I try not to think about that—the inevitability of my future donor kidney failing.
You see, the first thing doctors tell you when your kidneys fail is that a transplant is not a cure, it’s simply another treatment.
How morbid is that?
It’s like they enjoy dousing that small flame of hope in your heart.
I get it, they have to tell you, and it makes sense. The kidney isn’t yours and eventually your body will do what it’s designed to do, which is reject foreign tissue. Immune suppressants can only do so much.
But I refuse to dwell on that, and I’ll deal with it when that day comes.
I slowly sit up and rub my eyes. Looking over at my dialysis machine it flashes big green letters that say END OF THERAPY. It sucks on days when I can’t sleep and I wake up early with an hour or two left and have to stay here. The lines are long enough for me to go the bathroom if I have to, but most of the time I stay in bed.
But being home and not going in-center makes me much happier. Not to mention I feel much better. I swore the hemo-dialysis was sucking the life out of me. PD isn’t really so bad, and for me it’s the best treatment option.
That’s what’s nice too; patients have options and you’re not stuck with only one treatment type. If something isn’t working for you, there are alternatives.
I’m thankful I finally switched over. It was the best decision I ever made, even if it was one of the most difficult of my life.
I close off the lines and grab a mask to put on so I can begin the disconnecting process.
In the beginning, my mom did it for me. I was a panicky fourteen-year-old and I cried every time, even though it didn’t hurt. I was terrified I’d do something wrong and pull the tube out—which is entirely unlikely—or contaminate something and it’s very important to keep everything sterile.
But I’ve been doing it myself now for probably two years. Now the whole process of setting up the machine, hooking up, and taking down is a piece of cake.
Once I’m free I pick up my dirty laundry off the floor and stuff it in the hamper. I even try to straighten my bed a bit that way my mom can’t yell at me to make it.
Looking around, I decide my room is in the best shape I can get it at the moment and crack open the door. I pause, listening. My mom’s voice trickles up the stairs along with Harlow’s laughter. Then my dad’s deeper voice joins the conversation briefly, followed by the sound of paper rustling.
I stuff my feet into a pair of slippers and head downstairs, finding my dad and Harlow sitting at the counter while my mom makes breakfast.
“Morning,” I say softly, stifling a yawn. I pull out an empty barstool and sit down.
“Good mooooorning,” Harlow beams beside me. She’s already dressed for school in a pair of ripped skinny jeans, tee, and Converse.
My dad has his nose buried in the newspaper and won’t know anyone else in the house is alive until he finishes it.
“Do you want some scra
mbled eggs?” My mom asks from the stove.
“Yes, please.”
I get up and grab a bottle of water, slightly jealous at the sight of Harlow drinking orange juice. It’s not often anymore that I find myself envious of people enjoying the things I can’t have, but sometimes the cravings get to me. I’m only human after all.
I sit back down and take the cap off the water bottle. The cap spins on the counter and I flatten my hand on it to stop it. I take a small sip of water, savoring it. Dealing with fluid restrictions makes me appreciate every little bit of water I get to enjoy.
“You’re lucky you’re done with school,” Harlow whines softly under her breath to me.
I snort. “You only have two more years—besides, adulthood is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“You sit at home and read—what’s not to love about that?”
“You have a point.” I laugh. “I really should get a job,” I grumble.
“You have time,” she assures me.
“I guess.” I shrug, spinning the bottle cap under my fingers.