Take Your Medicine

During my first transplant, I became ill and was admitted to the hospital. The R5 floor was where all transplant and kidney patients stayed. One morning, a nurse entered my room looking concerned. She told me that, due to HIPAA regulations, she couldn’t reveal details about a patient named “John” in room 534, who had just received a kidney from his wife, who was with him. She mentioned he was complaining about taking his medication and felt he couldn’t manage it. While she couldn’t ask, I took this hint, grabbed my two IV poles, and headed down to his room.

I entered and greeted them, saying congratulations and thanking his wife for her generous gift. Her father was also in the room, visibly concerned for his teary-eyed daughter. I asked John how he was doing, and the complaints started pouring out. He expressed how hard it was, that he didn’t yet feel strong, and that the number of pills was overwhelming. He mentioned he was a lobsterman and didn’t have time for all of that. Tears began to flow down his wife’s face as I nodded in agreement. I assured him that, yes, the pills are plentiful, but they are necessary to keep us alive.

John then lamented, “Is this what being alive is all about?!” I shrugged off his frustration and asked, “Do you have a son?” “Yes,” he replied, “he’s two. Why?” I reassured him, “Don’t worry; he’s young enough that when your wife remarries, he will feel comfortable calling him ‘Dad.’”

Three months later, I saw him in the parking lot at the transplant center. He yelled and waved at me with a big smile, saying, “Hi, Will! I’m taking my pills!”