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Griff
Scotty keeps me updated on Lisa, and I pray to a god I don’t believe in that I’m not too late. That she won’t have complications
like Mum. I move out of the nursing home and into a small Airbnb unit near the hospital where Lisa gets dialysis. It’s nothing
fancy—scuffed floorboards, mismatched cutlery, leaky shower—but after months in a place where even the air felt institutional,
it’s practically a five-star resort.
I call the hospital’s transplant team, and the process begins. Not instantly like I’d hoped. First comes pre-donation evaluation
counseling. Given my questionable behavior over the past year, it’s far more intense than I could have imagined.
Then there are the tests. Blood work, tissue typing, crossmatching. It all has to be done again.
I assumed this would move fast. But the transplant team have their own timeline. More forms. More waiting. An ethics committee.
At last it’s over, and I just have to wait for the official call to go ahead. After more than two decades, I’m finally donating
my kidney.