(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.