"Good morning, New York!" I said to the air at 6 AM.
"Today is a good day." I made my bed and started choosing what clothes to wear today.
"Hmmm.. this one is the right choice."
A skirt. A hoodie. And my favorite necklace.
Hi. I'm Eliana Thompson. I just graduated from my university. I'm 23 and so ready to approach my dream.
"Off to the shower!!!"
My day was going very well. I bathed, listening to my favorite music. I got ready and wore my best clothes.
After I was done, I walked downstairs and saw Ma and Pa had already made breakfast for me.
"Gooood morning, Ma, Pa!" I said to them.
Mama said, "Oh, wow! Look who's waking up early today?"
"This is my first day as a librarian, okay? I gotta make it right, Ma!" I said to Mama.
Papa, as always, just laughed, like this was the most funny thing for him.
"Go on. Sit and eat your favorite pancakes," Mama said to me.
Eating the pancakes, I told them about what I planned to do for today. I was gonna buy myself a flower and drive to the most famous library in this town! Yup, the place where I work.
"I'm so proud of you, sweetheart," Papa said to me.
And that was so shocking for me. Because Papa, the cold Papa who barely talks (though he's sweet), said that he's proud of me?
I hugged him. Because.. God.. this is the best day ever! My first day as a librarian, getting praised by Papa. Oh yes!
After I was done, I told them that I was ready to go.
"Okay. See you tonight, Ma, Pa. I'm off to work!" I said to them.
But then.. that pain.. came again. Out of nowhere. My legs were swelling, and it was so hard for me to breathe.
Why does this pain always come so sudden like this?
I forced myself to walk. But then..
Mama said, "Hey, are you alright, Ana?"
"Does that pain come again?" she said.
I said, "Yeah. It is. But it's fine, Mama. It's not like this is the first time." I said with a soft smile.
"No, Ana. Let's go to the doctor," she said.
"No! I'm gonna be late for work! This is my first day!"
"Eliana. Come on! That work doesn't matter if you're sick. This has happened so many times and I won't stay silent," she emphasized.
"No-"
But Papa cut me off. "Let's go to the doctor. Listen to your Mama."
On the way to the hospital, I was so sad. Because, why? Why did they have to bring me today?
It's literally my first day as a librarian, they know how much I've been wanting to become a librarian.
"Is it getting worse, Ana?" Mama said to me.
"Uh.. Yes. But it's actually okay. Please.. Can we go back?"
"No," Papa said.
Jesus. What choice do I have?
Looking at the road.. I was starting to feel.. anxious. How bad is it gonna be?
Ah. It's not. I've been dealing with this pain since I was 22. It's gonna be just fine.
The hospital was already in sight. Papa pulled up the car to the parking lot.
"Okay. This is the first thing we should do," Papa said.
They both helped me to get off the car.
"Oh, what can we help?" a nurse said, approaching.
"My daughter. She's in pain," Papa said to her.
"Okay. Let's get her to a wheelchair."
They helped me to sit in it.
Papa registered me at the hospital administration.
Then we were in the emergency waiting room.
It smelled of industrial bleach, old coffee, and human misery. The plastic chairs felt so uncomfortable, and the television mounted on the wall was playing a morning talk show on mute, the captions blinking uselessly.
I felt.. nervous.. and numb.
30 minutes passed, then an hour.
I sat curled up, my knees pulled slightly toward my chest, trying to minimize the movement of my lungs. Every breath I took felt shallow.
Mama was sitting next to me, clutching my cold hand between both of hers. Papa was pacing near the triage desk, his arms crossed over his chest, speaking in low, urgent tones to a nurse who kept shaking her head.
"Ma," I whispered, my voice barely a thread.
"I'm here, baby. I'm right here," Mama said, leaning in close.
"I'm scared," I confessed.
"It's not stopping. It feels… it feels like my heart is giving up. Is it because I feel scared?"
Mama's eyes filled with tears, but she quickly wiped them away with the back of her sleeve, forcing a brave smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"You probably just have a viral infection, or anemia. The doctors here are the best in New York. They're going to give you some medicine, and we'll go home, okay? You'll be back at the library by Wednesday."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe what she said so badly. But inside my chest, I felt like.. something was wrong.
"Thompson, Eliana?" a voice called out.
A nurse in green scrubs stood at the heavy double doors leading to the back. Papa stopped pacing instantly. Mama pushed my wheelchair.
But why did my vision go dark around the edges?
From that moment, the tempo of the day fractured. I was swept away into a world of bright lights, cold stethoscopes and urgent whispers.
