Kidney donorology:
One man’s journey through heavenly hell

 

Stewart Salnave
Special to The Advocate

In a poignant counterpoint to the U-Pull-It world of auto recycling, we can take the kidney out of a 1954 model Man-Guy, and install it in a 1983 Fem-Sapiens, but both engines have to be running while we do it.

That makes renal transplant a risky procedure, and the screening process stringent indeed, thus, though death is one of the more dire possible side effects, it is truly rare to die giving body parts.

That is not to say the journey is a canoe trip through Valhalla; it is a trek through uncharted night, and every square inch holds new discoveries.

The main reason for being unable to donate a kidney is money.

In a cruel double jeopardy, the transplant scene is part of a stratified system of medical care wherein money decides ones’ level of care, but further discriminated monetarily by necessitating that the donor be able to withstand weeks or months off work.

My heart goes out to the single mother, barely surviving, whose child is in renal failure. Their immediate options are few; they are dialysis and death.

There are other ways to get a kidney, but I wish to explore with you the joy of agony and the victory of defeat one may experience in giving a kidney to one’s child. It is not all beer and skittles.

At both ends of the emotional realm there be tears. Sometimes we manage to languish at both ends at once, and giggles gurgle through the sobs. It sounds like madness, and feels like it, too.

I know because three years ago I gave a kidney to my daughter. The road to transplantation was an emotional foray into medieval inquisitional apprehension.

Each day brought the question, “is it on, or is it off?” Will we be drawn and quartered, or do we wait another day in our cage?

The hospital people have a duty to disqualify you, which is a job they pursue with gusto.
There are constant tests; it is stressful knowing that a hundred out of 100 is just squeaking by, and 99 is failure.

The renal transplant protocols are set up to optimize results, which does not necessarily serve the patient.

In organ transplant donation, there is an ethical balance between imposing mortal risk and opting to do nothing, which are effectively the choices regarding a healthy person being eviscerated for replacement parts.

The medical folks have a vested interest in the successful outcome of both procedures, plucking and planting, since the future of the methodology is always in question, plus the institution’s reputation and their careers hang in the balance.

There is a great imperative that you are mentally and emotionally stable.

They must make sure that you are not getting paid for your kidney, a violation of federal law.

Every time I saw the renal gatekeepers they asked me the same questions: Was I sure I wanted to risk my life in this invasive surgery? Am I depressed and wishing for death? Do I realize I can’t have my kidney back?

There were banks of questions intended to see if I would really stay the course. My own mortality was not a major consideration.

One is warned going in that the post-operative world will be a study in bipolarity, as the euphoria of making it through the acceptance labyrinth is crushed by the two-headed monster of selfless love and uselessness.

I have never felt such emptiness as I did when I awoke around 2 a.m. the night of the surgery, in great pain.

The epidural machine had malfunctioned, and my pain medication had quit arriving.

I could not move, and the tiniest effort to breathe became excruciating. I can’t say how long it was before someone came in, but when she finally did, she was more torture than relief. Hours later, I was able to convince the doctors that I was really in pain and it was taken care of.

There can be no greater gift than life, and no finer connection to another human being than to give a piece of one’s very being.

If you are so fortunate as to be able to do this for your own child, the rewards to the soul cannot be described by mere language.

The special bond between you transcends the pitifully inadequate understanding of anybody who has not been so blessed.

I carry with me the very essence of God’s grace, though I don’t deserve it, and my daughter will have a part of me right there inside her, long after I am dust.