I learned quickly that dialysis doesn’t just drain your body.
It audits your life.
It shows you, with brutal clarity, who is willing to show up when there’s nothing fun to “get” from it.
Three times a week. Same clinic. Same chair. Same machine.
And for four years, my family treated it like it was an optional meeting they could keep rescheduling.
I don’t have a car. I don’t have “backup support.”
I have a small apartment, a calendar filled with appointments, and the kind of fatigue that turns days into survival tasks.
But I also had Marcus.
He’s fifty-eight. A veteran. A widower. A biker with hands like worn leather and a quiet voice that never wastes words.
He worked nights as a hospital custodian so he could be available for my morning sessions.
