The Other Side of Tomorrow

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.”