Chapter Five

Noah challenged death every day. He was a heart surgeon, and an excellent one at that. Instinct, he called it. But it was something more, a type of super-awareness that warned him if he was about to make a cut even a millimeter off its mark. This sixth sense had saved countless lives and garnered him the reputation for being a medical master and a hero in the hearts of patients worldwide.

He unbuttoned the single button on his white lab coat and sat in his chair with a huff. His sleep was failing to leave him refreshed. He was tired all of the time. He rubbed his eyes.

He scanned his office, noting the many pictures with various celebrities and politicians whose family members had been under his care. He remembered all too clearly the boy under the suit, the awkward teenager with knobby knees, an afro, a squeaky voice and no date for prom. But that was a long time ago. He heard a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called, returning a photo frame to

his desk.

“Dr. Whitley?” His colleague peeked his head in the door. “Am I interrupting?”

“Please come in,” Noah reaffirmed sitting up in his chair. “Can I help you?”

Dr. Carey stepped into Noah’s office and closed the door behind him. Noah noticed that he held a medical file close to his side almost as if to conceal it. Dr. Carey was an up-and-coming cardiothoracic surgical resident that Noah hand-picked from the intern pool many years ago. He was an intelligent young man with good hands and a cool head under pressure. He sat in the chair opposite Noah.

“Dr. Whitley.” He cleared his throat nervously. "There is no easy way to say this. It might be a good idea for you to review this yourself.” His hand trembled as he passed the file over the desk.

Noah’s heart skipped a beat as he took the file with a firm hand. He had asked Dr. Carey to run a full battery of tests to determine the cause of his recent fatigue. He opened the folder and reviewed the three pages of data. On the last page, he discovered the cause of his exhaustion. He sat back in his chair and tossed the file on the desk.

“I guess that solves it. Diagnosis?” he asked, with the neutral supervisorial tone that he had used on countless occasions while testing the boundaries of his intern’s knowledge.

“Dr. Whitley . . .” Carey protested.

“Diagnosis,” Noah insisted.

Carey answered as directed, “Patient Noah Whitley, age sixty-three, symptoms, fatigue and dizziness. Cardiac MRI and blood tests confirm severe cardiomyopathy.”

“Prognosis?” Noah leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen on the desk.

“Dr. Whitley,” Carey objected.

“Prognosis?” Noah asked again.

“Fatal,” Carey answered quietly, shifting his eyes to

the desk.

“Treatment options?”

“Transplant.”

“Interim treatment?”

“Doctor recommends that patient be admitted to the hospital immediately and placed on a left ventricular assist device until a donor heart is available.”

“Very good, Dr. Carey. That will be all,” Noah finished, lost in thought.