PART SEVEN
Sam's apartment Four weeks later
Sam stared at the phone for a long time, the doctor's words echoing in his mind. "We found a donor."
He tried to breathe more regularly, but it didn't seem to ease the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The thousand questions he had already pondered, the questions which were keeping him awake sometimes, were coming back to him with a vengeance.
"What if there's a problem during surgery?"
"What if I reject the transplant and have to go back to dialysis?"
"What if they tell me they made a mistake when I go in, and have to come back here and wait again?"
"What if ."
He tried to stop his thoughts from spiraling, and to focus on the upsides.
"What if it works?"
"What if I'm free of this god forsaken machine?"
"What if it gives me my life back?"
The last weeks had been a nightmare for him. He was young, independent, healthy, he lived for his job, and he'd had to depend on a machine to stay alive, to accept that a quick return to work was completely out of the question until he'd had the transplant, to accept to change his lifestyle . all that because someone had stolen his car.
He had already undergone most of the tests he had to take to check if he could even receive a transplant. It hadn't been any fun, and even though he lived home, he had the feeling he hadn't really checked out of the hospital yet, not after the hours he had spent there recently.
He wasn't too sure how he felt about waiting for someone to die so he could take one of his kidneys. It made him feel . low, somehow, like he was going to profit from someone else's tragedy.
Everyone kept telling him that accidents happen anyway, but everyone wasn't in his shoes right now, waiting for fate to change his life again.
Fate hadn't been on his side recently.
He had sent his parents back to California a few days after his release from the hospital. They had been the most energetic of his supporters - and the most tiresome ones. They were trying so hard to keep in check what they thought of the situation and of each other that it was painful to watch. The lines around his mother's mouth each time his father told him he was going to be fine, as if she was refraining from shouting at him that he didn't have the right to speak. The frown that never left his father's forehead all the time he'd been there. They were making him nervous, they were hurting him, and they were cuddling him way too much for his taste. He loved them, but there was hovering, and then there was hovering. He had his hands full enough with the senior staff already, thank you very much.
Speaking of which, he should call Toby.
Toby would like to know about this latest turn of events.
Toby had been a gift during the last weeks, not because he showed Sam he was worried, although there was no questioning that, but because he cared enough to shake him up and scold him when he needed to be. And his boss had decided that two weeks of wallowing in self pity were more than enough, so after listening to Sam alternately blowing up at people and complaining that his life was over, he'd come alone once, and shouted some sense into him, for a good hour. He was hoarse when he was done, and Sam was crying, and had cried most of the following night, Toby holding his hand and telling him that he was sorry, that he thought Sam had needed to hear that, but things had begun to look up after that.
When he had woken up the next morning, Toby still at his side, fast asleep, he had felt as if he had finally managed to get rid of his more extreme reactions, as if the edge of the pain had been taken off.
Sam knew he was lucky.
He was alive, he lived in a place and age where there were possibilities for him to get help, he had friends, he had hope.
Simply, it wasn't always enough to know that.
Sometimes you had to be told that.
Or you had to have some sense shaken into you.
It would have been a huge overstatement to say that he had taken the treatment well after that. But he had stopped whining so much, he had tried to look out more for himself, instead of letting other people do all the work for him.
Now, two weeks later, he was ashamed of the way he had acted - with the nurses, and the doctors who were trying to help him of course, but also with his friends, letting them take care of him, cooking for him, listen to the explanations the doctors gave him instead of doing some research by himself.
And what was worse, no one wanted to listen to his apologies.
His friends hadn't even let him finish the first sentence of his excuses before asking him what the hell he thought friends were for, the medical staff had shrugged and said they hadn't taken it personally, and that had made him feel even more small.
That said, even if he'd stopped being such a major pain in the ass with everyone who tried to help him, he still hated every minute of his life right then. In the past four weeks, the only two times he'd felt remotely like a human being had been during a "let's cheer up Sam" party organized by his friends - Josh, who was working hard at mending the fences between them, had shown up on his doorstep, had cleaned up the apartment a little after having bullied Sam into putting on some other clothes than faded sweat pants and a T shirt (Sam had decided on a black cotton pants and a blue shirt, and the amount of time he had needed to reach that decision had been completely ridiculous, in his humble opinion) and the others had come an hour later, their arms full of food, and with three videos to spend the night. One of them was a Bruce Springsteen concert, and they had begun with this one, "to set the mood," CJ had said.
