39
Lisa
I place the small, clear container on my doctor’s desk. It could easily be mistaken for a glass of rosé if it wasn’t in a
urine collection jar.
“Thanks, Lisa.” The new GP has kind eyes like Mum’s.
“It’s probably beetroot, right?” I ask hopefully.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve been having red smoothies for weeks. That could cause it, the pink wee . . . ?” Rather than avoid them to see if they’re
the cause, like a normal person would, I’ve doubled down and begun having them at lunch too.
She nods. “It’s possible, but let’s take one step at a time. I can see you’re nervous, Lisa. How about we start at the beginning.
Your mother had polycystic kidney disease—PKD?”
“Yes. She died when she was fifty-nine. My older half-brother and I had clear ultrasounds throughout so thought neither of
us had inherited it. The specialist said it comes on by forty . . . I did miss my final scan at thirty-nine, but—” My words
are stuck.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother. And you’ve had no symptoms until this point?”
“Well, some vague things here and there over the past few years. I really thought it was perimenopause. You know, all the
usual suspects: tiredness, back pain, bloating. I’ve also been eating a lot of crap though . . .” My eyes fix on the urine
container. Ursula floats inside it, telling me it’s what I deserve.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The GP takes the sample to the sink in the far corner, produces a dipstick and dunks it.
Please let it be beetroot.
“I’m afraid you do have blood in your urine, Lisa, and protein, but let’s not jump the gun. There are other things that can
cause this.”
The floor drops from under me. This can’t be happening.
“Does it hurt to pass urine? Have you had any increased sexual activity recently?”
I wish. I shake my head.
“It’s very uncommon that the disease would develop this late, but it’s not impossible. Please go next door for a blood test,
and they will send the urine to the lab as well. We’ll order an ultrasound and get you an updated referral to your nephrologist.
Does that sound okay?”
Her words blur. The printer springs to life, its screech grating against my nerves.
“Okay,” I hear myself say, as I jump down the rabbit hole in my mind. Pain, dialysis. Who is going to visit Griff? Forget
about sex with a giant man; you can’t have sex with anyone, regardless of how tall they are, if you’re dead.
“Lisa?” The GP’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “No matter what it is, we will get through it. Even if it is PKD, it can
be very well managed these days, and usually it’s slow progressing. This isn’t the end of the world.”
I smile on autopilot, but I’m unable to shake the image of Mum in her final weeks.
I get home, though I don’t remember the drive. I drop my handbag and the form onto the coffee table, where they skid to a
stop against a small mountain of paper.
Sensible Lisa pipes up straightaway: Book it now. Before you forget. Don’t be a chicken.
Everyday Lisa pretends not to hear. Because I know I won’t.
Not today. Not when this is supposed to be the start of an exciting new chapter.
I’ve carried the fear of this disease for years, but now that the next step is right here in front of me, the thought of actually confirming it makes my stomach twist. One phone call could set the whole thing in motion—and then what?
The form slides into my existing pile of unfinished business: the old bank account I was supposed to close, the dentist bill
I meant to claim, the E-toll tag transfer papers still waiting for a signature. Most people have a to-do pile; I have a will-never-do
pile—things that aren’t urgent until they’re too late, so my brain shoves them into the shadows.
I curl up on the couch, pull the fleecy rug over my head and bury myself in denial. Ignorance is bliss, they say. So why does
bliss feel so bloody awful?