63
Lisa
Weeks pass, and time rinses my diagnosis until it becomes softer—not the wiry, irritating fabric it was to begin with. The
shock has dissipated, and most days I’m okay. But at night, the anger returns like a lead blanket, heavy and immovable.
Ursula spirals through the usual whirlpool of questions, whispering that I deserve this. But there’s another voice now. Softer.
Kinder. My own. It reminds me I’m not broken. Just wired differently—and that’s okay.
The sessions with the psychologist have helped more than I expected, giving me new tools, new words, for what I’ve carried.
I used to think that love meant rescue. But Frank has never tried to fix me. He simply sees me, sits with me. Stays.
And somewhere in all that, I stopped trying to be someone else. I let the hidden Lisa step forward. I’m messy, but I’m not
a mess to clean up. I am caring. Kind. I am not too much.
Frank snores softly beside me, his steady rhythm taking the edge off the night.
Turns out, the only thing I needed to worry about in the bedroom was getting a bigger bed.
He stays over most days now, and sometimes we escape to the caravan, where the mattress dips in the middle and the kettle takes five years to boil.
He’s my constant melody. The tune that plays beneath the chaos, grounding me, soothing me, and reminding me I’m never lost. Always showing up like a domestic Batman—minus the hero complex, but with top-tier mop skills.
No lecture, no sigh, just Frank. Steady. Quiet. Here.
I love loving him. It feels like a privilege, having someone I can finally give this care to—someone who lets me. Someone
I can make tea for before he’s even asked, knit a scarf for, save the last slice of cake for without thinking twice. I listen
when his words tangle, wait through the silences, hear the meaning in the gaps. I choose cards from the drawer I’ve kept stocked
for years and hide them around the house, each one carrying the words he’s too humble to believe:
You are enough. You are handsome. You are loved.
When a job ad goes up at a top-notch facility in an affluent suburb with more pay, more purpose, and actual support, I print
it and slide it next to his cereal bowl.
He glances at it, then looks away. “They wouldn’t want someone like me in a posh place like that,” he mutters.
“You mean a brilliant musician who shows up, works hard, and makes each resident feel special?”
He doesn’t smile straightaway. But he picks up the paper and reads it properly this time.
“You should apply,” I say, squeezing his hand. “They would be so lucky to have you.”
We practice the interview together, and when he gets the job I surprise him with tickets to Jimmy Barnes—“So I can watch one
star while sitting next to another.” He doesn’t start for another month, but I can tell he’s absolutely stoked.
Even when we catch Covid, it doesn’t seem so bad with him beside me. We spend a week in bed binge-watching Schitt’s Creek and eating nothing but ice cream.
Then one morning, I wake drenched in sweat. The room tilts, my tummy churning. Vomit rises as I lurch to the ensuite. Arms burning—scratched red, furious, itching like hell. I collapse onto the tiles, cheek pressed to the cold floor, trembling. “Frank,” I croak. “Something’s wrong.”
He’s there in a second, wiping my face, his voice gentle but urgent. “Sweetie, you’re not okay. We’re going to the hospital.”
“Lisa?” Dr. Penn’s voice slices through the fog, sharp against the hum of the ward. “I’ve got your results. I’m afraid it’s
not what we were hoping for.”
I sit up in the bed and reach for Frank’s hand.
“You have acute pyelonephritis, an infection that’s rapidly affected your kidney function. I’m afraid some of the cysts are
infected also.”
My stomach drops. “How?”
“Likely a UTI that went unnoticed. We’ve found that Covid can make kidney issues worse too, and it’s possible the symptoms
got lost in the mix.”
A memory surfaces: the sting. I’d blamed it on . . . other activities.
“We’re starting you on antibiotics, but we’ll have to monitor things closely. Dialysis may need to begin sooner than we thought.
We can’t always predict how it progresses, and we’ll need to discuss putting you on the transplant list.”
Frank, bless him, puffs up like a Boy Scout. “I’ll donate. She can have one of mine.”
Tears prick my eyes. If he’d been my mother’s son, she might still be alive.
Dr. Penn’s smile is kind but brief. “That’s generous. You’re welcome to be tested, but we’re not quite there yet. Lisa will
need a full workup first. For now, you get some rest.” He disappears behind the curtain.
Frank leans in, gathering me against him, his chest warm and solid.
People say your life flashes before your eyes in moments like these. Mine doesn’t flash—it drops, one heavy stone at a time,
into a place I can’t see the bottom of.
Dad. Mum. Beau. Griff. Now this.
Another loss, except this time it’s my own body. I struggle to take full breaths. This is the line in the sand. Dialysis,
tubes, fatigue, and long, static hours. The part where sick becomes permanent and normal ends.