After being in the hospital the last three days I want nothing more than to be home. My home is my safe place, right now it’s the place I need to be.
I fall asleep during the drive and wake up when the car pulls into the garage, my head resting on Harlow’s shoulder.
“Sorry,” I apologize to her as I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
“It’s okay.” She unbuckles her seatbelt. “You know I didn’t mind.”
My mom opens my car door and offers her hand to help me out. I wave her away. “I can do this.”
She gives me a doubtful look. “I’d feel better if I helped.” She reaches for my hand.
I swat at it. Not meanly, more in a joking way. “I’m fine, Mom. I have to do this.”
She huffs out a breath and mutters, “Always so independent,” under her breath before stepping away from me so I can slide out of the car on my own.
“See?” I tell her when I stand on my own two feet. “I’ve got this.”
She shakes her head but her lips twitch with the threat of a smile. “Yes, I suppose you do,” she relents, and moves to the trunk of the car to help carry everything inside while I hobble into the mudroom.
Perry barks madly when he spots me, prevented from getting to me by the baby gate that blocks him. One of our neighbors took care of him—and the elusive cat—while we were at the hospital, but Perry still looks delighted to see us.
“Hey, Perry.” I pet him over the gate, waiting for him to calm down before I enter. He’s large, and if he stood up to love on me he’d be likely to push on my incision which sounds like the least pleasant thing in the world right now.
Dad comes in with a vase of flowers and my bag, setting them down on the bench across from the storage cabinets.
“Perry, wanna come outside, boy?” he asks and the dog jumps and barks.
Dad grabs his leash and clips it on. I stand to the side as Perry enters the mudroom. Like I envisioned, Perry tries to jump on me, but my dad pulls him easily away and out the door. “I’m going to walk him,” he tells me over his shoulder as he descends the three steps into the garage. “Hopefully it’ll calm him down.”
I don’t feel like going up to my room, instead I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and walk a few laps around the island—not only because I need to walk, but to stretch my legs which have grown stiff from the car ride.
Finally, I sit down on the couch in the family room, resting my legs on the leather ottoman. I turn the TV on and flip to a random channel, wanting it on more for the distraction of the sound than to watch something.
Harlow carries in a vase of flowers—a mixed assortment of odd flowers I’ve never seen before—that my dad’s work sent. She sets them on the table beside me.
“Wanna watch a movie?” she asks.
“That would be nice,” I agree.
“Let me finish getting everything in and then I’ll put something on.”
It isn’t long before her and my mom have arranged the different bouquets around the house. I noticed Harlow disappear upstairs with the sunflowers and can only assume she’s put them in my room.
She comes back down, changed into a pair of sweatpants and tank, her hair gathered up in a messy bun.
“What are you in the mood to watch?” she asks.
“Nothing really,” I admit. “Maybe something light and fun.”
She grins and dives toward the cabinet that hides the DVDs. “I know the perfect thing,” she sing-songs.
She grabs a DVD case and opens it, popping the disc into the player.
It isn’t long until the play screen pops up and I smile back at her.
Chasing Liberty is one of our favorite, go to, girly movies. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be the President’s daughter gallivanting across Europe with Matthew Goode?
She hops onto the couch beside me and grabs a blanket, draping it over the both of us.
“You girls want some popcorn?” Mom calls from behind us in the kitchen.
“Yes!” we squeal together.
Mom laughs and we hear her open the cabinet that houses the boxes of popcorn and other miscellaneous goods.
Harlow rests her head on my shoulder and wiggles around getting comfortable.
“I still think you should come talk to my school,” she whispers.
I swallow thickly. “I don’t think I can do that. Not yet.” I pick at the blanket on my lap.
She sighs. “You could do a lot about this, Willa—to bring awareness to kidney disease and transplant. I know it can’t be easy to talk about it, but someone has to raise their voice and create a platform. That could be you.”
I press my lips together. “I’ll think about it, but I don’t think it’s something I’ll be doing any time soon. Right now I need to learn how to live my life normally again.”
My thoughts stray to the dialysis machine that still lives in my room. It’s been my constant companion the last three years, and if everything checks out good this first month I’ll be saying goodbye to it for good.
Well, until I need another transplant.
But I can’t think about that fact right now. I have to focus on now and the years I have ahead of me with a healthy kidney.
Already, only days after surgery, I feel better than I have in my entire life. It’s weird to look back now to when I was small child and how bad I felt, but I didn’t know because it was normal for me and I thought everybody felt that way. Now, I know the truth. My kidneys never worked right, and this was inevitable.
My mom brings us each a small bowl of popcorn. She then dims the lights and closes the blinds, making it cozy for us.
The garage door opens, and Dad appears with Perry, who’s panting from his walk. Dad unleashes him and he goes straight for his water bowl instead of bounding for me. After he drinks an entire bowl, he wags his tail over to us and lies down on the floor by my feet, resting his head on them.
I smile down at the dog that drives me crazy most of the time but somehow, I share a special bond with.
