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I think life is a lot like that—it has to end eventually, work to love it and yourself. It isn’t always easy, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.
The movie ends, and we decide to watch another—but not before I make a bathroom break and walk around the house for fifteen minutes while Harlow times it to make sure I do said fifteen minutes. She can be a bit of a slave driver when she feels like it.
After the second movie, it’s starting to get lateI eat a quick dinner my mom made and head up to bed.
I push open the door and immediately my eyes go straight to the dialysis machine beside my bed. It’ll stay there for the next month, to be sure that everything with my donor kidney is, in fact, okay.
As I look at it, I feel a mix of emotions.
Anger—anger that this happened to me, to anyone.
Sadness—sadness that my body depended on this to keep me alive instead of working like it should have.
Happiness—happiness because a machine like this exists and does keep me alive and gives me the chance at a future I wouldn’t otherwise have.
Most of all, I feel relief.
Relief, because I made it.
I did it.
Three years of this.
Three years of dialysis.
r /> Three years of wondering when I’d get a transplant.
Three years, and it’s finally here.
Tears burst out of my eyes, and I don’t stop them. I let them fall freely down my cheeks.
I earned these tears.
I deserve them.
And I’m going to relish in them.
My mom keeps adjusting her hands on the steering wheel as she drives me to the hospital for my first appointment of the week since coming home. She’s nervous, that much is obvious to me, and I can’t help but think she’s worried we might get bad news the kidney is rejecting. I don’t think that’s likely. I’m producing a good amount of urine, my incision site looks good, and I feel good.
But she’s a mom, and moms worry.
I wish Harlow was with us; her easy energy would help put her at ease, and Harlow always manages to make me laugh, so she’d be good for me too. But she had to go to school, and my dad had to work. My parents decided to take turns with my appointments, since for starters I’m not allowed to drive for almost two months—seems a little extreme to me, but who am I to argue with doctors—plus, transplant hospitals stress how important it is to have a care team, and regardless of age they want someone to come with patients.
Mom takes the exit off the freeway that leads to the hospital.
We’ve taken this drive many times over the years. For checkups and to keep up to date on all the tests that were needed to keep me listed active on the list.
It’s crazy to think I’m no longer on that giant list. They’ve crossed off my name and moved on to the next person.
I wonder how long it’ll be until someone else on that list gets a kidney.
My mom turns into the hospital and drives around until we find the garage that will lead us straight into the transplant department.
We walk inside the double doors and through the hospital. It’s not far until we come to the door with the sign labeled KIDNEY AND PANCREAS TRANSPLANT DEPARTMENT. I release a breath and open the door.
The room is painted a cheery yellow with cornflower blue chairs and couches. Several TVs dot the room, playing the news and one in the corner has HGTV on. The receptionists sit behind the counter, checking in patients and answering questions.
For the first time, I don’t feel a heavy weight on my chest by stepping into this room.
