It’s been four days since the surgery took place and I’m finally feeling the haze begin to lift. The word last night was that, after a couple of days of ups and downs for my dad, his blood pressure had settled right where it needed to be and the kidney was producing beautifully! Things were a little scary there for a while, and he’s by no means out of the woods yet, but I’ll take last night’s report as a good sign!

I made it through most of the yesterday without any Vicodin, finally taking a dose at bedtime when fatigue was beginning to settle in and a bit of pain had resumed. I woke up very early this morning, at about 2:30 and felt no desire to fall back asleep. I guess I’ll need to work at getting my body back on schedule eventually, but for now, I’ll take advantage of the quiet and feeling well enough to begin to tell the whole story.

Thursday, July 24, 2008 - Music began to play from my clock radio at 3:30 am. I had set the alarm so that I’d have time to hit the snooze button, but I don’t know what I was thinking. There was no way I could just doze off again on this day. I really didn’t need any “snooze” time. I laid in bed for a few minutes, before shutting off the alarm, getting up and taking a shower.

I gave myself too much time. I had packed a bag the day before with everything I might possibly need during my hospital stay; lounge pants and t-shirts, books and my mp3. I didn’t need to put on any make-up or worry too much about my hair, other than keeping it out of my eyes until the surgery. I found myself wandering around aimlessly before it was time to leave, just waiting for Mark to catch up with me.

At 4:50 am, I snuck into the kids’ rooms and kissed each of them goodbye before we pulled out of our driveway and made the short trip to my parents’ driveway so they could follow us to the hospital. My sister and niece were riding with my parents so that they could be with my mom in the waiting room during the surgeries. By 5:00 they were ready to go and we made our way to downtown Minneapolis and into the surgery center by our 5:30 check-in time.

We actually had to wait a few minutes in the outer lobby before the surgery center opened. We sat together in a row of seats, my sister and I actually joking around and snapping a few pictures. I was not yet feeling nervous, much to my own surprise.

(Well, maybe just a little nervous….)

It didn’t take long before we heard the click of the security lock and we were allowed to enter. My dad and I signed a few forms and soon we were called back to our separate rooms to change into our hospital garb and answer a few more questions. I was given a shot of something, in the stomach. I don’t remember what it was or why I needed it, but remember thinking that it burned. It may have been a blood thinner to prevent clotting in my legs. Not long afterwards, our family was told they could come sit with us until it was time to move us to the operating room, which seemed to be only a few minutes.

We were called, along with another man who was having surgery, and his wife, to follow a nurse to the operating room and surgical waiting room. We took an elevator up to the fourth floor, then walked a few long hallways, finally stopping in front of two big doors where we were told that this is where the patients parted with their families.

I quickly hugged my mom, my sister and my niece, finally getting to Mark. After all the past months of feeling ready, confident and comfortable in my decision, this is where I decided to lose it. Without warning, tears began to fall as Mark hugged me goodbye. He realized I was crying and wanted to know what was wrong. All I could do was whisper that I was finally scared. I was trying not to be obvious. I didn’t want to scare my mom or my dad, so I sat there hurriedly wiping the tears from my eyes, as quickly as I could, feeling like a little girl trying to reclaim my bravery. Mark assured me that everything would be fine. He had confidence in the surgical team and he would be right there waiting as soon as I woke up. I managed to dry my eyes before I totally lost it and walked with my dad through the big doors ahead of us.

Inside were rows of beds on each wall and my dad and I were placed on opposite walls so we could see each other until we were wheeled into our operating rooms. I tried to remain calm as I waited and the nurse, noticing I was shivering, brought me an extra warm blanket to cover up with. The anesthesiologist for my dad came and talked to me about how he would take care of Dad during his surgery, knowing the heart condition was a concern. Next, my dad’s surgical team came and talked with me briefly about his surgery. Then my own anesthesiologist came to talk to me about what I could expect. I honestly don’t remember what he said to me. By this time the surgical team was talking with my dad and I was doing my best to hear what was being said. I didn’t think my dad had his hearing aids in and was afraid they would ask him a question and he would misunderstand, but he seemed to be doing ok. Finally, my surgeon came by and talked with me a bit, marked my left side with a Sharpie marker and told me I’d soon be on my way.

