Chapter 2 - Dani
The waiting room almost feels too clean, and it’s the first thing I notice.
The floors shine like glass, the walls are a sterile white that almost hurts to look at, and the air smells faintly of antiseptic. It feels detached and clinical, as if this place doesn’t allow for mistakes.
Everything here feels controlled, and that thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes my stomach twist.
After all this time, I need more than just hope and comfort. I need real, tangible proof that we’re doing the right thing and that this trial is more than just a guinea pig situation.
Sitting hunched forward in one of the stiff chairs, elbows on my knees, my fingers are laced so tightly together that they’ve gone pale.
There’s a clock on the wall across from me, ticking in slow, deliberate seconds that seem to echo in my mind, like a not-so-quiet reminder of how time-sensitive all of this is.
Every second matters, and each small movement of the longer hand tells me that something is happening behind those doors.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I inhale deeply through my nose to steady the spiral of thoughts threatening to pull me under.
This is a good thing…this operation will help.
I repeat those words silently, like a mantra I don’t fully believe yet, but want to more than anything.
The procedure is experimental, but that’s what we signed up for. That’s what he signed up for, even after the doctors were explicit about the potential dangers.
We both thought about it for as long as we could, but after learning that traditional options weren’t enough anymore, and his kidneys were failing faster than expected, Dad wasn’t left with much choice. Without intervention…
I swallow hard, forcing the rest of that thought away before it can finish forming.
This miracle they offered, this synthetic organ that could replace what his body can’t repair, it’s his only chance. It’s his final stab at getting better, and even if it’s selfish of me to need him to hold on a while longer, I can’t stand the thought of losing him.
Lifting my head, I stare at the double doors down the hall.
They’ve been closed for hours now. Since the operation began, I haven’t received any updates or seen any movement.
Just the occasional nurse passing through, offering me a polite, sympathetic smile that doesn’t tell me anything I actually need to know.
It’s frustrating, and I don’t want their pity.
I just want my dad back.
My gaze drifts to my phone sitting in my lap. The screen is dark, but I know if I turn it on, I’ll see the same picture I’ve been staring at for hours now. It’s one of us from last summer, where we’re standing outside our house, his arm thrown around my shoulders as both of us squint into the sun.
He looks healthy in it and far stronger than he has been in a while. Not like the man I helped into a hospital bed this morning, or the one who looked at me with such genuine optimism.
Pain blooms in my chest all over again, and I blink rapidly to keep the emotions back.
He tried to joke earlier. Despite everything, he tried to lighten my mood, and that was so frustrating and endearingly like him.
“Hey,” he’d said as they wheeled him toward the operating room, his voice thinner than it used to be but still carrying that familiar warmth. His eyes were still warm with promise despite the undercurrent of exhaustion. “If this works, I’m finally getting that motorcycle I always wanted.”
I’d laughed, since that was all I could manage without breaking down entirely. I smiled at him even if it hurt. “You can barely handle a bicycle.”
“Details, details…” he’d said with a weak grin. “I’ll have all the time in the world to learn.”
I cling to that moment now, and to the way his eyes had still held that spark. That stubborn, ridiculously positive outlook that refuses to die even when everything else is falling apart, and even while I struggle to keep my own faith.
He believes this is going to work, so I have to believe it too.
Minutes stretch on, and my leg starts bouncing before I realize it, then I force it to still. A few seconds later, I start fidgeting again, unable to stop myself from letting some of the anxious energy out.
Despite the thoughts in the back of my mind, questioning if something isn’t right, I push them down to keep myself sane.
If there had been a complication or if something unexpected had happened, they would have come out and said something.
Silence means everything is proceeding as planned.
…Right?
A nurse walks past carrying a clipboard with sure steps, and I almost stop her instinctively. The questions are already on the tip of my tongue, but I hesitate just long enough for her to keep going.
Sinking back into the chair, I exhale and remind myself to be patient.
I don’t want to be the person who hovers and demands answers every five minutes. I don’t want to annoy the people who are trying to save him.
