CHAPTER FOUR SAM

The sun streamed through the window beside my bed. I woke up, and at first, I had no idea where I was. Then the stiff white sheets rubbed against my skin. The hospital.

My mother sat in a chair beside my bed with her eyes closed and her head bowed. But as soon as I opened my eyes she jolted upright as if she had some sort of psychic power.

"Did you sleep here?" I asked.

She brushed her hair off her face and straightened her top.

"Go home, Mom," I said. "Sleep in your own bed."

"You sleep good?" she asked.

"Okay, I guess."

"They say heart doctor come today."

I nodded. That was a good thing because I really did want some answers.

My breakfast came and went. And we waited. Me lying in bed and my mother talking non-stop. About what? I couldn't tell you because she went on and on like a long buzzer that just wouldn't stop. The day dragged. The nurse came in and out. I slept. In and out.

Elma showed up mid-afternoon and saved me, just when I thought I might snap at my mother. "Some of the guys are outside. Just came from school. You want to see them?"

"He tired," said my mother.

"Send them in," I said.

Elma left and when she returned Cecil and Craig were with her. At 6'4 and built like a ruler, Cecil loped over to my bed, his crazy black dreadlocks swinging with his walk. More of the shy guy and a true ginger, Craig followed, hands in his pockets.

"Hey, Sokolovic," said Cecil. He held up his hand and I weakly slapped it.

"What's up?" I asked.

"What's up with you, dude? You scared the bejesus out of us."

Craig, AKA Ging, (totally lame nickname but it is what it is) stood at the end of my bed, holding his hands together. "Scared is like putting it mildly. I'm still having nightmares."

"I'm okay," I said, hoping this was the truth.

"Game's rescheduled," said Cecil.

I frowned. "Hey, guys, I'm kinda foggy about the game. Can you, uh, fill me in?"

Across my bed, they looked at each other for a split second. Then Cecil spoke. "City championships, Soko. You were hot. Scored the first two baskets."

I nodded. Two baskets? I should remember that. I could remember every basket everyone had scored in every game. Significant stuff. Why couldn't I remember that? I licked my lips. "And then I…what…just collapsed?"

"Yeah, you got a breakaway, going for your second basket." Cecil grinned, shaking his head. "You nailed it too. You were hot. We woulda killed 'em."

I frowned. I wish I could remember. "How long did we play before…?" I don't know why I didn't want to say collapsed again, but I didn't. Made me seem weak or something. I'd ruined our game. It had been called off because of me.

"Forty-two seconds," said Ging, from the end of my bed. "The game's been rescheduled."

"For when?"

They both looked at each other, again. Sideways glances that didn't include me. "Beginning of next week."

"Maybe I'll be okay," I said.

"That'd be good, bro." Cecil grinned and held up his thumb. "We need ya."

Cecil snapped his fingers. "I heard that Coach Shields might make an appearance. To watch you and me, Soko, in action."

"Lucky you, guys," said Ging.

Cecil laughed and smacked Ging on the back. "It's called skill, dude." Both Cecil and I had been recruited to play for the Fighting Bears next year at the University of Alberta. They were the top university team in the country because they had a coach everyone wanted to play for.

"That's great," I said. I had to get out of here and play in that game."I'm sure I'll be out by then."

"You work on that," said Cecil.

Suddenly, the room took on a silence as if we'd hit a blockage in the conversation.

Cecil cleared his throat before he said, "Hey, Stuart is sure asking about you. I swear he's stalking me. Every time I turn a corner at school, he's there asking me if I've seen you."

"He wants to visit me in the hospital," I said. "He's sent my sister probably a hundred text messages. And me too." I picked up my phone.

"You're joking, right?" Cecil piped up.

For the first time since I'd been in the hospital, I cracked a smile. "No joke."

Cecil and Ging stayed for another few minutes or so, talking to me about their weekend plans, and basketball practices, and the latest sports stats. Then the conversation turned to girls and grad.

"So, rumour has it Ginny from our math class is holding out hope that you're going to ask her to grad-u-a-tion," said Cecil.

I shook my head. "I don't even really know her. Maybe I won't take a date."

"She told everyone in class today you were trending on Twitter."

"Trending on Twitter?" I groaned. That's all I needed was to be suddenly popular on social media. "You're kidding, right?"

"You hit the news big time," said Ging. "Front page of the sports section. Even made CBC."

