Does 'The Kidney That Killed Me' Have A Movie Adaptation?

To save her first love, who suffered from uremia, my wife, who was a judge, used her influence to pressure the hospital into awarding one of my kidneys to him. I explained to my wife that I had kidney failure. Transplanting another kidney would mean certain death for me. However, my wife yelled at me in disgust, “His illness is serious, and you’re still acting jealous and competing for my attention? Do you even have a heart?” With the lawyer she hired, she won a court ruling that sent me to the hospital for the kidney transplant. In the end, my kidney failure worsened. I died alone in a forgotten corner of the hospital.

The moment I discover I'm pregnant, Courtney Smith, the leukemia patient I saved three years ago, turns up on my doorstep once again. She claims that her leukemia has relapsed again, so she wants me to abort my baby in order to save her life again. But I'm pregnant with my deceased police husband's baby. So, I tell her that I can only donate my bone marrow to her once I've given birth to my baby. After hearing my answer, not only do Courtney and her family not feel any gratitude toward me, but they also berate me for not helping them out till the end. "You can still have another baby once you lose this one! But if your pregnancy affects my illness in any way, will you be able to take responsibility over this?" Then, the Smiths abduct me to a shady hospital, where they forcibly put me through an abortion and remove my bone marrow. While their operation is a success, my baby and I end up dying on the surgical table. As they gaze at our corpses, the Smiths' faces are plastered with icy expressions. "Don't blame us for what we did. If you were the one with leukemia, we'd still make Court donate her bone marrow to you. One's life is determined by fate. If you can't survive, that just means you're fated to die." When I open my eyes again, I've returned to the timeframe three days before Courtney finds out about her leukemia relapse.

My daughter Stella was dying—kidneys shot, barely hanging on. She needed a transplant. Fast. But my wife, Kylie—the hospital director—stole the donor kidney meant for Stella and handed it off to her old flame's kid instead. That boy lived. They celebrated. Played happy family while my daughter was bleeding out hope. That same day, I called Kylie. Told her Stella didn't have much time. All she said was, "That ungrateful brat's faking it again? Lying? If she wants to die, let her." Stella didn't make it. Her body gave out in the worst way. And when Kylie finally saw her—really saw her—she broke.

The day my ex finally made it big, the doctor told me I had less than three months to live. On TV, a reporter was interviewing James Larson. “Mr. Larson, what drove you to success?” James chuckled, but his eyes were misty. “The biggest push? Probably when I was diagnosed with kidney disease eight years ago, and my ex walked out on me.” “I’m grateful she didn’t marry me. That was the wake-up call I needed.” After the interview, he called. “Amelia Simmons, I made it. Do you regret it now?” I rested a hand on the spot where my kidney used to be and let out a bitter laugh. “I do. And I have cancer now. Happy?” James sounded satisfied. “Serves you right.” He never knew—I got cancer because I gave him my kidney all those years ago.

On the day Zachary Lake stands at the pinnacle of global technology, accepting his award, I'm lying in a hospital bed, abandoned by doctors because I can't afford treatment for kidney failure. On TV, the host asks him to call the person he's most grateful for. Without hesitation, he dials my number. "Shannon, do you regret leaving me?" he asks. I clutch the astronomical medical bill in my hand, the paper crumpling beneath my fingers. Forcing a light tone, I reply, "Can you take me on as your kept woman now that you're a big deal?" On screen, his face remains expressionless as he hangs up without a word. Then, his cold voice pierces through the broadcast. "Now, I have nothing to feel grateful for." But what he doesn't know is that when he was on the brink of death years ago, I was the one who gave him my kidney.

The hospital suddenly called to inform me that the kidney I had been scheduled to receive had been transferred—by my husband—to his first love. I confronted him. He replied casually, "It's just one kidney. Are you really in such a hurry? Daphne needs it more, so let her have it first. You're not going to die anytime soon anyway!" I stood there holding the medical report proving he had uremia, and in that moment, my three-year marriage felt like a joke. Fine. He was right. I wasn't the one who was sick—so what was I rushing for?