So I wait, and wait, until finally, the doors open.
My head snaps up so fast my neck protests, but I don’t care. I’m already on my feet before I fully register who’s walking toward me.
I recognize the man in a white coat instantly, since he was the one who spoke to us during the consultations.
Dr. Denis Volodin is the head doctor who oversees and manages every operation that happens in this place. Relief floods through me so quickly it almost makes me dizzy.
He’s here, which means it’s done.
But then I see his face, and everything inside me drops.
The tightness around the mouth and the heaviness in his eyes send all the wrong messages, and that grave look is enough to unravel me all over again.
My heart starts pounding, sounding erratic in my ears now.
“Doctor?” I ask, my voice coming out thinner than I expect. “How is he? Is he okay?”
Dr. Volodin slows as he approaches, and for a split second, I think he’s going to smile and reassure me. To tell me everything is fine, but he doesn’t.
“Miss Young,” he says instead, his tone measured and careful. “We encountered…complications during the procedure.”
The words hit like a slap to the face, and it takes everything in me not to collapse.
“What kind of complications?” I ask quickly, stepping closer as my hands curl into fists at my sides. “You said this was controlled. You said—”
“I understand,” he cuts in gently, holding up a hand. “It was proceeding as expected initially. However, the operating surgeons said the synthetic organ did not integrate as anticipated. Unfortunately, that is always a risk.”
I stare at him, my mind struggling to keep up. “Integrate…?”
“The body is rejecting it, as it seems the synthetic organ isn’t a suitable match for him,” he says, and there’s something almost rehearsed in the way he delivers the line, like this isn’t the first time he has broken this kind of news.
“He has been stabilized for now, but his body’s response to the operation was…
severe. Without a suitable replacement, his other organs will begin to shut down as well. ”
My stomach drops through the floor, and I feel the color draining from my face.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. They told us the success rate was high, that regardless of the risks, most made it just fine.
“Without immediate intervention…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, and he doesn’t have to.
The world tilts slightly, and I grip the back of the chair beside me to steady myself.
No…this isn’t how this was supposed to go.
This was supposed to fix everything. It was supposed to save him.
“There has to be something you can do,” I say in a rush, my voice gaining urgency now. “You can’t just—there has to be another option.”
“There is one possibility,” he says slowly, eyes steady as they hold mine.
Hope sparks, fragile but immediate, and I cling to it so hard before it can be swept away.
“What is it?”
“A transplant,” Dr. Volodin replies, tone still serious. “A traditional one. We had hoped to avoid it given the circumstances, but at this point, the options are limited.”
“Yes,” I cut in without hesitation. “Yes, do it.”
“The wait time—” he begins.
“I don’t care about the wait time!” I snap, panic surging in me, making me feel more unpredictable than I ever have been. “We’ll find a way, we’ll—”
“Miss Young,” he says, tone sharpening just enough to stop me. “If we wait for a donor through official channels, your father may not survive long enough to receive one.”
Everything in me freezes at the mention of it, but before I can ignore the answer settled in my mind, I blurt out, “I’m a match.”
The doctor blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ve been tested before,” I say quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “When his health first started to decline, they ran compatibility tests, and I’m a match. I can donate.”
Silence fills the hallway as his expression shifts slowly, then something unreadable flickers across his face before it smooths over again.
“What you are proposing is a significant procedure,” Dr. Volodin says carefully. “There are risks involved, both for you and for your father. Normally, we would not perform a last-minute surgery like this.”
“I know that,” I say, though my voice shakes with the need to act. “I know. But if it’s this or lose him, then there’s no decision to make. You have my consent…I’ll sign whatever I need to sign.”
Despite knowing the surgery going wrong was a possibility, I can’t live with the thought of this being it.
I’m not losing him, not like this, and not when I can still do something.
“Please,” I add, softer now. “Test me again if you have to, and do whatever you need. But don’t let him die when this is still a viable option.”
