It was the worst day on earth for me in Los Angeles.

I was scared when I heard that my heart would stop pumping blood after two days.

I had been eavesdropping on spine-chilling conversation between Dr. McCain and my good mother, Diana. Their voices were faint against my ears.

“You’re late with your son, madam,” insisted Dr. McCain.

“I was looking for money to afford this hospital,” said Diana.

“I understand, but I’m afraid you need to look for more money to afford a heart transplant,” advised Dr. McCain.

“Oh, dear Lord. Was that $140 not enough?” asked Diana.

“That was the consultation fee, madam,” replied Dr. McCain.

“I can’t pay you more than that.” Diana indicated that she was poor and low educated.

“Then death is inevitable,” said Dr. McCain without fear of criticism.

I would consider Dr. McCain as evil, however, he was being honest with my mother. I was indeed lying in a hospital bed, not sure if I was even going to last two days. My legs were swollen, my breathing was as short as my blinking, and my eyes itched with dizziness.

I thought I was in a coma, poised to die the same way my father did four years ago a week after my twentieth birthday. Historically, my father, a white person, had a heart problem as compared to my mother, a soft hearted black woman from Ngoni roots.

I believed I was all set to follow my father to the spirit world.

A junior doctor who had attended me before Dr. McCain, mistook my symptoms for an asthma and two of the five experienced nurses had laughed at him. My mother had given the particular two nurses a bad eye as they were laughing with a serious matter in the mix. Peace and quiet took over at once when Dr. McCain arrived with a cardiac nurse, thereby the junior doctor and the five nurses had exited the room in an instant.

“It’s not a cure,” continued Dr. McCain, putting me on hospital oxygen: “I suggest fundraising should start now.”

Diana converted her sobs to cries in response.

For a moment, I wished a merciless soldier armed to teeth would put a bullet in my head, so that I should stop worrying my mother and myself. What’s more, I was too weak to say to my mother comforting words that came to mind.