01/25/2026
I have no family, no car; but this biker has driven me to dialysis 3 times a week for 4 years.
His name is Marcus. He's 58. He drinks his coffee black. He reads historical fiction. He works night shifts as a hospital custodian so he can be here during my morning sessions.
He's never missed once.
Not for holidays. Not for bad weather. Not when the center was barely open during a blizzard. Marcus was there.
My family stopped coming after the second month.
My daughter came twice. Then her kids had activities. Then it was too far. Then she stopped calling to explain.
My son came once. Sat for twenty minutes checking his phone. Left before my session was done. Haven't seen him since.
My ex-wife sent flowers on my birthday. They died before I got home from the hospital.
But Marcus shows up.
I didn't understand it at first. Thought he was confused. Thought he was waiting for someone else. When I realized he was there for me, I thought he was crazy.
"Why are you here?" I asked him after the third week.
"To keep you company."
"I don't know you."
"Not yet."
That was four years ago. Now I know his coffee order, his favorite authors, the names of his two grown kids. I know he's a widower. I know he's a veteran. I know he volunteers at three different places because staying busy keeps the grief away.
But I still don't know why he chose me.
The dialysis center has maybe thirty regular patients. Some have family who visit. Most don't. There are at least a dozen people who sit alone every session, staring at the TV or sleeping through the four hours.
Marcus could have picked anyone. But he picked me.
He brings breakfast sometimes. Nothing fancy. A muffin. A bagel. Things I can eat with my kidney restrictions. He researched my diet without me asking.
He brings books and reads out loud if I'm too tired to read myself. He brought a deck of cards and taught me gin rummy. We've played probably 500 games. He's winning by sixty-three.
When I had a bad reaction to treatment last year and my blood pressure crashed, Marcus was the one who held my hand while the nurses worked. My emergency contact is my daughter. She didn't answer. But Marcus was there.
The nurses think he's my brother. I've stopped correcting them.
Last week was my four-year anniversary on dialysis. Four years of needles and machines and watching my blood cycle through tubes. Four years of my kidneys failing a little more each month. Four years of wondering if I'll make it to a transplant list.
Marcus brought a card. He's not a card guy. But he brought one anyway.
Inside it said: "Four years of fighting. I'm honored to witness it."
I asked him why he does this. Why he spends twelve hours a week sitting in a medical clinic with someone he didn't know four years ago.
"You don't have to keep coming," I said. "I'll be okay."
Marcus looked at me for a long time. Then he said something I wasn't expecting. His story terrified me because he was not a normal human. He was actually a....... (continue reading in the C0MMENT)