They wheeled me into a small, windowless examination room. An IV line was pinched into the back of my left hand. Electrodes were stuck to my chest, their wires trailing off to a monitor that began a steady, frantic beep... beep... beep...
They did an EKG. They drew blood. They wheeled me to a cold room for a chest X-ray, then back again. Through it all, I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles, counting the little dots in the plaster to keep from screaming.
I wanted to go back to my Queens apartment. I wanted to be sorting fiction books by authors' last names.
But it was nearly 2:00 PM when the door to the examination room opened again.
The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. A tall man in a white lab coat walked in, holding a thick manila folder. His badge read Dr. Joseph Miller, Cardiology. He didn't look at me right away; he looked at the charts. His face was a mask of professional neutrality, the kind of face doctors wear when they are about to shatter someone's life.
Mama and Papa stood up from their chairs, moving like a single unit to shield my bed.
"Mr. and Mrs. Thompson," Dr. Miller said, his voice quiet and measured.
He finally looked at me. "And Eliana. I have the results of your EKG, your blood work, and the echocardiogram we just rushed through."
"Is it a virus?" Mama asked, her voice trembling. "She had a cold last month. We thought maybe..."
Dr. Miller sighed softly, closing the folder. He stepped closer to the bed, resting his hand on the metal rail. "I wish it were just a virus, Mrs. Thompson.
"Eliana, what you are experiencing is not panic, and it's not a simple infection. Your heart is severely enlarged."
The words hung in the sterile air.
"Enlarged?" Papa repeated. "She's a kid. She doesn't drink, she doesn't smoke, she runs for the bus—"
"The medical term is Dilated Cardiomyopathy ," Dr. Miller explained.
"Essentially, her heart's main pumping chamber, the left ventricle, has become stretched and thinned. Because the muscle is weak, it can't contract properly. It can't pump enough blood to the rest of your body."
I stared at him. The monitor beside me kept up its frantic beep... beep... beep...
"So... we take pills?" I asked. My voice sounded incredibly small, detached from my body.
"There are medications for that, right? I can take them while I work. I can modify my schedule."
Dr. Miller looked down at his folder, then back up. There was a profound pity in his eyes that made my stomach drop into a cold abyss.
"Usually, yes, we start with medications," Dr. Miller said heavily.
"But in your case, Eliana, the disease is already in an advanced stage. Your ejection fraction, the measurement of how much blood your heart pumps out with each beat, is at less than fifteen percent. A normal heart is at fifty-five or sixty."
"What does that mean?" Papa's voice was raw now, the tough exterior cracking entirely.
"It means Ana is in acute heart failure," Dr. Miller said bluntly but gently.
"The chest pain, the shortness of breath, the dizziness, your heart is failing, Eliana. It's working as hard as it can, but it's running out of time."
The room completely lost its sound. I looked at my Mama. Mama had her hands pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Papa looked like he had been struck by lightning, his shoulders slumping, his face turning an ash-gray color.
Failing.
The word echoed in my mind. It didn't make sense. I had just graduated. I had a stack of library cards in my purse. I had a whole life planned out in this city. This was supposed to be a happy day for me.
How can a heart fail when it hasn't even had a chance to properly start?
"We are admitting you to the Cardiac Care Unit immediately," Dr. Miller said, his hand reaching out to gently touch my arm.
"We will start you on intravenous medications to help support the heart muscle, but I want to be entirely honest with you and your family. Those are temporary measures. A band-aid."
I felt a drop of cold sweat roll down my neck. "Then what's the permanent solution?"
Dr. Miller looked me straight in my eyes. "You need a transplant, Eliana. You need a new heart."
The monitor's beep spiked into a frantic, erratic rhythm as my chest constricted in pure panic. I looked down at my own chest, at the green gown draping over my small frame.
Underneath that fabric, my heart was beating. It was my heart. It had been with me since before I was born. It had carried my memories, my fears, my love for my parents, my dreams.
And now, a stranger in a white coat was telling me it was broken?
"No," I whispered, pulling my hand away from the doctor. "No, there has to be a mistake. Check the name on the chart. I'm Eliana Thompson. I'm twenty-three. I don't need a transplant. I just need to rest. Let me go home."
"Ana, sweetheart, listen to the doctor," Mama sobbed, dropping to her knees by the side of the bed, wrapping her arms around my waist.
"No, Ma! Tell him he's wrong!" I cried out, the tears finally breaking through, hot and furious against my cold cheeks. "I'm not dying! My heart isn't failing!"
But even as I shouted, even as I denied it with every ounce of my will, my body was betraying me, right here in the heart of New York City, and the clock was officially ticking.