Proof The Bible Is True

Any minute now, I was going to die. I gripped my blanket and peered out the hospital window, the cold December wind howling in the darkness. My heart thumped in my chest, fast and erratic. Not the strong, steady heartbeat of a normal 18-year-old. But I wasn’t normal.

Three weeks earlier, I’d had a kidney transplant at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles, where I was still recovering. I had hydronephrosis, a disease that damages the kidneys. When I had one of them removed at the age of four, my doctor warned my parents I’d eventually need a transplant.

We weren’t prepared when the other kidney gave out during my senior year in high school. I had no choice but to defer admission at my first-choice college, the University of Southern California, and have the operation. I would remain on dialysis until my new kidney started working on its own.

I heard a knock at the door and a nurse stepped in to administer my nightly medication. I’d grown close to the nursing staff over the past few weeks. I tended to be more blunt with them about my fears, rather than worry my parents. I was absolutely certain I was going to die. Soon. It didn’t matter what the doctors said.

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