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“Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.”
–—Lucius Annaeus Seneca
Chapter 1
Skylar
Renzo; 35. Skylar; 30.
Life used to be amazing.
Dame, the restaurant where I worked as a sous chef, had just gotten their first Michelin Star because of me.
I had an interview lined up at one of the top restaurants in New York.
If I got the position as head chef, I would’ve been able to create my own signature dishes.
I was on fire and was ticking off one goal after the other.
But the higher you fly, the harder you fall.
And boy, did I fall.
Lying in the hospital bed with a dialysis machine humming next to me, I try to process what Dr. Bentall said.
End-stage renal disease. I’m out of time. If I don’t get a transplant soon, I’ll die.
At thirty.
My fabulous life came to a crashing halt three years ago when I was in a car accident with Mom. Mom was in a coma for eight months before we made the heartbreaking decision to take her off life support.
I thought that was the darkest moment of my life, but things just kept getting worse. Dad has flown in the best doctors from around the world and paid so much money, but nothing has worked.
After the car accident, my shattered pelvis healed. My reconstructed bladder is functioning. But the damage done tomy kidneys is irreversible. If it weren’t for dialysis, I would’ve died months ago, but now, not even that’s enough.
I need a kidney in the next couple of weeks, or I’ll die.
Slowly, my gaze shifts to the tubes filled with my blood.
Twenty minutes ago, Dad left with Dr. Bentall, and I haven’t seen them since.
The past three years have been torturous for me, but it’s been a hell of a lot worse for Dad. He lost Mom, and now he’s going to lose me as well.
Every time I look at him, I see the feverish panic in his eyes. The desperation to find a kidney for me is etched in deep lines on his face.
I hate seeing what my deteriorating health is doing to Dad.
I hate that he has to watch me slowly die.
I hate that I’m stuck in this hospital bed, and a machine is fighting to keep me alive.
Is it even worth it?
There are dark moments where I feel it would be better for me to die right now. It would stop the torture, and Dad would be able to mourn my death before going on with his life.
I’m tired of the sword hanging over my head.
I’m tired of just existing until my next dialysis.