The doctor studies me for a long moment, then he nods. “If you are indeed compatible, then we can proceed. But we will need to act quickly.”
Relief crashes over me so hard my knees nearly buckle, regardless of the potential risks I’ll be facing myself.
Taking a deep breath, I nod as a wave of conviction settles over me. “Okay. What do I need to do?”
“Come with me,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him down the hallway.
I trail him without hesitation, not letting myself second-guess this plan regardless of how terrifying it sounds.
Everything moves quickly after that, almost too quickly for me to fully process.
Nurses guide me into a different wing with efficient movements, their voices calm as they explain what’s happening and get me where I’m meant to be. Consent forms are placed in front of me, including pages and pages of medical language that blur together as I skim them.
As expected, they highlight every risk, potential complication, and every outcome that might end up as my reality.
I sign anyway, hitting every line and every waiver.
My hand trembles slightly as I write my name, but I don’t stop. This is the right thing…it has to be.
Eventually, they draw blood, run tests, and ask questions I answer automatically while my mind is elsewhere, flitting between the operating room, my dad, and the fragile thread his life is hanging by.
“You’re very brave,” one of the nurses says quietly as she adjusts the IV in my arm, giving me a subtle smile.
I force a quiet breath from my nose. “I’m terrified, but I’m just not ready to lose him.”
She gives me a sad look, full of empathy. “I understand.”
The truth is, I don’t think anyone really understands what this feels like unless they’re in it. This constant, gnawing fear that no matter what you do, it might not be enough. That even after all of this, I might still walk out of here alone, if I do at all.
A different doctor comes in to go over the procedure shortly after.
He explains how they’ll remove my kidney and make sure I’m stable before transplanting it into my father.
If everything goes well, there will be mutual healing before we can return home, and as long as we progress as expected, we’ll be in the clear.
His voice is steady and clinical, yet underlined with reassurance, and I latch onto that.
“How long will it take?”
“Several hours,” he says. “You’ll both be under general anesthesia. When you wake up, you’ll be in recovery.”
“When will I know if it worked?”
He hesitates briefly, then murmurs, “Within the first twenty-four hours, we should have a good indication.”
I nod slowly. “I’m ready.”
Am I?
Fear coils in my stomach, feeling cold and oppressive as the weight of it all settles on my shoulders.
This is major surgery, not just a blood donation or a simple procedure. This is dangerous and very unlike anything I’ve done before.
Without warning, something in me recoils at the thought of what I’m about to do, and every doubt comes rushing in at once, demanding my attention.
Closing my eyes, I force the thoughts down and steady myself again.
This is about Dad, not me.
If there’s even a chance this can save him, then I’m taking it. With his life hanging in the balance, I can’t second-guess this. I need to see this through.
“Alright,” the doctor says. “We’ll begin preparing you shortly.”
Time blurs again after that.
I’m changed into a hospital gown, and the thin fabric does nothing to stop the chill creeping over my skin. Machines beep softly around me as they prepare the monitors, tracking my heart rate and oxygen levels.
Each sound feels amplified, and every sensation is sharper while I lie back on the bed as they wheel me down another hallway. Fluorescent lights pass overhead in a steady rhythm while the words linger in my mind:
This is happening…I’m really doing this.
My heart pounds against my ribs, fast and hard.
I’m scared. God, I’m so scared.
But underneath that fear is determination and love that far outweigh it.
I can do this. For him, I know I can do this.
The bright lights of the operating room flood my vision, momentarily blinding me before figures start to move around me. The doctors and nurses all prepare me, keeping me steady while it all unfolds.
Someone places a mask near my face, and their voice reaches me gently. “This will help you relax. Just breathe normally and count down.”
I nod and swallow hard as it’s placed over me, and I pull in a deep breath.
There’s no turning back now.
As the anesthesia starts to take hold, the edges of my vision begin to blur, and the sounds around me fade slightly before it all hits at once.
My last coherent thought before everything goes dark is simple and raw.
Please let this save him.