Her tone stayed infuriatingly calm—the voice she used to deliver terminal diagnoses. "Medical resources are scarce. We must prioritize patients based on urgency and survival probability."
"I know." I nodded to the empty room. "You're the Department Director. Dad's in management. Your ethics, your resources—you give them to whoever you choose."
My chest ached. "But my life is mine. And from now on, so are my choices."
I ended the call. Powered down the phone.
The transplant opportunity was gone. Stolen. All I could do was wait.
But disease doesn't understand patience. My heart failure was accelerating. Breathless spells becoming frequent. Fatigue settling bone-deep.
My cardiologist suggested a Left Ventricular Assist Device—an LVAD—to keep blood pumping while I waited. A mechanical bridge to transplant.
The cost was astronomical. Even after insurance, out-of-pocket exceeded a hundred thousand dollars.
I'd planned to ask my parents for a loan. But if they'd burn their connections to save a stranger instead of me, they certainly wouldn't pay for a machine to keep their own daughter alive.
I had to survive on my own.