The nurse who had been sitting with me told me she was going to give me something that wouldn’t knock me out, but just take the edge off. I remember her injecting it, then getting wheeled off to the operating room as I could feel myself relax. It tried to wave to my dad as I left, but he was surrounded by his team and I don’t think he saw me. I relaxed so much that I remember watching the walls pass by as my bed was wheeled along and thinking, “It’s a good thing I’M not driving right now. WOOOOOOOOOO!” The walls were spinning around me and I smiled at that point. I found myself so amusing that I actually smiled! Those must have been some good drugs!

I remember reaching the operating room and noticing how full of equipment it was. I know that someone was talking to me, but I can’t remember at all what was said and soon I was completely out.

The next thing I remember was someone saying my name, it seemed, very loudly. “TERRI!” I opened my eyes and felt the oxygen mask on my face and could see a nurse sitting beside me. She was telling me that my surgery had been completed, but I was distracted by the oxygen blowing in my face. I felt like I couldn’t breathe and tried to adjust the mask. The nurse gently placed it back where it belonged and told me I needed to keep it there, but I was sure there was too much blowing in my face and once again, I tried to adjust it, this time managing to disconnect the tube from the mask. Once again, the nurse was calm and gentle, saying, “Let me fix that for you.” But again, I was sure I was suffocating and managed to knock the tube off the mask again. Finally the nurse decided I might be more comfortable with the nasal mask instead and gave me the tubes that sit just under the nose. Ahhh, much better.

I’m not sure how long I laid there before I became aware of my dad in the room. I could hear him moaning in pain, but was relieved to know he made it through his surgery alright. It was right about this time that I began to realize that I, myself was in pain and began to hyperventilate. The nurse asked if I was in pain. I tried to answer her, but found I couldn’t speak. I could only whisper, “YES.” The nurse informed me that she would give me an injection of Delotted and I remember thinking, “Yeah. Delotted.” A friend of mine had said to ask for that one! The Delotted took effect immediately and the pain seemed to ease.

The next thing I knew, Mark was by my side and I was being wheeled off to my room. Things were getting fuzzy again at this point but I remember Mark asked how I was doing as I was being moved and I whispered, “I can’t talk! I have no voice.”

We finally got settled in my room, and the rest of the day is kind of a blur of visits from the surgical team, nurses and HCAs (nurses’ aides.) I was assured several times that my dad did fine through his surgery and my kidney was beginning to function in his body. Mark stayed by my side well into the evening, just sitting while I slept and making sure I was comfortable when I was awake, and trying to get me to eat a bit of chicken broth for lunch and dinner. My mouth was extremely dry and he fed me ice chips and offered me ice water as often as I could take it. He expressed concern about my loss of voice, and we were told that during surgery, the breathing tube sits between the vocal chords and sometimes causes a bit of trauma. One of the nurses told me later, when there were signs of my voice returning, that she had been fairly concerned. She said it’s not often that there’s a complete and total loss and she was worried the damage might be more serious. Thankfully, it appears it’s not.

My incisions were checked several times on Thursday and I was not thrilled to see how bloated my stomach was and that there were four small incisions and one large one where the kidney was removed. I had been told to expect three small ones and one large one, so I’ll need to find out where the extra came from. The large one was really the only painful one, but there was other pain to work through, like learning to fill my lungs with a deep breath again. I couldn’t believe what an effort it was to fill my lungs with air, but I was told to keep working at it to prevent pneumonia from settling in.

