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He researched my kidney-restricted diet and brought me muffins and bagels I could actually eat. He read aloud to me when I was too drained to hold a book. We played over five hundred games of gin rummy, and he kept a meticulous tally of his lead. When my blood pressure crashed during a particularly brutal treatment last year, Marcus was the one who held my hand while the nurses scrambled. My emergency contact was my daughter, but she didn’t answer her phone. Marcus was already there.
Last week marked my four-year anniversary on dialysis—four years of needles, machines, and the slow, grinding realization that I might never make it to the top of a transplant list. Marcus brought a card that said, “Four years of fighting. I’m honored to witness it.” When I told him he didn’t have to keep coming, that I would be okay on my own, he finally told me the truth.
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