"How 'bout some Harry Potter to loosen the nerves?" my dad says. The smile smothering his face is wide and glittering, as if there's nothing anxiety-inducing about waiting for your only child to go into open-heart surgery.

He's been flipping through channels for the last thirty minutes. The tiny t.v. inside the waiting room we're in has limited basic cable options, but I've opposed every one of them so far. And dad should definitely know by now that I have absolutely no interest in Harry Potter, or anything magic related for that matter.

I just stare at him as my response from where I sit cross-legged on a hospital bed just next to him, fiddling with my gown.

He's not looking back at me (another one of his anxiety-evading tactics), but he goes on anyway, pretending that I haven't protested at all.

"That kid's pretty brave, huh? Fighting off dragons and goblins and ghosts and ghouls. And he came out of all that each time, all on his own, like a new man every time. Reminds me of you, to be honest."

I've never read nor watched more than thirty seconds of any Harry Potter movie or book, yet even I know, that's not quite how the story goes. But I don't say anything. As much as I want dad to change the channel again, we all have our ways to cope with tough situations. And for Ray Amana, father extraordinaire, that apparently means imagining your only daughter who at any moment is about to be sailed off into an operating room (again) has the level of courage equivalent to a teen boy that casts magic spells to battle monsters or dark wizards or whatever the hell that Potter kid faces on a daily basis.

"Dad," I finally say, because I can't take it anymore. The last thing I am is brave.

Ever since they date of my transplant had been confirmed, I'd spent the better part of each day afterwards crying at some point like it was the end of the world. Having a heart transplant was going to be bigger than any other surgery or operation I've had in the past. How does anyone steel themselves for having their heart removed from them and then having someone else's replace it?

Most days I cried with company, my dad or nurse Jarvis at my side, but recently in the days leading up to now, I've just been crying myself to sleep, occasionally waking in the middle of the night to a nightmare that the worst had already occurred: my death on the operating table. Last night none of that happened though, thankfully, I guess. I was all cried out then. How ironic that I ran out of tears the night before 'my' world might actually end. (At least I think what irony means; don't get at me, English is not my subject).

"Can we just turn if off?" I plead to him.

It's already ten minutes past nine, at least that's what the analog clock on the wall across from me and my dad says. I used to not be able to read those things, but my many years staycationing in this hospital, which was filled to the brim with endless shapes of analog clocks, has left me with a long-lasting comprehension of them.

"Sorry, Sue," dad essentially laments, and uses the long grey remote to first lower the volume of the t.v. before ultimately just pressing the power button. He swivels himself in a chair matching the colour of the remote and looks at me at last. He wasn't looking so brave either: bags under his eyes and red streaks in his eyeballs. Sleep had evaded both Amanas last night. "I know you're literally about to go in, but I...I don't know. I just wanted you to think about something - anything else, instead of just waiting for it to happen." His usually even baritone voice sounds like he looks. Exhausted.

I adjust my face a bit into something more smug as I continue to stare him down. "I thought you always told me to face my battles head on, huh? Hypocrite."

There was maybe two seconds of a blank stare on his face before that exhausted look evaporated from his features and was replaced with amusement.

I'm not a funny person. At all. So I don't often try. Though my dad is the only person who thinks that fact the opposite, even though all I usually do is just throw his life lessons back in his face chewed up and rearranged slightly. It works enough when I want it to, though.

Coming down from his laughing fit, dad chuckles out, "I said I wanted you to think about something else, not to sprint out the building in your gown and grab the 180 to Toronto."

"Mentally running away is still running away," I shrug. Then grin half a second later.

Sometimes, I found myself a little bit funny.

My tactless 'joke' has left us both in a fit chuckles, and for a moment, I think I actually do forget the reason my dad and I are waiting in this room. But that reason instantly comes sliding back into my mind when we hear a door sliding open.

I freeze, eyes glued to my lap all of a sudden. My dad's gone quiet too, and I hear him stand up. That's all the cue I needed to know...it was time.

"Hello, Suzie!" calls an unfamiliar, ungodly optimistic, female voice. I glance up to see the anesthesiologist that I met yesterday. Can't remember her name, and I guess that lines up since I didn't even recognize her voice a second ago.

Her hair is so...straight. And black. And not wild. Boring. Nothing like the one and only Nurse Jarvis.

She struts right up to me, beaming at my dad on the way, a small white bottle clutched in her hands.

"How're you feeling?" she asks me, teeth and all, face contorted into something sympathetic.

Fuck off, I tell her bitterly in my head, sparing my dad from wasting any paltry amount of energy he had left to admonish me.

It was such a stupid question that she asked though, and I very nearly let the words roll right off my tongue. I'm maybe, possibly — five to ten percent chance — gonna die today. How the fuck do you think I'm feeling?

"Okay," I say out loud instead, lying to sate the boring woman.

"Ready to get this show on the road," my dad adds, reinforcing my short and sweet answer. He almost sounded like he was prepared to take my place on the operating table himself, or maybe that was just my fear and desperation playing tricks with me.

"That's great to hear," the boring woman goes on. "Doctor Fadel is all set up and ready to go too, so I'll be taking you in." She holds up the bottle. "This is a sedative. You can take one or two and that'll help you relax and make you a bit sleepy before I administer the anesthesia in the operating room."

I hold my hand out to her. "Say no more. I'll take two."

Dad's giving me a wary side-eye as I get handed two micro-sized pills. I'm still not allowed to drink anything even for this, but the pills really are that small enough for me to swallow easy.

"Alright, so those will take a minute or two to kick in..."

I'm not listening to her. I can't. My body's gone a bit slack. My own breath feels like its gone rigid as it escapes me in clipped breaths. My skin feels...I don't know, floaty. The sedative might already be affecting me, but I'm really not sure. Suddenly, I feel stuck. Trapped. There are hands on my shoulders, guiding me to lie down on the bed. The rails on either side of me go up, and afterwards a thin blanket is pulled up to my waist. I hear my dad's voice, but not the actual words he's telling me.

Not listening.

Can't.

The bed starts moving. Someone's pushing it from behind my head. I'm not sure which direction we're going in since my eyes won't leave the ceiling, but it's obvious where I'm being ushered.

My eyes start to feel droopy and reality gets a bit fuzzy. All of a sudden, I'm listening now. Not to the boring woman or my dad, no. But my heart.

My frail organ.

My enemy.

It's odd, mismatched beating fills my ears, resounds inside my body. It's not making me nauseous or uneasy like it usually does. Instead it's just provoking me, making me indignant.

Maybe, possibly — five to ten percent chance — I'm going to die today because of you.