This Is What She Knows

The second glass of Santa Margherita goes down easier, sweet, cool, tangy relief. It's been six weeks, no booze. Against advice from the psychiatrist, just to make sure her health is as optimum as can be. And it is, apparently. Phenomenally low blood pressure, excellent renal function, solid heart health. The social worker told her they'd be taking her left kidney- 50.3 percent function in her right, 49.7 in her left so technically, it was the inferior one. She was planning a Liberating Lefty party, a farewell celebration. It wasn't until Chris pulled her aside in the waiting room last week while running a session for some insurance spot that she began to think about her disease differently, as a potential detriment, a contraindication to her potential to save her friend's life or even some stranger's. He had a resectioning, 31 centimetres, but like her, no drug protocol. It was too risky, he was told, to even consider donating; he wouldn't qualify. But since she'd been approved- a perfect match, even- well, maybe that means he could come forward, help his dad. It's been ten years, dialysis was failing. If she could donate, maybe that meant things had changed. Her phone rang. She screeched to a halt, pulling her bike up onto the sidewalk, ironically in front of the yoga space. Namaste now or forever hold your peace. She's been waiting for this. Blocked call. The coordinator is incredibly empathetic, intuitive. A tempered, compassionate woman. The nephrologist's reviewed her files. She's an excellent match, a perfect donor but he feels it's too great a risk to her own health and well being to remove an organ. Ten years down the road, she may be in need. Her underlying disease may manifest in ways requiring both kidneys. Done. Just like that. She's pulled. Her coordinator apologizes, asks if there are questions. Pause, deep breath. No, just - can you be more specific? It's not safe. For you. She can hear her smile reach through the phone, breaking her heart. You did your best, heck you could be a spokesperson for us, if you'd like. Thank you, thank you so much; I understand. Yes, I understand. Private moments played out in public, standing in front of the Crooked Star, pigtails, sweaty tanktops layered over khaki cargos, helmet askew, Dolce holding her up with it's frame underneath a trembling hand. Three months of being examined, poked, prodded, shrunk, drained, scanned, bled out and it's over. She did her best; this is where it ends. One life versus another. Or more. The what if versus what now. What may become and what we now know. Intact, whole, because she may get sick. Or may never suffer at all. For now, this is all she knows. She went to the wall only to come back the same side.