66
Lisa
We name my dialysis machine Dracula. It sucks blood, after all. The hospital lights buzz faintly overhead, and the nurse tapes
down my line with clinical precision. I settle in as the machine begins its low, rhythmic hum beside me. Welcome to kidney
failure, where each step is like hauling wet sand inside my skin, a fatigue that won’t shift. This is to be my new normal.
Three times a week, five-hour sessions, one slow drip at a time until a suitable donor can be found.
Frank isn’t compatible, which is no surprise. His heart is a perfect match; expecting the rest of his internal organs to follow
suit feels greedy.
The news guts him. He rings siblings, cousins, old colleagues, begging them to get tested.
Of course, the transplant coordinator asks about family, and I tell them about Griff. They confirm that even if he did want
to help, he couldn’t consent to a living donation. Dementia and legal paperwork don’t mix.
I mentally add a new line to Alanis Morissette’s song “Ironic”: “It’s like having the kidney of her fate but being unable
to donate.” Maybe I’ll be a songwriter in my next life.
I’ll admit, in the middle of the night, my thoughts sometimes turn dark, and I wonder what would happen if Griff . . . you
know. But even then, the kidney would just go to whoever was next on the list. And there are definitely people ahead of me.
The man to my left coughs. He can’t be more than thirty, poor guy. I look around the room. Some people here have been waiting for years. Others, like Mum, never made it to the front of the line.
I try not to let my mind go there. But when has my mind ever listened to me? Ursula swirls straight into the worst-case scenario
every time.
Dracula beeps. A nurse leans over to make an adjustment, and the sound triggers a flash of memories: Mum’s machine, the hospital,
the smell. My breath hitches as I stare at the deep red blood snaking through the tubes. Is it wrong that it makes me crave
a shiraz?
Frank reads my mind. “You want a red wine, don’t you?”
I smirk. “Is that terrible?”
“Not terrible at all,” says an older woman to my right with a shock of blue hair. She unscrews her drink bottle and tilts
it our way—it’s definitely not water. “Contraband, of course, but whatever gets you through, I reckon. Gonna be here awhile.
Name’s Ruth. Stage five. Diabetes.” She extends a leathery hand.
“Lisa. Stage five. Polycystic kidney disease. This is Frank.”
He waves. “Nice to meet you, Ruth. How long have you been . . . ?” He gestures to the machine.
“On the Slurpee Machine?” She grins. “Six years. Still waiting on that elusive kidney.”
My face drops.
“First time, I gather?” she asks.
I nod, trying not to focus on the gray of her skin, the way her clothes hang too loosely on her meager frame. Six years.
Frank squeezes my hand. “So, Ruth, what do you do to pass the time, besides staying ‘hydrated’?”
She lifts a battered paperback. “Trashy romance novels. Figure if I can’t have a real-life fairy tale, might as well read
about one.”
“Any recommendations?” I ask.
“Well, honey, if you’re into steamy cowboys, I’ve got a series that’ll make you forget all about these tubes and needles.
Just don’t blame me if your blood pressure spikes.”
Frank grimaces. “Oh dear! Should I be jealous?”
Ruth gives him a once-over, eyes pausing on his oversized sneakers. “Nah. I reckon you’re safe, darl.”
We all laugh.
“I’m not a huge reader,” I admit, “but anything’s better than sitting here stewing.”
“Oh, I know the stew. Waiting, hoping, being let down. It’s a proper bitch, pardon my French.”
Frank shifts uncomfortably. He’s been so strong, but this place—the waiting, the hum of machines—makes it real.
“You’re lucky to have each other,” Ruth says. “My hubby used to sit right there every session, rain, hail or heat wave. Until
his ticker gave out last year. Better he went first. He’d have been useless without me.”
I look at Frank. Will that be him someday? Alone in our house, surrounded by reminders of me? Crying every time he sees a
garbage bag or photo of a fake cat?
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says quietly.
“Don’t be, darl. We had forty good years. Now he’s probably up there having a shandy with the Big Man, putting in a good word
for my kidneys.”
“Maybe he can put in a word for all of us,” I say, winking.
“That’s the spirit. Gotta keep our chins up, even while these machines are trying their best to drain us dry.”
As if on cue, Dracula beeps again.
“You play blackjack?” Ruth pulls a deck from her purse.
“I’m rusty,” I say.
“Perfect,” she says with a mischievous grin. “Wanna make it interesting?” She pulls out a tenner and slaps it on the tray
table.
The game helps pass the time, but I can’t wipe the worry off my face. Finally, after five long hours, I’m unhooked.
Frank takes my hand. “It’s going to be okay. You’re young, you’re a fighter.”
A tear makes its way down my cheek. “That’s exactly what the doctor said to Mum.”