Born As Kidney Donor For My Sister

Book 1 Born As Kidney Donor For My Sister

After leaving the operating room, my parents trailed behind my sister’s stretcher to her hospital room. The nurse, wheeling my bed announced, “Family members of Bed 25, please come over to receive the doctor’s instructions.”

My mother, with her eyes fixed anxiously on my sister, who was still under anesthesia, impatiently responded, “Are you nurses dead or something? Just keep an eye on her. As long as she’s alive, that’s enough. Nothing is more important than my precious Allie.” With that, she entered the room and didn’t come out.

The nurse sighed and wheeled me into a shared ward, explaining post-surgery care and instructing me to use the call bell at the head of the bed if I experienced any adverse reactions.Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

I nodded weakly, and the nurse, feeling a pang of sympathy, reassured me, “I’ll remind your parents to check on you when I visit your sister’s room. You should rest well.”

I gave her a faint smile, grateful for her kindness. I knew that even with her reminder, my parents wouldn’t come; only my ailing sister was worthy of concern and care. As for me, I was just a healthy daughter who had given away a kidney; it wasn’t a big deal.

“I don’t understand what kind of parents they are,” one nurse said. “They have two daughters, yet they all go to the elder’s room, ignoring the younger one. Even though the younger one is healthier, she donated a kidney and has impaired bodily functions. How can they not care for her?”

“Exactly,” the other nurse agreed. “I heard that they pulled strings to get a private room for the elder to rest well, but the younger is stuck in a shared ward. It’s so unfair.”

Their conversation was clear and audible. I bitterly smiled, wishing I could stand and walk out of the room to tell them it was okay. As long as my sister was healthy and safe, my life hadn’t been in vain, and I hadn’t disappointed my parents’ expectations.

The next morning, as I opened my eyes, I saw my father standing by my bed. Surprised and a bit puzzled, I asked him, “Dad, why are you here? Is Allie okay?”

My father seemed momentarily stunned by my question and replied, “Allie is fine for now. Mom is with her, so there’s no need to worry.”

I nodded and lay back down, closing my eyes again. The pain in my abdomen had been nagging since I woke up, and closing my eyes seemed to ease it a little.

Seeing me like this, my father assumed I was upset with them. His voice grew stern as he said, “Farah, who are you making that face for? You know your sister’s health isn’t good. We know we’ve neglected you, but your sister needs us more right now. Can’t you be a little more understanding?”

Haven’t I been understanding enough? I grew up as they asked, healthy and strong, only to donate my best, most compatible kidney to my sister—even on my eighteenth birthday. There was no cake, no family celebration, just a cold hospital bed and a body growing increasingly wracked with pain.

Beads of sweat trickled down my forehead from the agony, and I bit my lip, trembling, “Dad, I’d like some water.”

It was only then that he noticed there wasn’t even a cup by my bed. His expression stiffened, and his tone softened again, “I’ll go get you some water. You just think about my words for a bit. Once your sister is better, your mom and I will make sure there’s no more favoritism.”

My parents have always known they were biased. But because of my sister’s illness, they justified it, believing it was perfectly natural. To them, all the grievances and discontent their healthy daughter endured simply did not matter.