Three Years Later

“You’ve gotta have faith.” I’d been distracted while the nurse had asked me the usual questions to kick off my annual check-up appointment, but her whispered words of encouragement made me smile. I’d never asked how the office staff had learned about the tradition started by the nurses when I’d been in the hospital, but it wasn’t because I hadn’t appreciated the reminder of one of the happier memories from my stay there.

The nurses had gotten into the habit of reminding me that I needed to have faith that things were going to get better each time they checked my vitals. It was how every morning had started for me for months—with a super early wake-up call by one of the nurses to make sure I hadn’t gotten sicker during the night while they teased me about my name. I never took offense though because I knew they didn’t mean anything bad by it. Although the members of my medical team were aware I was part of the foster system, I didn’t think they knew much about my background beyond that. And they definitely didn’t know my confusion about my name.

I never understood why my mom picked Faith. She’d given up on hope before I was even born, and having a baby girl sure hadn’t changed her outlook. Her approach to mothering didn’t inspire flights of fancy—quite the opposite in fact. Growing up with her indifference taught me reality was harsh and dreams were for suckers. That was her gift to me before she died, and the years that followed didn’t help much either. Being a cynical girl named Faith was just one of life’s little ironies I guessed.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to settle my nerves and flashed the nurse an almost-genuine smile. She gave my hand a gentle pat, and my fake smile turned into a genuine grin. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for how good you guys are at your jobs. So I do have faith—in all of you.”

“Have it in yourself, too. Because we do, and for good reason.” She dug a piece of paper out of her scrub pocket and smoothed it open. “Maybe I should ask you to sign this for me so I can say I knew you before you became famous.”

My cheeks warmed, and I knew I was blushing. “I’m never going to be famous, not with a degree in social work. But I’ll be helping people, which is more important anyway.”

“From what I read in the paper”—she folded the article that’d run in Sunday’s edition and put it back in her pocket—“you already have.”

I wasn’t used to compliments, and I looked down at my hands in my lap as I fidgeted on the exam table. She gave my hand another squeeze before she walked out of the exam room and left me alone to wait for my doctor. It was only a few minutes later when he rapped his knuckles against the door and poked his head inside the room. “Everybody decent in here?”

“It’s only me; which you know,” I chuckled, shaking my head as he came in and shut the door behind him. “Just like you know that I’m decent because it’s been a couple of years since I’ve had to wear one of those awful robes.”

“Yeah, but asking never gets old.”

Dr. Stewart enjoyed his corny jokes, and I’d quickly gotten used to them when I first started seeing him. “Neither does answering.”

“I’m glad you think so.” He shook his head as he sat on the stool next to the counter and rolled towards me. “The patient I saw before you did not appreciate my sense of humor.”

“A tough audience, huh?”

“Very tough,” he sighed. “But I guess I have to cut them some slack since this was only their second post-op appointment with me.”

I thought back to how I’d felt after I’d been discharged from the hospital and started to see Dr. Stewart in the outpatient clinic. Even though I’d been staying in a rehabilitation facility and they’d done all the heavy lifting to get me there, the effort required on my part had been enough to exhaust me. “Yeah, some grouchiness is to be expected.”

“Indeed.” He grabbed his stethoscope and did the usual exam stuff—listened to my breathing, checked my ears and throat, looked for any signs of excessive swelling in my belly and ankles. “You’re looking good.”

I sat up and scooched to the edge of the table, my legs swinging because I was trying to burn off nervous energy. Even though my blood tests had been relatively stable with only one minor issue over the past year, I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that the other shoe was about to drop. Getting the kidney transplant was one of the few things that had gone right in my life, and it was like I was always waiting for it to go wrong somehow. “How about my numbers? Are they still doing okay?”

He dropped his stethoscope in his lab coat pocket and sat back down, rolling towards the counter on the opposite wall to grab his tablet. After a few taps on the screen, he smiled at me. “They’re really good. Your WBC, HCT, and PLTS have remained stable over the past year. Same with your creatinine and BUN. Your electrolytes are right where they should be, so you’ll need to keep taking the magnesium supplement. Your Prograf levels have remained where I’d like to see them after the dosage change we made in February, so we don’t need to make any additional changes there.”

When I’d first gotten sick, I’d barely been able to follow the explanations the doctors and nurses had given me. It was as if they were speaking in a foreign language I’d been desperate to understand because it held the key to my survival. But now I didn’t even blink at all the acronyms Dr. Stewart used since I’d gotten used to hearing them and could easily follow along. “Please tell me that means I can go back to doing blood work every three months again.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

“Yes!” The tension drained from my body, and I pumped my fist in victory. It’d taken me awhile to work my way up to quarterly needle sticks at the lab and annual visits with Dr. Stewart, so it’d sucked when my numbers slipped and he’d made me start going to the lab more often over the past half year.

