What It Means To B+

Ordinary irritations, a social media share, and thoughts about how far optimism should go.

I woke up at 5 a.m. today and wandered into the bathroom, half awake, and noticed my son’s retainer on the counter. Again.

I should have been full of rage. Thousands of dollars in orthodontics sitting all willy-nilly there on the counter, ignored like yesterday’s homework.

Instead, I could only see the face of my gentle orthodontist from 35 years ago floating through my mind, smiling patiently.

“Don’t forget to wear your retainer,” he’d say, at what felt like, every single visit.

Some things never change.

I scurried off to work as usual, chatting with my best friend during the short 30-minute commute. She was driving home from Chicago after dropping off her son, who’s flying out and back to duty.

A normal day, more or less, in this strange dumpster fire of a world, where we send our children off to “protect our freedom” while we swoon about the romance in Heated Rivalry and plan upcoming vacations.

Later in the day, I was scrolling Facebook when I noticed a post shared by Grandma Gail — my daughter’s other grandma. It was a plea from a mother in search of a living kidney donor for her daughter.

I see posts like this all the time online. Not necessarily kidneys, but the big asks. They blur together after a while, heartbreaking but distant. But this one caught my attention because it specified the blood types they were searching for: O or B+.

That’s me. B+.

I always joke that it fits my personality. I’m someone who’s wildly optimistic. When I first learned my blood type after donating blood, I remember thinking with a smirk, Hmm. Makes sense.

Side note: I work in a laboratory, and someone recently asked how to get their blood typed. You can pay for a test (expensive), get surgery (also expensive and maybe painful), or donate blood. It’s free and it could save a life.

So I clicked on Grandma Gail’s post. And when I opened the profile, I saw a familiar face. My orthodontist, Dr. Okmin. The same man who had once gently reminded a forgetful teenager to wear her retainer.

I didn’t even hesitate to send a message to his wife, who had written the post. There was something about it that I couldn’t shake.

Maybe it’s because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my daughter. Maybe it’s because I watched my mother carry the unbearable grief of losing her best friend, Paula, who also couldn’t find a kidney in time. Or, maybe it’s because somewhere out there is a woman my age with children who still need her more than I need an extra kidney.

When my now 26-year-old daughter was a child, I asked my brother — who happens to be a doctor — for medical advice about something completely unrelated to this situation. The thought of donating a kidney made me think about that today (as it does any time there is a decision of such weight to be made). His response has always sat with me:

“If you could stop cancer, would you?”

Of course I said yes.

“Then you have your answer.”

So that’s what I told myself today when I asked myself what I hoped someone would do if it was for me or my daughter.

And before anyone comes at me to tell me about the excruciating long and painful recovery, and the possibility of complications — this is not my first time walking toward this decision. Years ago, I started the screening process for my mom’s bestie before learning I was not a compatible match.

I don’t know if I would even be a match for this gal. The screening process is long. And even though we have the same blood type, that’s hardly the only indicator of compatibility, but it’s a possibility, therefore I feel called to try. However, after filling out the survey through UCSD, I’ve already hit my first roadblock: I need to lose 25 pounds.

But oddly enough, that hardly feels like a roadblock. I started getting back at it pretty hard in preparation for my daughter’s wedding. Twenty-five pounds is a lot, but doable. I’ve trained with focus and precision before when something mattered. I didn’t save a single medal or bib from any marathon, 10k, or triathlon because it never mattered. My son is a reminder of all I’m capable of. He carries the name of the beach I started open water training as I raised thousands of dollars for cancer research. Do I wish I were better at achieving health and fitness for myself? Sure. But purpose has always had a way of clarifying things for me. And muscle has memory.

Scoping out the current of Potomac River the day before the inaugural Nation’s Triathlon in Washington D.C. with my Team In Training team and coach, Gurujan Dourson.

I messaged my mom about it. I got a sense she was not about it. Naturally, she was concerned because this process could hurt her daughter, too, I think. She also wonders how I can support myself financially in recovery.

She knows me. And she knows I take more risks than the average person. But I’m also not thinking that far ahead. I’m just thinking about the possibility of a future where we all still exist.

And tonight, Fletcher didn’t require a nagging to wear his retainer to bed, so I’m taking that as a hopeful sign from the universe that everything will turn out alright.

Be positive.

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Hello, I’m Sarah Scull, a former journalist and proud member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative.

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