I’m used to being here.
I’m used to the interrogations.
The assumptions.
The medical jargon.
But not in the Intensive Care Unit.
“Please,” I whisper brokenly.
Dad squeezes my hand, and I ignore the bite of pain that greets his strong grasp.
The doctor moves the computer away from him, giving me a firm-lipped expression. I know it too well, the distance he puts between us while he figures out how to deliver the news.
“We’re running additional tests,” he begins, not looking at anyone but me. I appreciate the effort he puts in that no other doctor does. I’d get worked up when doctors talked to Mama like I couldn’t possibly understand what they’re saying, much less be affected by the diagnosis as though I’m not the patient. “The scans that were done on you tonight showed many alarming things. Your brain tissue shows signs of extensive inflammation, as does the area around your heart. And your kidneys…”
I hold my breath.
My heart drums.
The clock on the wall ticks.
His voice is so soft it’s like velvet against my skin. “Emery, your kidneys barely showed up on the images done.”
Blinking, I shake my head.
His eyes are softer than his voice, but his body is straight and tense and professional. “The levels of your creatine and BUN tests also drew red flags. As soon as the radiologist read your images, the lab was contacted to do an additional glomerular filtration rate, or GFR, test that gives us an idea of your kidney function.”
My bottom lip trembles, but I refuse to cry. I know what he’s saying before he even says it. After I heard Mama talk to Grandma about Lo, I figured out how to do an online search to read about what she died from.
Kidney failure.
“The good news is, there are treatment options,” he proceeds to tell me, though his optimism if further than I can see. “Depending on what the labs show, we can figure out the best course of action for you. Your rheumatologist will be involved to speak to you about the medications you’re currently on…”
On and on he goes.
He tells me that the headaches are most likely related to my kidney problems and asks about any issues urinating.
Bloody urine? Dark? Trouble peeing?
When my lips part to answer, nothing comes out. My brain is too wrapped up in the months I’ve spent seeing pinkened pee. The slight twinge of blood on the toilet paper. The foam. The back pain.
How long have I known but wouldn’t admit it? How long could I have said something instead of pretending nothing was wrong?
You could have stopped it.
Slowed it.
Something.
Thorne must know that I’ve noticed changes, because he simply nods before telling me about further steps.
Dad and Cam listen so intently to everything Thorne says, nodding along and sometimes interjecting with questions.
What is a nephrologist?
Will she need surgery?