Carefully, he leans in to take the drink cognizant of not moving too entirely much as the others fuss over him. He casts Helen a look that's amazingly a mixture of frustration at having to be helped and a thankful look at being helped.
As each officer reports, snippets of conversation come back to him, his own presumptions, the presumptions of others. He nods, filling in most of the blanks. "Then the Borg tech is shut off and my heart... my heart..." He isn't certain which question he wishes to ask here. Was there a transplant? Is the old heart repaired to full functionality? "There will be no regression?"