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This is really happening.
“I want you to know how you feel is completely normal. The transplant process is a long, difficult, journey and often times feels like there’s no end in sight. But you made it, Willa. You’ve made it to the end. Is there anything you want to discuss with me before we take you back?”
“How long do you think she’ll be in surgery?” my dad asks, his hand on my mom’s shoulder. She reaches up and places her hand on his. I can see the worry etched into every line of their faces. This hasn’t been easy on them, either.
I’m the one going through the hard stuff, but my family suffers from this too.
It’s a hard burden for everyone to bear.
“Typically, it’s between three and four hours.”
“That long?” my dad asks surprised.
“Yes,” Dr. Marks replies. “But don’t worry. Willa’s in good hands, I promise you. Anything else?”nbsp;
They shake their heads. I know they’re too stunned and overwhelmed to think of anything else.
Dr. Marks turns back to me. “You’ll be sedated after surgery, you might not wake up until tomorrow. Once you do wake up, it’ll be important that we get you up and walking as soon as possible. We definitely want to see you peeing on your own, okay? And it’s important that you drink as much water as you can. No more fluid restrictions. Any questions?” His kind brown eyes sparkle behind his glasses at me.
“Just … take care of me, Doc.”
His face turns suddenly serious and he nods. “I will.”
Before he leaves, he marks on my body where they’ve decided to hook up the kidney—he presses on my abdomen feeling the pulses of my bowels or some gibberish like that and decides that my right side will be the best place to put it.
He looks at me as he leaves. “We’ve got this.” He gives me a thumbs up and leaves.
Barely a minute passes before the anesthesiologist comes in and goes over the risks of being put to sleep and on a ventilator and all that jazz.nbsp;
I have to sign a paper and my pa
rents as well.
Another person comes in and puts a hair net—I guess that’s what it’s called—on my head.
And then, in a matter of minutes, I’m being wheeled away from my family.nbsp;
I hold my sister’s hand until the last possible second.
Once in the OR, I scoot onto the table and they position me as they need me.
Around me I hear the rustling of paper being spread and the clinking of metal.nbsp;
Somewhere, I hear someone washing their hands.
“I’m your nurse, Willa. My name’s Jessica. I’m going to be right here by your side the whole time monitoring your vitals. I’m going to put this mask on you, and I want you to take deep breaths.”
I nod, tears shimmering in my eyes, my chest tight.
Fear is seizing my body and asking, why me? Why do I have to go through this? Why does anybody have to go through this?
She places the mask on my face, and I breathe like she says, my eyes darting around.
“Count to ten in your head for me, sweetie,” she says.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Five.
