”
    â€œI was with him day before yesterday,” I said. “He didn’t say anything about any aneurysm to me.”
    â€œOf course he didn’t.”
    I smiled. “If you’ve got to die,” I said, “a ruptured aortic aneurysm sounds like a good way to do it.”
    â€œYes, I suppose that’s what he was thinking.”
    â€œStill,” I said, “you could operate. Maybe if Uncle Moze felt that he had something to live for.” I was thinking of Cassie.
    â€œWell, actually,” said Dr. Drury, “this heart attack complicates matters.”
    â€œIt’d be risky?”
    â€œVery risky. I wouldn’t recommend it.”
    â€œBut if he doesn’t have that thing operated on…”
    He shrugged.
    â€œSo,” I said, “when you say he’ll recover…”
    Dr. Wilton Drury shrugged again. “I mean, he won’t die of this heart attack. Mr. Crandall is in amazingly good physical condition given the fact that he smokes and drinks and pays no attention whatsoever to his diet. He’s going to have to change his lifestyle.”
    I smiled. I couldn’t imagine Uncle Moze changing a single thing about his lifestyle. “How long do you think he’ll be here?” I said. “In the hospital, I mean.”
    â€œHard to say. A few more days in ICU, at least. We’ve got to do some tests, keep a close eye on him, work out his medications. Then if all goes well, we’ll move him over to the hospital floor for a few days, and if he’s still doing okay, get him into rehab. Start his PT, build back his strength, see how it goes. That aneurysm complicates it.”
    â€œMy uncle’s a lobsterman,” I said. “Every day he goes out on his boat, hauls his pots. He lugs heavy things. Hot sun beats down on him. He gets rained on.”
    â€œHe can’t do that anymore,” said Dr. Drury flatly.
    â€œWell, he probably will.”
    â€œIt’ll kill him,” he said. “Guaranteed. If his heart doesn’t get him first, the