Harlow sneaks her hand into my popcorn bowl.
“Hey!” I scold playfully pulling my bowl away from her. “You have your own,” I say as on-screen Mandy Moore bumps into Matthew Goode on her way into the concert.
Harlow giggles and grabs a handful from her bowl then stuffs it into her mouth, several pieces falling out and onto the blanket.
We grow quiet, getting sucked into the movie like usual. We’ve probably watched it a hundred times, and it never grows old. The ending always leaves us wishing for more but happy at the same time. I think any good movie or book should be that way. It’s always good to love something so much you wish for more but appreciate that it has to end.
I think life is a lot like that—it has to end eventually, work to love it and yourself. It isn’t always easy, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.
The movie ends, and we decide to watch another—but not before I make a bathroom break and walk around the house for fifteen minutes while Harlow times it to make sure I do said fifteen minutes. She can be a bit of a slave driver when she feels like it.
After the second movie, it’s starting to get lateI eat a quick dinner my mom made and head up to bed.
I push open the door and immediately my eyes go straight to the dialysis machine beside my bed. It’ll stay there for the next month, to be sure that everything with my donor kidney is, in fact, okay.
As I look at it, I feel a mix of emotions.
Anger—anger that this happened to me, to anyone.
Sadness—sadness that my body depended on this to keep me alive instead of working like it should have.
Happiness—happiness because a machine like this exists and does keep me alive and gives me the chance at a future I wouldn’t otherwise have.
Most of all, I feel relief.
Relief, because I made it.
I did it.
Three years of this.
Three years of dialysis.
Three years, and it’s finally here.
Tears burst out of my eyes, and I don’t stop them. I let them fall freely down my cheeks.
I earned these tears.
I deserve them.
And I’m going to relish in them.
My mom keeps adjusting her hands on the steering wheel as she drives me to the hospital for my first appointment of the week since coming home. She’s nervous, that much is obvious to me, and I can’t help but think she’s worried we might get bad news the kidney is rejecting. I don’t think that’s likely. I’m producing a good amount of urine, my incision site looks good, and I feel good.
But she’s a mom, and moms worry.
I wish Harlow was with us; her easy energy would help put her at ease, and Harlow always manages to make me laugh, so she’d be good for me too. But she had to go to school, and my dad had to work. My parents decided to take turns with my appointments, since for starters I’m not allowed to drive for almost two months—seems a little extreme to me, but who am I to argue with doctors—plus, transplant hospitals stress how important it is to have a care team, and regardless of age they want someone to come with patients.
Mom takes the exit off the freeway that leads to the hospital.
We’ve taken this drive many times over the years. For checkups and to keep up to date on all the tests that were needed to keep me listed active on the list.
It’s crazy to think I’m no longer on that giant list. They’ve crossed off my name and moved on to the next person.
I wonder how long it’ll be until someone else on that list gets a kidney.
My mom turns into the hospital and drives around until we find the garage that will lead us straight into the transplant department.
We walk inside the double doors and through the hospital. It’s not far until we come to the door with the sign labeled KIDNEY AND PANCREAS TRANSPLANT DEPARTMENT. I release a breath and open the door.
The room is painted a cheery yellow with cornflower blue chairs and couches. Several TVs dot the room, playing the news and one in the corner has HGTV on. The receptionists sit behind the counter, checking in patients and answering questions.
For the first time, I don’t feel a heavy weight on my chest by stepping into this room.
My mom takes a seat and I check in where they slap a plastic medical bracelet around my wrist. I hate the stupid things and cut them off the moment I’m free of this place.
“Can I have a water?” I ask the receptionist before I join my mom to sit down.
“Sure.” She smiles and swivels her chair around to grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge.
“Thanks.” I take it from her and twist the lid off as I sit down beside my mom on a loveseat. She flips idly through a People magazine, but I’m not sure she’s seeing the pages at all.
I pull out my phone and smile when I see a text from Meredith.
Merebitch: Good luck today! Thinking of you sweetie! I’m coming by tonight to see you!
Willa: Love you bitch!
Merebitch: You better ;)
Minutes pass and then one of the assistants steps out and calls, “Willa Hansen.”
My mom and I jump up and hurry to the door across the room.
“How are you feeling?” the assistant asks me.
“Really good,” I reply honestly. “Better than I ever have.” Better, I’m sure, than most people who have had major surgery. There’s something about getting an organ your body desperately needs that completely overshadows the healing process. I feel like a whole new person.
“Good,” she chimes, leading me down the short hall and into a room. I hop up on the table, the paper crinkling under my butt as I shift.
My mom takes the chair in the corner and the assistant takes my temperature and blood pressure—both of which are great—before leaving us to wait for my surgeon.
The hardest part about all of this is the waiting games you have to play.
Waiting to get seen at a transplant hospital.
Waiting to get put on the deceased donor list.
Waiting, and hoping, and ultimately having your heart broken when no living donors are a match.