I was awakened on Friday by the arrival of “breakfast.” I lifted the cover on the plate, tried one bite of some very bland, pasty scrambled eggs and called it quits. My mouth was still insanely dry from the surgery and all I wanted to do was drink ice water. By Friday, I was encouraged to sit up in a chair, which I did, with some pain, while the HCA changed my bedding for the day. I was slightly more aware of the comings and goings of the staff and was able to ask for my pain meds when I felt I needed more. Again, Mark came to sit with me for most of the day as I drifted in and out of sleep. I managed to eat some lunch and took a few short walks down the hallway with Mark’s assistance. When dinner arrived, Mark tried to get me to eat, but the sight of it made me sick to my stomach. I just could not eat. We tried walking one more time, but I was no sooner out the door when a wave of nausea hit and I hustled back to my bed. The nurse told me I was trying too hard and didn’t need to walk anymore that day. I had been hoping to make it to my dad’s room, but had no such luck yet. Mark assured me my dad was ok. I was given some anti-nausea medication in my IV and soon was falling asleep, so Mark left for the day.

Saturday morning found me awake at 3:00 am, feeling much, much better. I found I was able to walk to and from the bathroom on my own, rather gingerly, but I was doing it. The nausea was gone and I was better able to sit upright. I dozed off and on throughout the morning until the surgical team paid me another visit. I was informed that I could now take charge of my direction, and was free to leave whenever I felt comfortable going home, even that same day, if I felt up to it. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was ready to go home, but the roommate from Hell had arrived Friday in the early morning hours and I had had enough. I wanted to go home. I told the surgeons that I would love to go home, “TODAY.” The head surgeon smiled and said, “Ok, then. We’ll get you all set to go!”

I called Mark and told him I was being released. He couldn’t believe it and sounded uncertain, but I reassured him that the surgical team had approved me to go. Besides, it would be a few hours before my release forms would be processed and my prescriptions arrived from the pharmacy. So he came back to the hospital to wait with me for the final ok to go.

While we waited, we walked again, finally making it to my dad’s room. He was SO sleepy. He must have been given something to help him sleep and ease the pain because he kept falling asleep mid sentence while we talked. I felt bad because my dad had been doing SO well on Friday, when I couldn’t get to see him, and then today, he had taken a slight turn for the worse. We finally left him to get his rest and returned to my room to pack up my belongings. Mark carried some flowers and my bag to the car while I waited in the room. My prescriptions arrived before he returned and I was told I was free to go.

I’m telling you, that walk out of the hospital was the longest walk of my life. I hadn’t ventured more than a few hundred feet from my bed in the last couple of days and it was a long walk out of the hospital, but I made it. It was slightly painful, but I did it. And being at home has made it feel as if I’m improving in leaps and bounds. I worried about my dad most of the day on Sunday, but got the good news Sunday night that he seemed to be doing phenomenally well. I have no doubt that this sudden improvement is due to all the prayers and support of our family, friends, and all of you! Please pray, as I will for my dad’s continued improvement. We’re not sure how much longer he’ll remain in the hospital, and I hope he can be home soon.

The surgery takes place in two days. My dad and I went in for our pre-op physicals today. It was much easier for me than it was for him.

I had eight vials of blood drawn. (As usual, I didn't watch.) Dad had eleven drawn. This is, in part, to reconfirm the match.

Dad and I got some lovely, matching hospital jewelry. The orange one can come off. The red one stays until the day of surgery, unless I want them to re-draw those eight vials of blood.

I was informed (again) of the risks and benefits of kidney donation, as well as my options.

"You know that if you want to back out for any reason, your dad can remain on the transplant list and may receive a kidney from an unknown donor."

Thanks, but no. I'm going for it!

I signed lots of paperwork and agreed to be part of a research study which means three more vials of blood will be drawn the day of surgery (and I still won't watch.) I was presented with a lemony cocktail for consumption the night before surgery for the purpose of... you know.... cleaning out the intestines.

A resident who appeared to have recently graduated from the eighth grade reviewed my family health history and confirmed with me that I don't have an illegal drug habit. I was tempted to tell him I just gave up my meth habit a few weeks ago in preparation for the surgery, but decided this wasn't the time for such jokes.