“Are you sure? I could make you go in every month if you’d prefer,” he teased.

I held my hands up in surrender. “No need to threaten me with extra needle sticks. Quarterly is perfect!”

“That’s what I thought.” The humor leached from his expression, and I braced myself for what he was about to say when he wagged his finger at me. “I know it’s your senior year and you’ll be busy, but you need to remain as vigilant as ever when it comes to your health. Eat right, take your medications, get plenty of rest, and try to keep the stress to a minimum.”

I wrapped my arms around my middle, hugging myself in a protective gesture that was instinctive. I knew Dr. Stewart was only lecturing me because he meant well. He wanted me to stay healthy, but I felt like he was criticizing me, and it made me a little bit defensive. “I promise that I’m doing my best. The food services staff on campus has gotten used to me asking questions about everything they serve. It’s to the point where they spout off the sodium content as soon as they see me. When there isn’t a great meal option for me, I hit up the salad bar.” I jerked my thumb towards the backpack I’d left on the chair against the wall. “I always have a water bottle on me to make sure I’m drinking enough. I’ve never been to a kegger and barely touch alcohol. But getting enough sleep and avoiding stress is easier said than done when most of my classmates resort to all-nighters to keep up their grade point average.”

“I know you’re doing your best, Faith,” he murmured, offering me an encouraging smile as he leaned forward. “But it doesn’t stop me from worrying about you because I also know it’s harder for you than most of my other patients because you’re on your own without a support system in place.”

I couldn’t argue his point because it was true. The reason I hadn’t been a good candidate for a transplant was because of my home situation, and I was even more alone now than I’d been back then—but better off for it. I shrugged, hoping he’d take the hint and quickly move past my home life—or lack thereof—as a topic of discussion. Even after all this time, I still hadn’t grown accustomed to the doctors and nurses knowing so much about me. With my childhood being what it was, I valued my privacy and didn’t open up to people easily.

“Despite the challenges you face, you’ve thrived since your transplant. Not just medically, but academically too.” He lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret with me as he continued, “Don’t brag about it out in the waiting room to anyone else, but we consider you our star patient around here.”

My cheeks filled with heat again, and this time when I shrugged it was out of self-consciousness instead of uneasiness. “Because of that stupid article? I really wish the school hadn’t talked me into doing the interview for it.”

“No, it’s because you’ve thrived despite the odds stacked against you. Looking at it from a purely statistical point of view, you weren’t a good candidate, but by a twist of fate you got your second chance and proved everyone wrong. My team and I are proud to have been a part of that miracle.”

Remembering the desperation I’d felt back then, I swallowed down the lump in my throat. My life had hung in the balance, and there hadn’t been anything I could do to control it. My fate had been in the hands of my doctors, and I still wasn’t sure how they’d managed to get me a kidney when my score hadn’t put me anywhere near the top of the list. “And I’m lucky to have all of you on my side.”

“Do me a favor and keep that in mind when one of us wants to talk about that article you’re so determined to pretend doesn’t exist.” I nodded, but he didn’t seem convinced. “We feel like we have a vested interest in you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I sighed, making light of their concern because I didn’t know how else to respond to it.

“And it isn’t every day one of my patients is recognized for their contribution to our community.”

I offered him a shy smile. “I think you’re overstating things a bit. I’m not out there saving lives like you guys. I’m just helping to educate a small group of high school kids about their college opportunities like my caseworker did for me.”

“I think you’re minimizing the impact you’ve had on others. How many of the foster kids starting their freshman year at your college went to a high school you visited?”

My cheeks heated again. “Most of them.”

“Maybe you didn’t save those kids, but that’s almost a hundred lives you’ve changed for the better.”

It was hard to wrap my brain around that number—one hundred and two foster kids had enrolled as freshmen at my school this year. It was a huge increase over the ten of us who’d started there together three years ago, and I couldn’t help but be proud that I’d had something to do with it. “I’m just keeping the promise I made the day I was given a second chance—to put the gift I’ve been given to good use.”

Dr. Stewart’s kind green eyes narrowed as he searched my face. “Your kidney was a gift, but there’s no debt to pay because of it other than to live your life to the fullest. If helping other foster kids is something you want to do, then keep on doing it. But for you; not for your donor. Honor their gift by being happy.”

“I do like helping them,” I assured him. It wasn’t just about honoring my donor’s sacrifice. Giving back made me feel like I mattered, at least in some small way. But being happy was an utterly foreign concept to me. It just wasn’t something I thought about.

I was alive.

I had a roof over my head and food in my belly.

I was close to earning my college degree in social work, my major inspired by the difference Sarah had made in my life and the work I’d done with other foster kids.

Having all of that was a bounty to me. Unexpected and greatly appreciated. But maybe it was time for me to strive for more. To find joy in my life. Somehow.