Fwoosh.

I wasn’t sure if I was going to throw up or fall over, but the sound of the train cars passing overhead at 4-minute intervals was making my head swim. Wisps of hair escaping from my unruly ponytail were just enough to breach the “Must be this tall to ride” mark, though if there had been a “This Wide to Ride” girth measurement, my ten-year-old knobby knees and hips wouldn’t have registered on the meter. I didn’t know which was more unnerving: the screams of riders, or the speed at which their cries disappeared.

I’d joined the line many minutes before, passing multiple one-way swinging gates that would allow me to exit to wait with the others rationally remaining on terra firma, but I crept forward in line with repeated swallows trapping the butterflies in my stomach. The waiting was as distressing as the ride itself. The anticipation reached a fever pitch when it was finally our turn to walk out onto the platform and to our designated seats, the cacophony of clicking cams followed by attendants with bored faces tugging on the restraints that held us fast. Then a unified thumbs up display, green lights, and the train moved out.

The ride was over in a blink, my only memory a glimpse of my white knuckles twisted around the harness handles as we swung upside down on one of the many convolutions for which the Corkscrew roller coaster was named.
It must not have been all bad; I hopped in line for two more roller coasters that day.

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Hennepin County Medical Center, April 16.

I got in line for this ride over a year ago. Finally, I’ve reached the platform. The smell of antiseptic activates my adrenaline pathway – sweaty palms, rapid respirations, hurried heartbeats, shrinking stomach. The attendants don’t look bored here; they brandish spirits of compassion and wisdom as they poke and prod through safety checks. There aren’t any screams heard, but I still swallow repeatedly against a monarch migration.

Click. Clunk. Thumbs up, green light.

I’ve been shown my seat. The anticipation is rising. The staff have explained how the ride is expected to go, but no one can truly predict the experience. Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of white knuckles, or maybe I’ll feel upside down. Maybe it will feel too fast – I do pray it won’t feel too slow.

Repeat blood draws and urine labs. Special drinks and special wipes; early morning appointments and special check-in directions.  Descriptions on incisions and surgical procedures. Primers on pain medications and post-op restrictions. But on the way out of the exam room, a reminder of the sacred privilege of getting on board: the Tree of Life, limbs stretching the length of the hallway, bearing names of others who have taken the plunge and participated in the great kidney swap. I smile as I ponder those leaves, praying we can add two more.

I’m in good hands. Jenny, Steve, Sarah, Tracy, Dr Schwarz and Dr Hill, all ready to take care of me on the ride ahead. I’m not asking to get off – I’m asking to get going. 🎢