The Other Side of Tomorrow

He holds it there, feeling it, feeling not only the flow of blood but how it beats in time with my heart. I’m sure, with as strong as it is, he can feel it speed up as my body reacts to his touch.

“And this never goes away?” he asks.

I shake my head. “They can tie it off, but they usually leave it if it’s working. Transplant doesn’t last forever—and the peritoneal dialysis doesn’t work long term, either. That’s what I ended up doing after about the first year. My mom did it for me in the beginning and then I ended up taking over. That one was done through a tube in my stomach. I’m just glad my arm doesn’t look too crazy. That was one of my biggest worries.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well,” I begin to explain, “the longer you use the vein for dialysis the bigger it gets until it literally surfaces and looks like a snake living under your skin.” He stares at me. “I’m not kidding. Do you have your phone? I left mine in your Jeep.”

“Yeah, I grabbed it when I got my wallet.” He hands it to me.

I open the web browser and type in dialysis fistula and click on images before sliding it back over.

His jaw drops. “That’s fucking crazy.”

“That pretty much explains it.”

“It looks …”

“Gross?” I supply.

“I was going to go with gnarly.” He shrugs.

“Well, now if you see someone with an arm that looks like that you’ll know they’re on dialysis. You know, before this, I never noticed anyone with an arm that looked like that. Now I see it all the time. I guess I didn’t know to look for it, or maybe I didn’t care to see it since it didn’t matter to me. But it does now. Matter, I mean.”

“I feel like a prick complaining about losing my brother when you’ve literally been through hell and back.”

“So have you,” I argue. “Just because it’s a different path to hell doesn’t mean it hurts any more or less or is any worse. It’s just different that’s all.”

“Not many fourteen year olds could go through what you have. I mean, I’m almost twenty-one and I’m man enough to admit I don’t think I could do everything you have. I passed out when I was twelve getting my blood drawn. I’m not quite that bad now, but you’ve been through more than anyone should ever have to go through.”

“What’s sad is there are a lot of kids suffering with this disease, I mean, I was a kid too, but I’m talking like young kids. Anywhere from five to eight years old. They don’t even know what a normal life is. They’ll never have a normal childhood. How is that fair? Our time as a child is already so short, and to be saddled with something like this?” I shake my head. “It’s just wrong.”

“Is there anything we can do?” he asks, finishing his sandwich. I’ve completely forgotten about eating mine.

I shrug. “Beyond talking about it and raising awareness I don’t know of anything.”

“Let’s do that then. You should go around and talk to people about it.”

“Harlow wanted me to talk to her high school,” I admit. “I didn’t want to, and then I got my transplant so there was no way it was happening before the year ended.”

“She’s right. You should. People need to hear about this. They need to hear your story, to understand.”

“There are so many other people out there that are probably better to do this,” I hedge.

“I don’t see them standing up and making noise, Willa. People tend to sit back and wait for someone else to take that first step, to raise their voice, you have to decide if you’re going to be a follower or a leader.”

“I don’t know what I am,” I whisper.

“I know what I see in you, but the question is, do you see it in yourself?”

“Sit still,” Meredith declares, pushing me back down into the chair in front of my bathroom mirror.

“You’re going to make me look like a porn star,” I groan, trying to tilt my head away from the daring red lipstick she’s trying to put on me.

She grabs my chin, forcing me still. “You are not going to look like a porn star. Maybe a classy hooker, but not a porn star.”

“How is that any better?” I argue.