Waiting for that perfect match kidney to come along.
And, finally, waiting for doctor approval that everything is, in fact, okay.
My mom lets out a breath in the corner, looking anywhere but at me.
“It’ll be okay, Mom,” I tell her. “I feel great.”
She forces a smile. “I know, but I’m your mom, and I worry.”
More minutes tick by until there’s a soft knock on the door and then Dr. Marks pushes his head in.
“Willa,” he chimes with a beaming smile.
“Hey, Doc,” I reply.
He closes the door and uses the Germ-X sitting on the counter.
“How are you feeling? Any soreness?” he asks, approaching me.
“None. I feel really, really great. Better than I have in a long time.”
His smile grows wider. “That’s what I like to hear. Lie back; I want to look at your incision site.”
I do as he says, staring at the ceiling while he inspects. Like a child would make shapes out of clouds, I do the same with the ceiling tiles. There in the corner, a cluster makes a dog. Another looks like the sun.
“Everything looks great here. I’m going to send in someone to take your blood and I’ll be back to talk to you after those results come back—give it about thirty minutes. Any questions?”
“Not yet.”
“And you?” he asks Mom.
“You think she’s okay, right? No signs of rejection?”
“Well,” he starts, “I certainly can’t guarantee anything, but so far I’d say things look excellent. The surgery went perfect, the kidney came right to life like we hope to see. She started producing urine while on the table, which again we hope to see. Let’s get her blood checked and we’ll go from there. Okay?” He waits for my mom to nod and then gives her a thumbs up. “I’ll be back.” He smiles at me and slips from the room.
It isn’t long until the phlebotomist comes into the room with her cart and vials. I used to be terrified of getting my blood taken, but once this happened to me I had to get over that fear quickly.
I sit quietly while she puts the tourniquet on and sticks the needle in.
I hate the popping sound the vials make as she uncorks one and applies another.
When she finishes she sticks a piece of gauze around the site and wraps it with medical tape.
While we wait for the results to come back, I read and my mom fiddles on her phone, probably texting my dad.
Reading doesn’t do much to distract me in these situations, but I refuse to sit and dwell for thirty minutes, or however long it might take for the doctor to come back. Dwelling gets me nowhere but a one-way ticket to Downersville. It’s a real place, trust me.
When there’s a knock on the door, Dr. Marks comes in again. I shut my book and stuff it behind me.
He holds sheets of white paper in his hands.
“Everything with your blood work is excellent. It shows us the kidney is working as it should. I warn you it’s still early, that’s why we check you closely this first month—and once a month for the rest of the year. But so far, we’re seeing exactly what we want.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, fighting back a flood of emotions. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“Oh, Willa,” he breathes, his face softening.
I open my arms and he lets me hug him. Pulling away, I wipe at my face.
“I’m sorry for crying.”
“Don’t ever be sorry for feeling how you need to feel. This process isn’t easy—even when it’s good like now, when you’ve gotten a kidney, it’s still not easy. It’s very emotional.”
I nod. “Seriously, thank you.”
He nods back. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you back here in a few days, okay?”
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“Okay.”
He hands me a tissue. “You can call the social worker any time you need to talk. I know you have your family and friends, but if you need someone else to speak with I know she’d be happy to talk to you.”
“I know.” However, I have no intentions of calling her. Spilling my guts to a stranger is not appealing. I’ve met the social worker a few times but still haven’t interacted with her enough to feel comfortable.
“Be good.” He points at me with a playful smile and leaves for good this time.
My mom and I gather up our things, check out, and I get rid of my dreaded plastic medical bracelet.
On the way home, we stop and eat since both of us are starving.
By the time we walk in the door at home, I’m exhausted.
Anything emotionally draining makes me far more tired than if I physically ran five miles.
“How’d it go?” Harlow asks, sitting at the kitchen island doing her homework.
“Good. Everything looked great,” I tell her, as Mom slips the leash on Perry to take him for a walk.
I slide onto the stool beside Harlow.
“I wasn’t sure if you should see this or not,” she begins, biting her lip nervously, “but I figured better to find out now, and it might not be … I mean, he might not be …”
“What?” I blurt confused.
“Oh, just look.”
She slides the local newspaper across the granite countertop to me.
“What am I looking at?” I’m confused as the headline is about nothing important.
“There.” She points to the bottom of the front page.
My eyes follow her finger. There’s a picture of a boy, a boy I recognize. For a moment my heart stops, thinking it’s Spencer—Spencer whom I haven’t spoken to since all this happened since it happened so fast, but it’s not him. It’s another boy, but I know him because I met him, however briefly it was. T.J., Spencer’s friend.
The headline reads LOCAL BOY KILLED BY DRUNK DRIVER
Below it is a picture of T.J. in a baseball uniform and cap.
I read the article below it.
A local Santa Monica teen, Thomas James Werth, was killed when a drunk driver t-boned the car he was driving home from a late visit at his ailing grandmother’s.
The Other Side of Tomorrow Page 9
