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Authors: Amy Fellner Dominy
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determine the cause without also running an echocardiogram,” he explains. “It’s basically an ultrasound of the heart. It doesn’t hurt a bit. We can do it right now, if you like.”
A nervous feeling rolls through me like a wave of seasickness. I want to tell Dr. Danvers that no, I don’t like. “I’m meeting Connor at the pool tonight. It’s already after five.”
“Honey,” Mom says.
Dad’s rubbing a hand over his mouth and chin. I can guess how he feels. The same way I do. Frustrated. Mad. Freaked out.
“Dad?” I say.
His eyes meet mine. “Let’s do the test and get out of here, Ab.”
But it’s another hour before I get taken to a different room, and a lady with hair on her chin smears blue gel on my chest and rubs a cold metal knob over it. I try to breathe normally.
When it’s over, there are three texts from Jen and one from Connor. STILL WAITING I text them both. Tomorrow I can tell them about the EKG and the echo. When the scare is over.
But when Maggie leads us to Dr. Danvers’s office, it doesn’t feel like a false alarm.
It feels like a funeral march. I shake off the feeling, but Mom rubs my shoulder as if she feels it too.
Dr. Danvers’s office is all desk and bookcases and framed medical degrees. I can’t focus on anything except the file in front of him. My file. When we’re sitting down, me in the middle, Dr. Danvers tilts his computer screen so it faces us. “I’ve reviewed Abby’s echo,” he begins, “and I’m afraid there’s a problem.”
A shiver ripples up my spine.
Dr. Danvers gestures to the screen. “This is Abby’s echo. It measures the thickness of the chambers and walls of her heart. Abby has an asymmetrical, or irregular, thickening of the ventricular wall. This is indicative of a heart condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”
“Heart condition?”
“What?”
Mom’s and Dad’s words overlap and twist together in disbelief and fear. Dr. Danvers pulls out a piece of paper and carefullywrites out the words in block print as if we’re five years old: HYPERTROPHIC CARDIOMYOPATHY . He lays the paper on the desk facing us. “It’s sometimes called an enlarged heart.”
“But her heart is fine,” Dad says. “It’s always been fine.”
“Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, or HCM, often doesn’t develop until adolescence,” Dr. Danvers says. “That’s one of the reasons this can be so deadly. Teenagers die from this without ever knowing they have it.”
“Die?” Mom says with a gasp.
“When it’s not discovered in time,” he adds quickly.
“Then we caught it in time?” Mom asks. “Before it gets too serious?”
“HCM is always serious, but Abby should be fine.” He pulls out another piece of paper and draws a picture of a heart. “These are the chambers of the heart, and this is the wall that separates them: the septal wall. With the measurements from Abby’s echo, I’d say she has a mild to moderate case.”
I let out a breath at the same time Dad does. “So that’s not bad,” I say.
“It’s not,” Dr. Danvers agrees. “But even at mild levels, HCM results in a strain on the heart’s function. Because of this thickened wall, the blood doesn’t flow out of the chamber as easily. There’s a great deal of pressure that builds up, which is why Abby experienced dizziness. Other typical symptoms include arrhythmia—an uneven heartbeat. This could lead to fainting and cardiac arrest.” He pauses, his gaze circling from Mom to Dad and then to me. “Unfortunately, when left untreated, HCM can result in death.”
Mom’s fingers are white on the arm of her chair. Dad’s handsare fisted. I feel like I’m somewhere else. Like this is a movie and I’m watching from above.
“You just said it was a mild case,” Dad snaps.
“Mild to moderate,” Dr. Danvers says. “And I’m just trying to be clear about what we’re dealing with.”
“Is it treatable?” Mom asks.
“Absolutely.” He reaches for a prescription
A nervous feeling rolls through me like a wave of seasickness. I want to tell Dr. Danvers that no, I don’t like. “I’m meeting Connor at the pool tonight. It’s already after five.”
“Honey,” Mom says.
Dad’s rubbing a hand over his mouth and chin. I can guess how he feels. The same way I do. Frustrated. Mad. Freaked out.
“Dad?” I say.
His eyes meet mine. “Let’s do the test and get out of here, Ab.”
But it’s another hour before I get taken to a different room, and a lady with hair on her chin smears blue gel on my chest and rubs a cold metal knob over it. I try to breathe normally.
When it’s over, there are three texts from Jen and one from Connor. STILL WAITING I text them both. Tomorrow I can tell them about the EKG and the echo. When the scare is over.
But when Maggie leads us to Dr. Danvers’s office, it doesn’t feel like a false alarm.
It feels like a funeral march. I shake off the feeling, but Mom rubs my shoulder as if she feels it too.
Dr. Danvers’s office is all desk and bookcases and framed medical degrees. I can’t focus on anything except the file in front of him. My file. When we’re sitting down, me in the middle, Dr. Danvers tilts his computer screen so it faces us. “I’ve reviewed Abby’s echo,” he begins, “and I’m afraid there’s a problem.”
A shiver ripples up my spine.
Dr. Danvers gestures to the screen. “This is Abby’s echo. It measures the thickness of the chambers and walls of her heart. Abby has an asymmetrical, or irregular, thickening of the ventricular wall. This is indicative of a heart condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”
“Heart condition?”
“What?”
Mom’s and Dad’s words overlap and twist together in disbelief and fear. Dr. Danvers pulls out a piece of paper and carefullywrites out the words in block print as if we’re five years old: HYPERTROPHIC CARDIOMYOPATHY . He lays the paper on the desk facing us. “It’s sometimes called an enlarged heart.”
“But her heart is fine,” Dad says. “It’s always been fine.”
“Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, or HCM, often doesn’t develop until adolescence,” Dr. Danvers says. “That’s one of the reasons this can be so deadly. Teenagers die from this without ever knowing they have it.”
“Die?” Mom says with a gasp.
“When it’s not discovered in time,” he adds quickly.
“Then we caught it in time?” Mom asks. “Before it gets too serious?”
“HCM is always serious, but Abby should be fine.” He pulls out another piece of paper and draws a picture of a heart. “These are the chambers of the heart, and this is the wall that separates them: the septal wall. With the measurements from Abby’s echo, I’d say she has a mild to moderate case.”
I let out a breath at the same time Dad does. “So that’s not bad,” I say.
“It’s not,” Dr. Danvers agrees. “But even at mild levels, HCM results in a strain on the heart’s function. Because of this thickened wall, the blood doesn’t flow out of the chamber as easily. There’s a great deal of pressure that builds up, which is why Abby experienced dizziness. Other typical symptoms include arrhythmia—an uneven heartbeat. This could lead to fainting and cardiac arrest.” He pauses, his gaze circling from Mom to Dad and then to me. “Unfortunately, when left untreated, HCM can result in death.”
Mom’s fingers are white on the arm of her chair. Dad’s handsare fisted. I feel like I’m somewhere else. Like this is a movie and I’m watching from above.
“You just said it was a mild case,” Dad snaps.
“Mild to moderate,” Dr. Danvers says. “And I’m just trying to be clear about what we’re dealing with.”
“Is it treatable?” Mom asks.
“Absolutely.” He reaches for a prescription
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