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“I’ll be okay,” I tell her. “Better than ever.”
“I know.”
She then hugs me as best she can in the back of the car.
We hold each other all the way to the hospital.
Once there, it’s a flurry of excitement, having me change into a gown, putting an IV in, going over the risks and precautions with my family and me.
It’s overwhelming, that’s for sure. There’s even a part of me that begins to panic that I can’t do this. What’s the point? This kidney won’t last forever.
But I remind myself I can’t dwell on the promises of the future; I have to focus on the gifts of now.
The room they have me in is small, a temporary space before wheeling me back for surgery. My mom sits on one side holding my hand, while my dad stands by her. Harlow sits on my other side holding that hand.
I’m scared—I can’t help it, surgery is daunting. Knowing they’re going to be cutting me open and putting someone else’s organ in my body feels wrong on so many levels, but I know I’m being overly paranoid.
“What are you thinking about?” Harlow asks beside me.nbsp;
“Things I shouldn’t be,” I tell her.
She smiles and reaches up, pushing a piece of hair out of my eyes.nbsp;
“Do you remember when we were little and I tripped on the Slip n’ Slide and broke my ankle?”
I nod. I don’t think I can ever forget my sister’s cries that day.
“You told me it was okay to be scared—that being scared didn’t make me weak. You’re not weak, Willa, not at all. You’re strong, and brave. You’ve overcome more than anyone your age should ever have to, and I’ve watched you do it with dignity. I admire you more than anyone else in this world, and I’m lucky to be your sister.”
I cry again, for the umpteenth time tonight.
“I low you.”
I let go of my mom’s hand and hug my sister.
“I low you too.”
She squeezes me tight. I feel a tear leak from my eye onto her shoulder but she doesn’t let me go.
“Knock, knock.” The surgeon raps his knuckle on the open door.nbsp;
“Hey, Doc.” I smile.
Dr. Marks was one of the first surgeons I met at the transplant hospital and we clicked. He reminded me of Dr. Keegan in a lot of ways. He was in his forties with two sons, twelve and ten years old. He was quirky in a lot of ways—always wearing bright yellow Converse with his suits every time I saw him, and constantly spinning a pen or pencil between his fingers like he had pent-up energy he needed to expunge.
“Are you ready for this, Willa?” he asks, stepping up to my side. My mom and dad scoot out of his way.
I nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” My chin begins to tremble with the threat of tears.
He picks up my hand and pats it gently. “It’s okay to be scared,” he echoes what Harlow told me. “I’d be more worried about you if you weren’t scared. This is a big moment for you.”
With the back of my other hand, I dry my face. “It’s overwhelming,” I admit.
He nods and lowers my hand back to the bed.
I notice for the first time since I’ve seen him he’s in scrubs.
This is happening.
