Another anniversary

Six years ago, at this very hour, I was undergoing Kidney transplant surgery. My family and my donor’s family waited nervously in the waiting room and friends and co-workers at home anxiously waited to see how we were doing.

I woke many hours later. I woke to bustling nurses, the beep of numerous machines, flashing lights and tubes and wires coming out of everything. The incision area was very painful, but I quickly realized that I already felt better than I had in years. Kidney disease patients often complain about a “fuzzy head”, feeling “off”. My head was clear.

The next day my donor and I were flooded with visitors. She was in a lot of pain but mobile, I was not, so she hung out in my room. Because we were co-workers many came to see the both of us it worked out great. I was still really sore and heavily medicated but the company was welcome. We were all celebrating a truly amazing thing, a co-worker donating a vital organ to another is such a selfless act, I felt like I was witnessing a historic moment.

As my recovery progressed, I committed myself to be better than before. I wanted to get back the strength I had lost, to truly commit to good health and get the maximum out of the estimated 15-20 years that I could expect from this kidney.

While I did enjoy some physical milestones in hiking, basketball, mountain biking and weight training, a mere 4 years later  I hit a wall. I got sick again, and by the symptoms, I knew what it was. After several biopsies, it was determined that the original disease that had destroyed my original kidneys over the course of 30 years had come back and done a ton of damage in just one year.

I’ve struggled to reconcile this for the last 2 years. I feel angry that I wasn’t told of this possibility. I feel sad that I can’t do the physical activities that came easily to me a mere 2 years ago. I even feel bad that my donor’s generous gift wouldn’t last as long as she and I had hoped. But I do not feel bad for myself and I do not ask “why me?’ I got a shit hand, it happens.

Six years ago today my Facebook page virtually exploded with encouragement and positive messages. I have truly never experienced anything like that. Some people may never experience such an outpouring of support. Some people may never experience a second chance at anything. I did, and for that, I am grateful, regardless of what the future holds.

delays, delays

I haven’t been able to write lately. I wasn’t feeling it. I have been reading the works of the great bloggers that I follow but that’s it. I’m in pain. This is notable because I have a notorious tolerance for pain and I’m still suffering here.

Last weekend I had my youngest son for the long weekend. It was great having him. We were fortunate enough to have a couple of unseasonably warm days so we were outside a lot. Target practice with the pellet guns and yard work. He wanted to learn how to split wood so I indulged him. He’s one of those kids who is immediately good at everything he tries and it wasn’t long before he was splitting logs with the ax with precision and strength. I let him chop while I stacked. But I made the mistake of standing too close and as he struck one log I watched helplessly, as if it was slo-mo like on TV, as a half log shot left and hit me on the left shin. I yelled out initially then curbed my reaction so that he wouldn’t feel bad, it wasn’t intentional. But it hurt like a sumbitch, and it still does.

Fast forward to Tuesday and I can barely walk. The pain is the kind that radiates through the entire body. In addition, I noticed that my fistula, a surgically created port for dialysis, is swollen, red and sore to the touch. I have had it for 8 years, it has never been used because I was fortunate enough to get a transplant without being on dialysis. It has never been swollen, red or sore. I knew I had a problem. So I called my transplant team.

Anything other than a cold or flu goes through my transplant team due to my history. When I explained to them what was going on they referred me to PCP. I questioned them on that, isn’t the fistula a pretty major thing? But they were insistent so I made an immediate appt for the next day. Yesterday I drove 2 hours to meet a Dr. whose first reaction was “why didn’t your transplant team feel that this was worthy of their time?” Facepalm moment. She immediately left the room and called them. I was confused by her urgency. My confusion was eradicated when she came back in. She had told them that I have cellulitis, a potentially deadly bacterial infection, in my fistula. She then told me that they now want to see me. Facepalm again.

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I wish that people would just listen to me. I am in tune, I know what is going on with my body. Now I am going to have extra appointments and more driving. Which I can’t do because I’m ordered to have the leg and arm elevated until the antibiotics kick in. I take cellulitis seriously, it almost killed me in 2006. White light, tunnel, the works. A random bed check is the only reason I’m alive today. I’m not going to lie, beyond annoyed at unnecessary delays I’m a little concerned.