ON A CHILLY APRIL MORNING, Nathaniel Cornelius Robinson, a man the world once knew as one of the greatest dunkers on the planet, rises before dawn. He drives about 30 minutes west, parks his car, and walks up an unassuming slope to a set of double doors. The sounds of the Seattle suburbs—the swish of the water and sway of the trees—are a soulful lyric. It’s a shame that this early, the robins don’t even wake to sing. Once inside, he goes down a short hallway to a semicircle of 12 chairs, one of which is waiting for him. The beeps and bops are the first familiar tune of the morning. The same song that’s danced around his ears for the past four years.
Once Robinson is in his seat, the needles pierce his forearm in the direction of his blood flow. He leans back and readies his mind for what he’s about to endure. The machines to his right will scrub his blood of toxins for the next four hours, a routine he’s gotten used to as his countdown continues. He wears no robe. There’s no curtain between us. Just Robinson, free, pierced by a few pricks, trying to appear strong in a pair of sweats while the white coats buzz around him. As the machines start to clean his blood, I can see the color in his eyes changing by the second—the vibrance of white replaced by a noxious yellow. His hands, once forceful enough to jam, are hidden away behind a blue-green 12th Man Seahawks blanket. In this hall, Robinson, 40, is the youngest member of the morning crew, a fact he hasn’t taken for granted as the years here have piled on. Dialysis can be ghastly for some patients.
“Like this lady right here?” Robinson says, pointing to an empty chair next to him. “She was just walking the other day. Now she’s in a wheelchair. You gotta count your blessings. Because everything doesn’t pan out for some people. It’s sad.” His voice starts becoming muffed. “I wish I could help them. I wish I could make them feel better in how they feel. There’s