After talking with the resident, we were told that it would be forty-five minutes or so before the surgeon was ready to see me, so Mark and I went down to the lobby and enjoyed lunch together in a little restaurant. My dad, meanwhile, was still being poked and prodded and couldn't take a break.

After lunch, we met with the surgeon who will remove my kidney. I immediately felt comfortable with him and felt a sense of confidence in his ability. He told us he was old enough to have made all the mistakes and young enough to remember not to make them again. Tears threatened to fall when Mark asked him to make sure he brought me back to him. The surgeon promised he would.

That's all there was to it for me. After shaking hands with the surgeon, we sat down in the waiting room to wait for my mom and dad as Dad's physical was finally completed. Next, we walked with my parents to another office where my dad would meet with his surgeon. As we waited for my dad to be called in, my mom divulged that they had been told this would be a very high risk surgery for my dad. I had assumed this. Dad has had heart problems. But apparently, no one had made it clear to my parents just how much of a risk this would be. My mom didn't have a chance to say anything more before Dad was called in for his appointment.

I sat, contemplating the worry that had been in my mom's voice and wondered if I had even underestimated how serious this will be for my dad. While we waited, the receptionist came over and asked if we would tell my dad that he would not be finished after this appointment as anticipated. He was wanted upstairs again. My head began to fill with fearful thoughts. I was sure that something in his tests today would make it impossible for him to have the surgery. I prayed about everything and anything I could think of... for an ease to my parents' fear, for skilled surgeons, strength within my dad's body. You name it, I prayed it.

When my parents finished with the surgeon, we told them Dad had to go back upstairs and we got back on the elevator, heading for the transplant clinic once again. We waited to be told what was next and I had a few minutes to ask my mom more about how the "high risk" warning made them feel. She told me that it is a risk dad is willing to take. He can either continue to live in misery or take a chance at a better quality life by having the transplant. I felt better knowing there was no question in my parents' minds.

We were soon met by a woman named Rose who told Dad they simply wanted an EKG and chest x-ray and we had to go to another building. My mom was worn out by this time and needed to rest, so I told Dad I'd go with him. It was a long walk... too much for my dad's arthritic legs and we had to stop a couple times before we finally got there. The EKG went quickly and I enjoyed a friendly chat with Rose while we waited. After the EKG, Rose walked us to the hospital for the chest x-ray and that's where we parted ways with her.

Dad and I sat for a couple of minutes before he was called in for his x-ray. He told me he was scared.

"I know," I said. I had no other words. I wanted to offer him strength and confidence. I wanted to remind him that his God, in whom he has always had so much faith, would be with him; with us. I didn't know how to say the words. They wouldn't come. So I just sat with my arm in his and hoped he knew what I wanted to say but couldn't.

The x-ray took only a few minutes and finally we were back in my parents' van and heading for home, Mark behind the wheel, me in the passenger seat, navigating, and my parents in the back, holding hands and talking quietly. I sensed their readiness. I felt at ease in my own. It's all in God's hands now.

My friend Lisa's daughter Kenzie is quite the little comedienne. She told me this story this weekend while the moms, Lisa, Karen and I were having lunch with our daughters.

When you get to heaven, if you step on a duck, God gives you something.

One day Karen was walking around Heaven with a really UGLY guy when she was approached by Lisa. Lisa looked at the ugly guy and asked Karen, "What's up?"

Karen said, "I stepped on a duck and God gave me this guy."

The next day, Lisa was walking around Heaven with a really UGLY guy when she happened upon Karen. Karen looked at the ugly guy and asked Lisa, "What's up?"

Lisa replied, "I stepped on a duck and God gave me this guy."

The following day, Terri was walking around Heaven with a really HOT guy when she saw Karen and Lisa. Karen and Lisa asked, "What's up?"

Terri pointed to the hot guy and said, "He stepped on a duck."

Talk about getting put in your place! Kenzie got a hug anyway for making me laugh!