The night had been the best he had spent in a very long time, and he was happy to see CJ - Josh and Toby had been present (and sometimes overbearing, or so Sam claimed) during his recovery, but CJ had kept at bay, partly because of her job, and partly, he suspected, because Simon was dead, and seeing another of her friends being shot would have been too painful.
The other time was when Toby had managed to convince him to come with them to a movie at the White House, which had given him the opportunity to see the President again.
Other than that, he hated his life, and the fact that maybe, just maybe, there was hope yet, was slowly sinking in. Each time he thought that he could very well be able to work again in a few months, he thought about the rejection statistics - it didn't happen as often as a few years before, but it was still possible. Each time he thought about the possibility of being autonomous again, he thought about the person who had just died.
He had to call Toby, before he had a panic attack, or lost whatever was left of his sanity.
He shook himself and dialed Toby's number, almost smiling when his boss barked "What?" into the phone. The next speech wasn't going well, then.
"Toby, the doctor called," he began. "I .hum, can you come, please?" he added, hoping Toby would hear the "I'm scared to death and I don't want to be alone" he really wanted to say.
"Give me half an hour," Toby said, and hung up.
Thank God for my friends, Sam thought, fighting the tears - that was another thing he didn't like in his new life, he cried way too easily for his taste. He didn't know which one of the drugs he was on was responsible for his mood swings and he didn't care, it was just embarrassing. Some days he was unable to stop, damn it!
Then he thought about the surgery he was going to have to go through - he could still remember what he had felt like when he had woken up in the recovery room after the shooting, and how it had hurt. Was it going to be easier this time? Worse? How much worse?
And he thought about the statistics that said that about fifty percent of the transplants were still viable ten years after the operation, which would make him forty-four by then.
He gave up the fight, and cried.
Sam's apartment Four weeks later
Sam stared at the phone for a long time, the doctor's words echoing in his mind. "We found a donor."
He tried to breathe more regularly, but it didn't seem to ease the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The thousand questions he had already pondered, the questions which were keeping him awake sometimes, were coming back to him with a vengeance.
"What if there's a problem during surgery?"
"What if I reject the transplant and have to go back to dialysis?"
"What if they tell me they made a mistake when I go in, and have to come back here and wait again?"
"What if ."
He tried to stop his thoughts from spiraling, and to focus on the upsides.
"What if it works?"
"What if I'm free of this god forsaken machine?"
"What if it gives me my life back?"
The last weeks had been a nightmare for him. He was young, independent, healthy, he lived for his job, and he'd had to depend on a machine to stay alive, to accept that a quick return to work was completely out of the question until he'd had the transplant, to accept to change his lifestyle . all that because someone had stolen his car.
He had already undergone most of the tests he had to take to check if he could even receive a transplant. It hadn't been any fun, and even though he lived home, he had the feeling he hadn't really checked out of the hospital yet, not after the hours he had spent there recently.
He wasn't too sure how he felt about waiting for someone to die so he could take one of his kidneys. It made him feel . low, somehow, like he was going to profit from someone else's tragedy.
Everyone kept telling him that accidents happen anyway, but everyone wasn't in his shoes right now, waiting for fate to change his life again.
Fate hadn't been on his side recently.
He had sent his parents back to California a few days after his release from the hospital. They had been the most energetic of his supporters - and the most tiresome ones. They were trying so hard to keep in check what they thought of the situation and of each other that it was painful to watch. The lines around his mother's mouth each time his father told him he was going to be fine, as if she was refraining from shouting at him that he didn't have the right to speak. The frown that never left his father's forehead all the time he'd been there. They were making him nervous, they were hurting him, and they were cuddling him way too much for his taste. He loved them, but there was hovering, and then there was hovering. He had his hands full enough with the senior staff already, thank you very much.
Speaking of which, he should call Toby.
