Autumn Leaves No one wants to be a transplant recipient; that is, until you are one. Almost 17 years ago I learned I had advancing kidney disease and that eventually I would need a kidney transplant. At that time, I had a three-year-old daughter, was just turning 30, felt full of life, and couldn’t imagine they were talking about me. I had been diagnosed with diabetes as a six-year-old, and time had taken its toll on my body systems.

I took a deep breath, looked into the unknown, and decided:

That I would find the best possible doctors, be the best patient I could be, and try not to ruin anyone else’s life in the process of my illness;
That I wasn’t going to die before my daughter graduated from high school; and
That God was in charge of this and that whatever happened, it would be all right.

To describe the journey of the transplant patient is to risk cliché at every turn. It is an absolute miracle. It is horrifying. It is a priceless gift. It is a huge responsibility. It is healing. It comes with scars. It is the story of Lazarus, and at some basic level, it is the story of the hemorrhaging woman, reaching out to grab the healing hem of Jesus’ robe – the slim hope that thrusts you into the future.

In 1998, my kidney disease had progressed to the point where my doctor advised that I be screened for a transplant. I went through a day of tests and interviews at the University of Minnesota, which by my good fortune has a premier program for kidney transplantation and is also in my own “backyard.” Many patients travel across country and internationally to seek transplants here. I was approved for the waiting list, and so it began… the wait.

Sunflowers in a Field Nothing much changes when you get “on the list.” You go through a flurry of tests in the beginning and fill out a ream of paperwork. You give emergency contact numbers and prepare for what seems to be some type of invasion. You feel like you have been pushed even closer to the brink of the unknown. But day by day, time passes without much event. Your health continues to decline but usually not in noticeable ways. It is a long, slow, unwinding as you let go of first one norm and then another. “This is how I am, now,” you reassure yourself.

After about three years of waiting, my family began agitating for change – they apparently could see things I wasn’t willing to. Was I sure I was still on the list? Wasn’t there something my doctors could do to move this along?

From the first diagnosis, my sister had enthusiastically offered herself to me – her kidney, her tissue, and her unconditional love and support. However, by the time I was cleared for transplant she had gone through her own remarkable death-to-life experience. She was devastated that she was now unable to help me. But others began to emerge, offering me one of their own kidneys: a colleague, my cousin, my brother, my pastor. Each of them went through the screening and in each case we were deemed “compatible.”

However, with each person, the screening uncovered some other health condition that made donation unadvisable for them. I felt guilty and responsible that because of their willingness to help me, these people were hearing about health problems. But my pastor asked me to reframe those thoughts. “Think of all the ways God is restoring health as together we seek healing for you. It’s all good.”

In the spring of 2003, another friend asked to be tested and he too was found to be a compatible donor, though they noted that his blood pressure was high. He committed to a new regimen of diet and exercise and in a few months was cleared. Surgery was scheduled for late July. About two weeks before the surgery I stood in the church parking lot, waving goodbye to my then 16-year-old daughter as she left on a youth trip. We had talked about the upcoming surgery and whether she had any concerns. She hugged me and said she trusted me. We drew the sign of the cross on one another’s foreheads and we both agreed it would be all right.

I was relieved she was away for a while. I never lied about my condition, but I tried to shield her from my own concerns. That night as I hooked up for dialysis I prayed, “Please help me, God. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’m so tired. I trust in you.” I went to sleep in that prayer and woke to another day. I got ready for work and the phone rang. It was the transplant team at the University, calling to say that they had received a kidney and a pancreas for transplantation and that I should be at the hospital by 11 that morning. Not only would the kidney restore me to health – the pancreas would mean I was no longer diabetic, and that the diabetes that began the whole ugly cycle would be arrested. In the ten seconds it took to hear that sentence I was thrust back to the time of the initial diagnosis. I hadn’t wanted this, but now it had become my prayer. Things take time, and this was clearly it. I had no trouble saying “yes” this time.

And in that moment of unbelievable relief, I also had to acknowledge that while this was the very best day of my life, this was the very worst day for some family somewhere who was saying goodbye to a beloved one. These are not the plans of God, inflicted on us from out of the blue. This is God stepping tenderly into our most broken places and bringing new life out of the ashes.

I awoke from the surgery to a life I had not expected. I had not been prepared to feel newly alive. In the days that followed I often found myself at a lounge that looked out over the Mississippi River – nearly a 180-degree view looking southward. As I scanned the horizon from east to west I had a keen sense of being surrounded by prayer. I was part of the great communion of saints – something that extends across all boundaries of time and space.

Three years later, the experience continues to humble and amaze me. The friend who had been scheduled to donate a kidney to me decided to go ahead with his plans and donated a kidney to a complete stranger. I share this with you to honor his commitment but also to urge you to consider this option. More than half of the kidney transplants at the University of Minnesota use organs from live donors. Nationwide, it is estimated that 60,000 people are awaiting kidney transplants. Recall the parable of the child, discovering hundreds of starfish stranded on the beach and tossing them back into the ocean, one by one. A passerby, trying to make her feel less responsible for the sad situation, said that there were so many that throwing one or two back into the ocean wouldn’t make much of a difference. “It does to this one,” she replied.

Whether or not we have a friend or relative in need, we should consider the gift God has given us in our miraculous bodies and make intentional choices about how we will spend our one, beautiful life. We need to take good care of ourselves and extend ourselves to others. We should remember our role as a steward of God’s creation. Together we are here to bring life to fullness and help one another to realize God’s gift of health and wholeness – of shalom.

<<Back to Archive

View for Printing

Contributors
Staff
Advertising
Internships

Send this Page to a Friend

Add Me to Mailing List