Transplanting isn't just for trees

I’ve decided to blow the disgusting layer of dust off this old blog site and reopen it with an educational and well-researched badly written accounting of the topic of the hour: transplantation.   

I find it’s much easier to start these conversations off with a bang: I need a kidney transplant.  And with that bit of seriousness out of the way, I can now begin to amaze and mystify.  I’m planning on using this blog to recreate for you, the reader, every bit of what I go through so that by the end, you can say, “Yea, I knew someone who went through that.  I haven't a clue what it’s like.”

In case you were wondering, this isn’t something I thought up over my last holiday saying, “Life is a bit tedious – oh I know, let’s play a shell game with organs!”  In fact, my kidneys have been unhappy with their current accommodations for some time but it is rather recently they have decided to become activists and revolt. 

Back in November of 2000, I was diagnosed with membranous glomerulonephritis.  Though it is missing the requisite three constants in a row, it would look at home on a hockey jersey.  Really, anything that is 28 characters long should have more punctuation.  Regardless, I was diagnosed with MGN (guess what that’s short for?) and have been treated for it since then.  How was I diagnosed?  It’s a long, boring story that involves the normal male reluctance (read: total refusal) to see a doctor about swelling in my legs.  Turns out that my…reluctance was well-founded – four days later I get a voicemail from the doctor who sounded strikingly similar to someone who wants to leave and urgent message without inciting panic.  In fact, he did such a good job that he decided to end on a high note and said, “If you start to feel poorly this weekend, I suggest you go to the emergency room” which was followed by a cheery, “Have a good weekend!”  I spent the next two days in a dark corner of my closet.  That’s not true.  I went to the pub straightaway and promptly forgot about his message.

Twelve years and a medicine cabinet that could stock Walgreens later, here I am.  Funny, thinking about it.  It all started to unravel around Thanksgiving time last year.  Two different doctor offices that had seen my latest blood work called and left brilliant messages – they needed to speak with my right away, it’s urgent. Have a great weekend!  Sometimes I hate symmetry…

Turns out I hadn’t studied very well and I failed my blood tests.  I didn’t even know that was possible but when you get scores as low as mine, unfortunately you don’t just get held up a grade.  I was basically given three options: transplant, dialysis or death.  The third didn’t really fit my plans on living forever and the second sounded as appealing as being strapped to the outside of a car in a demolition derby so while having a squishy bits of someone else stuffed in me wasn’t my idea of fun, I was out of options.

As it turns out, my mother was playing chess with people from heaven.  I mean, what are the odds that someone who would be my perfect donor would meet a transplant surgeon three days before I they found out I needed a transplant?  About as good as the Cubs winning the World Series this year.  But since that’s how it all happened, maybe I’m on to something.  Remember, if the Cubs win it, you heard it here first. 

But back to mom playing match maker (of sorts).  My sister met the man (in a friend-type way) who would become my transplant surgeon literally days before I told her I needed a one.  She also said that she would go ahead and save my life by giving me one of her very own kidneys.  I’m glad she doesn’t remember the time when I put 3-in1 oil in her shoes the night before prom because she said her shoes squeaked.  I’m far from a perfect brother so in a very large way, I’m not sure I deserve this gift. 

Soooo… the moral of the story kiddies is to avoid… well, since they have no idea what caused the disease in the first place, I can’t say what to avoid - cartwheeling down grassy knolls?  Watching re-runs of Magnum PI?  Drinking from airplane sinks?  I guess they all have their own dangers. 

For those who need to know everything, I leave for Colorado (where the glorious event will transpire) tomorrow, Wednesday, 3/14, have a pre-op day on Thursday, 3/15 and take a long nap on Friday, 3/16.  The surgery itself will take between 3-5 hours and I will be in the ICU for the next day or so until they realize that I have Wolverine-like abilities and heal freakishly fast.  Then it’s another 4 weeks in Colorado skiing, snowboarding and hiking while work thinks I’m recuperating.  My exact return date to the overly sunshiney state has yet to be determined but I expect to be back just in time to catch the first time it gets skin-melting hot.
In the meantime, if you wish to bestow me with lavish gifts, bards singing songs of daring-do or otherwise be a nuisance,feel free to comment on this blog, call me, leave me obscure text messages or stop on by!  Once released from prison the hospital, I will be bouncing between more houses than Saddam, so really, if you want to know what's going on, keep checking here or the Tome of Faces.

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