Toby would like to know about this latest turn of events.
Toby had been a gift during the last weeks, not because he showed Sam he was worried, although there was no questioning that, but because he cared enough to shake him up and scold him when he needed to be. And his boss had decided that two weeks of wallowing in self pity were more than enough, so after listening to Sam alternately blowing up at people and complaining that his life was over, he'd come alone once, and shouted some sense into him, for a good hour. He was hoarse when he was done, and Sam was crying, and had cried most of the following night, Toby holding his hand and telling him that he was sorry, that he thought Sam had needed to hear that, but things had begun to look up after that.
When he had woken up the next morning, Toby still at his side, fast asleep, he had felt as if he had finally managed to get rid of his more extreme reactions, as if the edge of the pain had been taken off.
Sam knew he was lucky.
He was alive, he lived in a place and age where there were possibilities for him to get help, he had friends, he had hope.
Simply, it wasn't always enough to know that.
Sometimes you had to be told that.
Or you had to have some sense shaken into you.
It would have been a huge overstatement to say that he had taken the treatment well after that. But he had stopped whining so much, he had tried to look out more for himself, instead of letting other people do all the work for him.
Now, two weeks later, he was ashamed of the way he had acted - with the nurses, and the doctors who were trying to help him of course, but also with his friends, letting them take care of him, cooking for him, listen to the explanations the doctors gave him instead of doing some research by himself.
And what was worse, no one wanted to listen to his apologies.
His friends hadn't even let him finish the first sentence of his excuses before asking him what the hell he thought friends were for, the medical staff had shrugged and said they hadn't taken it personally, and that had made him feel even more small.
That said, even if he'd stopped being such a major pain in the ass with everyone who tried to help him, he still hated every minute of his life right then. In the past four weeks, the only two times he'd felt remotely like a human being had been during a "let's cheer up Sam" party organized by his friends - Josh, who was working hard at mending the fences between them, had shown up on his doorstep, had cleaned up the apartment a little after having bullied Sam into putting on some other clothes than faded sweat pants and a T shirt (Sam had decided on a black cotton pants and a blue shirt, and the amount of time he had needed to reach that decision had been completely ridiculous, in his humble opinion) and the others had come an hour later, their arms full of food, and with three videos to spend the night. One of them was a Bruce Springsteen concert, and they had begun with this one, "to set the mood," CJ had said.
The night had been the best he had spent in a very long time, and he was happy to see CJ - Josh and Toby had been present (and sometimes overbearing, or so Sam claimed) during his recovery, but CJ had kept at bay, partly because of her job, and partly, he suspected, because Simon was dead, and seeing another of her friends being shot would have been too painful.
The other time was when Toby had managed to convince him to come with them to a movie at the White House, which had given him the opportunity to see the President again.
Other than that, he hated his life, and the fact that maybe, just maybe, there was hope yet, was slowly sinking in. Each time he thought that he could very well be able to work again in a few months, he thought about the rejection statistics - it didn't happen as often as a few years before, but it was still possible. Each time he thought about the possibility of being autonomous again, he thought about the person who had just died.
He had to call Toby, before he had a panic attack, or lost whatever was left of his sanity.
He shook himself and dialed Toby's number, almost smiling when his boss barked "What?" into the phone. The next speech wasn't going well, then.
"Toby, the doctor called," he began. "I .hum, can you come, please?" he added, hoping Toby would hear the "I'm scared to death and I don't want to be alone" he really wanted to say.
"Give me half an hour," Toby said, and hung up.
Thank God for my friends, Sam thought, fighting the tears - that was another thing he didn't like in his new life, he cried way too easily for his taste. He didn't know which one of the drugs he was on was responsible for his mood swings and he didn't care, it was just embarrassing. Some days he was unable to stop, damn it!
Then he thought about the surgery he was going to have to go through - he could still remember what he had felt like when he had woken up in the recovery room after the shooting, and how it had hurt. Was it going to be easier this time? Worse? How much worse?
And he thought about the statistics that said that about fifty percent of the transplants were still viable ten years after the operation, which would make him forty-four by then.
He gave up the fight, and cried.
