He sees stars. He wakes up. His daughters watch, frightened. They've never seen their father break down like that. "Don't worry," he said, trying to sound calm. "Another day. Work." "Tired?" the department head quipped. He smiles and replies that it was a passing illness. The days pass, and the hours stop counting on the clock, accompanied by clouds shifting during the early morning hours. General practitioner. His doctor friend heard about his ailments. Waiting room. He picks up a magazine of outdated news. He flips through it, eyes on the office door, expecting a scolding more than routine checkups. He wasn't scolded. What would have been a scolding or being called a tiger turned into a barrage of tests: creatinine, urea, complete blood count.
One, two weeks. Again, a waiting room. He waits. He distracts himself by reminiscing about unimportant adventures. He waits, however, imagining the needle in his arm and the blood being collected in a container with his name on it. "It's nothing," he tells the technician, who replies with a "God willing." He returns to the general practitioner. Waiting room and the same magazine. "The wait is uncomfortable. A silent, lurking wait. A quick appointment. He's referred to a nephrologist. Another waiting room, whose hours began to stretch on forever, as he searched within himself for the belief that the test results were wrong and would need to be redone. He went in, and it wasn't quite like that.
Another day. The shower and the mirror. He looks at himself. He runs his fingers over his thigh, creating a purple welt. A welt that heals when he releases his index finger, just as it did on his arms and just below his eyes, where an unwanted bag had lodged itself. Hemodialysis awaited him. First, however, a surgical procedure was required on his wrist, where the vein and artery join to communicate with a machine. He contemplated himself as he left himself, not in spirit, but through his vital fluid pumped from the arteriovenous fistula. He was administered heparin to prevent clots. Isotonic saline solution. Yes, electrolytes to maintain homeostasis in the body, essential for metabolic processes fundamental to life.
— Crazy life, short lifeCazuza took it. The blood enters the dialyzer, removing waste. Obviously, he doesn't think about it. Far from it. —How much longer do I have to wait? How many rooms are waiting for me? Time is accompanied by his wasting. Pale. Thin. Smelling of uric acid. Venous pressure rises, as does the fistula vein, almost causing its occlusion. Desperation and cold. He asks the nurse for a blanket. He falls asleep. He dreams of having more than just a glass of water. The desire to be desired, to sleep and wake up with the laziness of Saturday, but not with the exhausting wait, now on the kidney transplant waiting list. And this wait isn't confined to a room, but encoded in the anxiety of being called at any moment. He wakes. The loss of consciousness is an instant. His daughters no longer watch in terror. His daughters admire him with compassion; they would give anything to be in their father's place.
— In the girls' eyes, there's a sadness. A sadness like that that leaves me wanting to cry. In doubt, yes. The girls' tears are the ones that flow within me. What awaits me? I will never again walk barefoot to feel the grains of sand playing with my feet. I will never again undress to feel the freshness of the wind, the caress of the sea, and the lips of the moonlight. I will never again sit in the derivatives of space, in the integrals of time to relativize existence. I will never again think about the complexity of being solar dust, for everyone will find their way, and I will be neither stone nor destiny. I will not be a word, much less a memory. I seek some meaning in the paradise of tears, which scratch the condition of my humanity. I tire of waiting. I tire and am called. The graft graced me is reluctant to work. I wait again. I remember "If God wills." I ask for novenas in churches and candles in terreiros. I ask for blessings from priests, pastors, and old blacks.
I talk to my immune system so that it accepts that kidney, as if it were a premature little brother.The resident arrives with a huge syringe and administers miraculous drops. He waits. The body accepts the organ, conditioning it to immunosuppressants. Survival opens the curtains on the reconstruction of dreams. His daughters look on happily, and much is about to begin, starting with the arrival of his grandson. This wait. The atonement of the wait since his first fainting spell, passing through countless rooms, through a transplant queue that perpetuates itself in the queue for the high-cost medication of the Unified Health System. It's a wait worth it, as long as the medication is available, but it isn't. The organ's rejection probes and torments. As if the prodigal son were ready to be expelled from his body. Anguish seizes his soul. Another waiting list and the lack of medication. He turns to unknown friends, companion angels who provide him with the medication. Time is incapable of forgiveness, for like Cronus, it devours everyone, especially the invisible and those who survive on the margins of society.
One of the daughters brings a newspaper and points out the title of one of the articles: A university produces essential drug for transplant recipients and on the SUS high-cost listHe reads avidly, even though he doesn't understand fermentation or this whole bioreactor, pressurized filter, and ultrafiltration membrane thing. He remembers the anguish of waiting and the countless prayers. He clings to the possibility of dreaming without constraints, because the transplant was successful and his body welcomed the new organ as its own. He toasts. He can have two extra glasses of water. He sends an email, simply saying "Thank you very much." The recipient posts the message on the lab board, above articles and academic distinctions, but next to a green ribbon, renewing the engineering of Hope, since it has always been present in the singularity of each father's waiting.
This text does not necessarily reflect the opinion of Unicamp.
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