Lisa
Nothing says Valentine’s Day like a full bladder and a waiting room packed with strangers. No number of trashy magazines in
the nephrologist’s office can distract me from what I know is ahead.
Ursula sits in the empty seat next to me where Frank should be. Told you you’d be alone on Valentine’s, she sneers.
Only because I chose to be, I reply silently.
Frank wanted to come, but I refused. He’s seen and heard enough. I blink until Ursula disappears and, for a moment, Beau is
there instead, his golden-brown eyes filled with calm reassurance.
Guilt nips at my heels. I haven’t been to visit Griff for a while. Will he even register my absence?
“Lisa? The doctor is ready for you now.”
I stand, moving between the two rows of plastic chairs like a bride walking down the aisle. These ten steps from the waiting
room to the specialist’s office are my last as a free woman. Yet rather than a loving husband, I am to be wed to my disease.
As the doctor’s lips move, my brain only latches on to a few words.
“Autosomal dominant polycystic kidney disease.”
“Like your mum.”
“Unusually late onset.”
“Not caught early.”
“Already significant damage.”
I sit there, nodding like I understand. But everything inside me has gone still.
He gestures to the scans of my kidneys that sit there like handbags stuffed with marbles. “Cysts,” he says. “Dozens.”
I glance down at my rounded belly. A hot-cross-bun pregnancy, I used to joke in front of the mirror. Turns out, the punch
line is me. Why didn’t I get that final scan? How could I be so irresponsible, so absent-minded! Had I known, there are things
I could have done to slow its progression.
He keeps talking. “Medication.” “Monitoring.” “Dialysis.” “Transplant.” That last word lands heavily.
I nod again. Thank him. I even shake his hand, though I can’t feel mine.
Stumbling to my car, I turn the key, the engine roaring to life. But it’s not the only thing that ignites. Grief rises from
my gut, jagged and sudden. I scream, my fists slamming against the steering wheel, again and again. “Why?” I shout, choking.
“Why now?”
When I’m beginning to feel okay in my own skin. After years alone and finally finding someone who sees me, really sees me, this is what I get. This ticking time bomb. This genetic curse. A sick, bitter joke from the universe. Just like me,
it arrived late.
In Frank, my search is over—I’ve found someone I can love. The word catches in my chest. But it’s true. I do love Frank; I
adore him. And now my body is breaking.
When I get home, Frank’s waiting on my doorstep with coffee and pastries from my favorite cafe.
We barely make it inside before I break the news. “You didn’t sign up for this. You should walk away now, before it gets bad.”
I set down my latte. It’s too hot, but my words burn more.
“Maybe not,” he says gently. “But I want to sign up for all of it.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Please think about it. Things seem okay now, but I watched my mum go through dialysis. Kidney
failure isn’t pretty.”
He takes my hands, patting my wrist. “Life’s messy. You never really know what you’re signing up for in a relationship. But if you’re not ready to be there in sickness and in health from the start, what’s the point?”
Has this guy walked out of a rom-com? He’s not the stereotypical poster boy but a worthy leading man whose kindness makes
him more magnetic than anyone I’ve ever met. Can I let him in?
I want to rattle off side-effect disclaimers like an American pharmaceutical ad with smiling families and flying kites: Dating Lisa may involve frequent hospital trips, garbage bags of undies, zero sex appeal, pink wee, hours in dialysis, and
premature heartbreak.
“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Frank says. “Lisa, you are one of the most thoughtful, intuitive people I’ve met. You
looked after your mum, and then Beau, and now your brother. You care for everyone. It’s time someone looked after you.” He
sandwiches my hands between his.
My instinct is to pull away and shrink into myself. But instead, I close my eyes and count, fighting the expanding balloon
of impulsivity that’s pushing me to bolt.
One, two, three, four, five.
The balloon pops. And instead of running, I ask him to be my medical power of attorney.
“Did the doctor say anything about testing donors?” he says.
“Not in any detail yet. They asked about family, of course. Griff isn’t an option as he can’t legally consent with dementia,
but it turns out I’m the same rare type as Mum anyway.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Griff isn’t a match.”