"I think someone did up some Facebook page for you too."

"What?" I flopped back on my pillow. I hated attention, except when in a b-ball uniform.

Suddenly, a doctor I'd never seen before (but who looked really official) walked into the room, trailed by my mother and father who had been giving me a little privacy with my friends. I guessed he was the heart specialist-slash-cardiologist? He wasn't my family doctor, that was for sure. My parents had said the heart guy would be in later in the day. This doctor's arrival was the guys' cue to leave and my entire family's cue to return. Elma stood at the end of the bed.

"Samir, I'm Doctor Kapoor." He held out his hand and I shook it. "I'm a pediatric heart specialist. How are you doing today?"

"I've been better," I replied. "You can call me Sam."

"Okay, Sam. Yes, I'm sure you have been better. We need to talk about a few things today, all right?"

I nodded but didn't speak because my throat felt like it had closed up. Not a word would come out even if I tried to talk.

He sat down on the end of my bed, all casual-like. "I've looked at your charts and viewed all your test results. You have what is called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy."

I must have been staring at him blankly (I didn't have a clue what that even meant), because he didn't wait for me to say anything before he went on. "It's a thickening of the wall between the left and right ventricles of your heart. So, what happens, Sam, is the thickened heart muscle makes your left ventricle smaller." He used his hands to talk, making little pictures of my heart, of it being smaller and thicker, and I kept staring at his hands instead of looking him in the eyes. He had long fingers and perfect nails that looked like thin pencils with erasers that hadn't been rubbed.

"So," he continued, "it holds less blood. Sometimes that wall can get stiff. That means the ventricle can't relax very well or fill with blood. This in turn can cause high blood pressure, or it can also lead to arrhythmias because the heart's electrical signals are not working properly. Arrhythmias are irregular heart beats. In your case your damaged heart muscle decided to stop during your basketball game because of the pressure you were putting on it." He raised his eyebrows a little. "You're a lucky boy. Many teens have died from exactly the same thing. Your coach and trainer acted quickly."

Damaged. I had a damaged heart. Damaged. Me?

I gave a little nod to show him I was actually listening. Words were impossible.

"The window is between three and five minutes to get that heart started again," he said. "Their reaction time was admirable."

I nodded again. I knew this. I'd been told. I owed Cassandra and Coach Nelson a lot, for sure. I guess hearing it come from a cardiologist made the reality of what had happened hit home. I could have died. Well, in a way I did die for those few seconds. A heart stops, you're dead. Period. End of story. Grave time. They had got my heart started again within the allotted minutes and I was grateful.

But now…I had to get back to this, the present.

"We need to implant an implantable cardioverter defibrillator under your skin," continued Dr. Kapoor, using more medical lingo, "in the upper chest area, which will work with your heart to keep it beating at a steady pace. This ICD will monitor your heart rhythm."

I swallowed before I croaked out, "A what?"

"Implantable cardioverter defibrillator or 'ICD.' They're tiny. Once implanted you won't even know it's there." He opened his binder and showed me a picture of the ICD and where it would go in my body. It was small. And being put in my chest?

I didn't say anything as I looked at the diagram, trying to wrap my head around what was happening to me.

"Once you're stabilized," he looked down at his clipboard, "which looks pretty good right now, we can do the surgical procedure." He looked up at me. "We do want to run some more tests on you to see how your brain is functioning before the procedure. We will do those tests over the next few days." He paused for a split second before he asked, "Do you have any questions so far?"

I was more interested in this thing that was being implanted. Like I was some freak. "Do I have to have surgery for this…ICD?"

"Yes. It's an insertion and you will need to stay in the hospital for a few days after it's implanted so we can make sure it is working properly and to make sure the incision is healing. Of course, you're healthy so I don't anticipate that being a problem."

I nodded. That was good news. I thought about what the guys had said. The make-up game could be early next week. Maybe they could postpone the game until the end of the week. "I might have a basketball game next week," I said. "Could we get it done before then?"

The doctor stared at me for a second, his head tilted to the side. "Sam, I'm sorry but varsity sports are out from now on, especially basketball because of the high intensity. Your heartrate has to stay within a very particular range and, unfortunately, running full tilt down a basketball court isn't in your best interest. In the future, you might be able to play some house league basketball. For fun."

House league basketball? Was he for real?