I’ll never forget the endless recliners, with attached TVs, and so many people. Before this, I never knew how many people needed dialysis. Heck, I didn’t even know what dialysis was. The place always burned my nose too with the harsh smell of bleach used to disinfect everything. And yet, even with that antiseptic smell, it still seemed dirty. Not like you could see actual dirt or dust, but there was something about the place that screamed uncleanliness. Maybe it was how unnatural the whole process of dialysis is that made me feel that way.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, singing along to the song under my breath. When I glance at the clock again I have a minute to go, with a reluctant groan, I shut off the car and go inside.
The receptionist smiles at me. “They’re ready for you, Willa. Room three.”
“Thanks, Tanya.” I give a little wave with little to no enthusiasm behind it.
I push open the door to room three and find my nurse but no doctor yet.
“Willa,” she beams. “How are you, sweetheart?”
My nurse, Nula, is from the South. I asked her once, I think she told me Georgia, but I can’t remember now and am too embarrassed to ask. That first year when I was diagnosed is still a blur to me. Sometimes I try to remember a distinct moment, but I can’t grasp it. I don’t know whether that’s a defense mechanism or the brain fog associated with kidney failure.
“I’m good,” I reply.
It’s my standard answer.
It sounds better than, “I fucking hate this.” Or, “I don’t want to do this, but I know I’m too young to die.” And even, “Bleh, I hate my life, why’d this happen to me?”
“Good, good,” she chirps. “Sit down and I’ll take your blood pressure and temperature.”
I sit down in the recliner, and she slips the thermometer strip in my mouth. I have the same kind at home. They’re ones you use once and throw them away.
She puts the cuff on my arm, makes sure it’s situated right, and pushes the button so it starts squeezing my arm. Again, I have the same one at home.
I hate having my blood pressure taken now, since it has to be monitored carefully. If I never have to have my arm squeezed again it’d be a miracle.
She takes the strip from my mouth, glances at it, and quickly writes it on my chart.
“Anything new to report, Willa? How are you feeling?”
The blood pressure cuff deflates and she quickly writes down the numbers.
I shrug. “Same as usual.”
She sits down on the chair and slides in front of me. She pats my knee and gives me a sympathetic look. “I know this must be hard.”
I want to snap at her that no she doesn’t. Only other patients know how hard this and what it’s like, but I don’t stay that; instead, I nod.
“It’s not the easiest,” I supply, when she continues to stare at me waiting for an answer.
She nods. “No one your age should be in this place.”
“No one any age should be in this place,” I blurt.
I hate how because I’m young they act like I have more of a right to a transplant, to getting out of this place. Everyone deserves that but, sadly, many aren’t even eligible. It’s unfair in so many ways, but I understand why. There aren’t enough kidneys to go around, and a lot of people have other health issues that deem them ineligible for transplant.
Once upon a time, there wasn’t even enough dialysis for everyone. A committee would pick from the people who needed it, choosing who they thought would benefit society the most and, in the end, deciding the others would have to die.
How would you like having your fate left up to someone else? To decide whether you were a benefit?
It makes me sick to my stomach to think about it, but at least things are different now.
President Nixon made it a law that anyone with chronic end-stage kidney disease—or renal disease, depending on who you’re speaking to—made you eligible for Medicare.
That’s right, I’m seventeen and on Medicare.
I can’t complain; it keeps my parents from having to pay for my dialysis, which without insurance can cost anywhere from six to eight thousand dollars.