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.
The university counselor, terrified I might drop dead in the dorms and cause a liability issue, gently suggested another leave of absence.
I didn't argue. Just packed my bags and moved out.
Funds were tight. I found a shared apartment in the Urban Village—a chaotic, run-down district where rent was cheap and the desperate gathered.
One of my roommates, a young guy hustling to make rent, took pity on me. Introduced me to livestream e-commerce.
I threw myself into the work. Streamed for hours, selling cheap goods, desperate to earn enough to buy myself more time.
My parents found me a month later. They'd stumbled across my livestream while scrolling social media.
They cornered me in the narrow, trash-strewn alley outside my rental.
Mom looked around at the peeling paint and overflowing dumpsters, eyes welling. "How... how can you live in a place like this?"
She reached for me. "Your health is critical. Pack your things. You're coming back to the hospital with us."
I stepped back. My phone buzzed—livestream starting in five minutes. I tried to step around them.
Dad grabbed my arm, grip bruising. His face twisted in disgust.
"We raised you better than this," he hissed. "Is this why we educated you? So you could do this kind of lowly, degrading work?"