(This was posted on my blog, July 2, 2008)

My dad has been a diabetic since 1948, when he was eight years old. Growing up, I always knew my dad was diabetic. It was just a part of who he was. On a daily basis, I would watch him inject himself with insulin. He used to encourage me to watch him inject himself. “Just in case,” he would say. “Someday, you might have to inject the insulin for me. You should know how to do it.” I couldn’t imagine having to stick him with a needle, but I watched because he asked. I knew what foods he was allowed to eat and what he was supposed to avoid. I knew what signs to watch for that would tell us he was headed for an insulin reaction. I knew about low blood sugar and high blood sugar. Countless times during my childhood, I watched my mom mix a few tablespoons of sugar in a big glass of orange juice and order Dad to drink up because his blood sugar was getting too low. Everywhere we went, Dad carried his brown leather carrying case with needles, insulin, a blood sugar testing kit and glucose tablets. Years later, the needles and insulin were replaced with an insulin pump, making it so much easier for Dad to manage his levels. This was a part of our lives. This was our normal.

It never occurred to me in all those years that diabetes would one day have profound effects on my dad’s health. He had always taken extremely good care of himself and was even told by his doctors that he was in surprisingly good health for someone who had been diabetic for so long. My dad was invincible. And besides, he had a faith in God like no one I had ever known. God wouldn’t let anything happen to my dad.

Even a few years ago, at the age of sixty-four, when my dad found out that his kidneys weren’t functioning to full capacity, it never occurred to me that he would live anything other than a long and happy life. But the diminished kidney function soon took its toll and I suddenly realized my ever-youthful dad was aging rapidly. He began to receive dialysis treatments and he told me he was feeling so much better than he had been. My mind was eased, but not for long.

Sometime in the last year or so, my mom made mention of the fact that my dad might be put on a transplant list. The dialysis would keep his body functioning as close to normal as possible, but the longer he received treatments, the more his actual kidney function would diminish. Dialysis exhausted him. He had to be hooked up to the machine for three and half hours, three times a week. That’s not even counting the time it took to get him set up, or the time he needed to sit after the cycle was completed. When he was finished, he would go home, feeling sick and sleeping most of the rest of the day. He admitted to me that he felt as if he was losing three days of his life every week. Dad was going to need a new kidney.

The thought of a kidney transplant for my dad didn’t seem real and my mind denied the imminence of its necessity. My dad seemed ok. In recent years he was suffering a variety of ailments, many of them never truly diagnosed. Diabetes masks so many health problems that the doctors were often guessing at what was going on inside Dad’s body. But he always pulled through.

One day my mom mentioned that if a family member were a match, that person could be a living donor. My dad could receive a perfectly healthy kidney from one of his own relatives. Siblings are typically more likely to be a good match, but anyone could be tested. My dad is the oldest of four, but each of his siblings have had health problems that would prevent them from being a likely candidate. I absently mentioned to my mom that I would have no problem being tested. I imagined this happening someday, not anytime soon.

A few months passed and my parents began to educate themselves about kidney transplants. They scheduled an appointment at Hennepin County Medical Center’s Transplant Clinic. Not being comfortable driving in downtown Minneapolis, my mom asked if I would take them to the appointment. I thought I was simply going to be their chauffeur and could sit in on the informational sessions with them.

It was a long day, filled with mini-appointments with a transplant coordinator, a doctor, a surgeon and a social worker. We watched a video of families who had experienced kidney donation and transplant. It was overwhelming. During our session with the transplant coordinator, we were asked if there was a potential donor. I told her I was willing to be tested. The next thing I knew, I was in the lab with a tourniquette around my arm and vials of blood being drawn. I couldn’t watch the blood draw in progress and wondered how I would ever manage surgery if it came to that. Still, my mind saw the transplant as far off in the future. It wasn’t real. And maybe I wouldn’t even be a good match. I mean, what were the chances, really? We were sent home with a donor handbook and the promise of test results in a few days.

