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Holly is starting to feel like a lot more than just my donor. I want her around me all the time, not just on the day of my surgery.
I don’t just want her kidney. I think I want all of her.
5
HOLLY
Air whistles in and out through my nose because my teeth are clenched too tight for me to gasp in through my mouth the way my lungs want me to.
1. Don’t cry.
2. Don’t throw up.
3. Don’t panic.
4. Repeat.
Over and over, I run down the list in my head as Dr. Williams draws multiple blood samples from my inner elbow. My mind reels at the pinch of the tiny metal needle sliding through my skin. I have a living inside a horror movie amount of fear coursing through me.
Rain pounds on the window, pairing perfectly with the torment in my head and chest. Maybe, if I can focus on the streams of water flowing down the glass, I won’t feel the sharp, cold needle puncturing my vein.
Nope. Not working.
1. Don’t cry.
2. Don’t throw up.
3. Don’t panic.
“Deep breath, Holly. We’re all done,” Dr. Williams speaks kindly as she secures gauze to my arm with a bright purple wrap.
I try to do as I was told, but my jaw locks up.
“You did good. We’ll give you a call in a week or so when we get your results back from the lab, but as long as nothing has changed since last time, we can move to the next step.”
I should say thank you or smile. All I can manage is a nod before I stiff-leg my way out of the exam room, down the hall, through the waiting room, and straight into the restroom where I lock myself in a stall. I don’t even take a second to wipe down the seat before I collapse onto it and stick my head between my knees, fighting off the dizziness and nausea.
After a slow count to sixty, I’m able to stand and leave the stall. My hands still shake as I splash cold water on my face. Knowing that I would be soaked in stress sweat, I packed my deodorant in my purse this morning, which I now reapply generously.
In the mirror, I’m the worst version of myself—helpless and scared. There’s no makeup on my face because I didn’t want it to run and smear if I ended up crying. But this also means there’s nothing to cover the dark bags of a sleepless night or to smooth out the blotchy redness of my anxious cheeks.
Needles always do this to me.
“It’s not the same thing. This isn’t like Mom. You won’t disappear.” My voice rattles over the words. “You’re in control.”
But saying it doesn’t make it true.
I bend at the waist, pressing my forehead into my palms as I grasp at composure.
“It’s worth it. It’s all worth it.”
I’m saving Marcus. Well, really, I’m saving Ben, but it’s all connected.
Still, knowing that the reason is altruistic doesn’t remove my animalistic fear. That tiny metal device destroys me. It makes me feel dirty.
I slide my trembling fingers into my purse, pull out my phone, and navigate to Marcus’s number. My thumb hovers over the Call button.
I want my brother to talk me down, to calm my shattered nerves. That’s always been his job.
