Chapter 8 - REMOVED FROM THE TRANSPLANT LIST
Dr. Priya Shah entered my room early Monday morning.
She closed the door before sitting beside me.
That was how I knew the news was bad.
“The injury caused a small subdural bleed,” she explained.
“It is stable, but the transplant committee cannot approve major surgery until neurology clears you.”
My throat tightened.
“How long?”
“We do not know.”
“Days?”
“Possibly weeks.”
I looked toward the dialysis machine.
My body was already losing the race.
Each treatment cleaned my blood temporarily.
Then the toxins began building again.
My heart rhythm had become unstable.
My blood pressure dropped without warning.
Every delay reduced my chances.
“My mother may have taken away my transplant,” I said.
Dr. Shah did not offer false comfort.
“She caused a serious complication.”
I turned my face toward the window.
Chicago spread beneath me in gray winter light.
Cars moved through the streets.
People crossed intersections.
The entire city continued living while my future remained trapped inside a committee decision.
Dr. Shah placed a hand near mine.
“Your status is temporarily inactive.”
“It is not canceled.”
“We will fight to restore it as soon as your brain scan is clear.”
After she left, I cried for the first time.
Not quietly.
Not politely.
I cried until my stitches hurt.
I cried for the years I had given away.
I cried for the apartment I never bought.
The relationship I allowed my mother to destroy.
The vacations I postponed.
The pain I ignored.
I had spent my entire adult life keeping my family comfortable.
Now I might die before I experienced a life that belonged to me.
Nurse Elena sat beside the bed.
She did not tell me to be strong.
She simply remained.
When the tears stopped, she handed me a tissue.
“There is something you need to understand,” she said.
“Pressing that button did not cause this.”
“Your mother caused it.”
“You saved yourself.”
That night, I asked Naomi to prepare a new will.
Not because I had surrendered.
Because I finally understood the value of choice.
Not one dollar would go to my parents.
Not one dollar would go to Connor.
If I died, my savings would fund emergency housing for patients escaping abusive families.
May you like
My mother had tried to turn my illness into her opportunity.
I would turn it into someone else’s escape.
