For four years, while my family slowly disappeared from my life, a man named Marcus never missed a single dialysis appointment. A widowed veteran working night shifts as a hospital custodian, he drove me three times a week, sat beside my machine, brought food I could eat, read to me, and held my hand when treatments went wrong. He became my family when I had none.
I later learned why. Marcus’s wife had died waiting for a kidney transplant, and the day he first saw me, I reminded him of her. What I didn’t know was far more painful: years earlier, Marcus had caused a car accident that left my own wife, Jennifer, with kidney failure. She later died after years on dialysis. Consumed by guilt, Marcus had quietly followed my life—and when I developed kidney disease myself, he vowed I wouldn’t face the same fate alone.
Last year, I was told a donor kidney had been directed specifically to me. That donor was Marcus. He had spent years being tested in secret, determined to give me the life his mistake had taken from my wife.
The transplant succeeded. Six months later, I am free from dialysis and living again. Marcus and I still meet for coffee and cards, and we visit Jennifer’s grave together. My family missed years of my life—but Marcus never missed a moment. He taught me that redemption is real, and that sometimes the deepest healing comes from the most unexpected place.