When I got home, I talked with my hubby about all that had transpired that day. The reality sunk in for each of us as he realized I had had my blood drawn and this could be something that could truly happen. The “what-ifs” soon followed. He wanted to know what we would do if down the road, I needed a new kidney. What if one of our kids needed a kidney? What if there was an accident that damaged my one remaining kidney? We argued, we worried, I debated all his points, still thinking in the back of my mind that it would likely never come to pass. But a couple of days later, I received the call. I was a perfect match.

I was stunned. This was real. I experienced moments of panic. For a short while, I felt like I was in over my head. But not long afterwards, a sense of peace took over. This was for my dad. It wasn’t even really a choice for me. There was simply no question in my mind that this was something I would do if everything turned out right. If this was meant to be, it would happen. I would just let things play out and see where this road would take my dad and me.

In November of 2007, my parents left for Arizona for the winter and everything was put on hold. My mom has health problems of her own, and being in a warmer climate during the harsh Minnesota winter months was imperative for her well being. Thoughts of being a kidney donor crossed my mind now and then over the winter, but for the most part, life went on as usual. During that time, when there were phone calls with my dad, we would talk about it. He couldn’t hide his excitement at the fact that I was a match, but he was always sure to tell me that if I had any doubts whatsoever, he would understand. I always assured him I had no doubts. My mind was at ease. I knew this was out of my control. And besides, just because I was a match, that still didn’t mean that all of this would result in me being the donor. There were more tests to go through and many factors that had to be evaluated before it was final.

Last week, I had my long awaited donor evaluation. There was a renal CT angiogram which would allow the doctors to assess the health and suitability of my kidneys. I was told the left kidney was the preferable one as it usually has a longer artery, making it easier to transplant. If the left kidney were to be donated, the surgery would involve a few laser incisions and make recovery much easier for me. However, it’s not uncommon for there to be abnormalities in the kidneys that have no adverse effects for it’s owner, but might make it unsuitable for transplant. If the right kidney were to be harvested, the surgery would require true incisions, more pain and a longer recovery. There were lab tests with more blood draws. There was an interview with the surgeon in which he described in detail the entire process. He warned me of the emotions I might experience afterwards and that most people feel a strong sense of satisfaction afterwards, but that there is always the potential that things might not work out as well as we hope and I need to be prepared for that too. There was a full physical and an interview with the social worker. During every step of the evaluation, I was assured that if for any reason I had changed my mind, all I had to do was say the word and my dad would be informed I was not a suitable candidate with no further elaboration. But my mind was made up. Without hesitation, I assured them I had no doubts about being a kidney donor.

After the evaluation, the “what-ifs” with my hubby resumed. He was worried. He was scared. We talked it out, and I didn’t want to leave him out of the decision process, but I explained to him that I simply couldn’t see walking away from this opportunity, based on “what-ifs” that might never transpire. This was my dad we were talking about, not some stranger. A kidney transplant could greatly improve the quality of his life. Whether this gives my dad one more good year, or fifteen more years, I wanted to do this if it was right. In my mind, there simply was nothing to debate. My hubby agreed, though I know the fear and worry has not diminished.

Late last week, the transplant coordinator called me. The test results were better than good. They were excellent! I joked with her that I must be doing something right, in spite of my often poor eating habits and lack of regular excercise. I called my parents Monday night and talked with my mom, telling her it looked like everything was a go on my end, pending a few minor details. She was SO excited and I found myself actually feeling excited too.

On Tuesday, while at work, the transplant coordinator called again and told me a date had been scheduled - July 24th, 2008. In a couple of short weeks, this is going to happen. After hanging up the phone, I felt tears come to my eyes. I sat in stunned silence as I let it all sink in. This is real. I am completely happy and at peace. I am going to be my dad’s kidney donor.

The current photo is two years old. Maybe it should be updated, huh?

Here are some options. What do you think?

!
(January 2008)

(A few years ago. QUITE a few.)

Last fall

A few weeks ago

Last winter

July 2006