What happens if they drop your kidney on the floor—and other odd questions about Living Kidney donation:

“What happens if they drop your kidney on the floor?” asked my daughter as she worked to squeeze the last question from her brain before going to sleep.  I stifled a laugh, and since this had not been a laughing conversation, I tried my best to offer a thoughtful explanation of the care that the surgeons and their support staff would be taking with my precious kidney.  With the bedtime ritual becoming dangerously long, I tried to wrap up the 40 minutes question barrage while also understanding that her fears need answers. 

Her questions are valuable for a ten year old trying to figure out, not just the logistics of Living Kidney Donation, but what it is going to feel like for her.  She is worried that she will feel lonely and disconnected from us...even though she will be with her grandparents and brother.  To her, we will be so complicatedly far away.  It is the hardest part for me too.

For everyone, this has been a hard couple of weeks.  It seems that the closer I get to the actual surgical date, the squirrelier everyone around me becomes.  This has been doubly true for my family. 

I spent a few days asking myself, “Why now?   They have had over a year and a half to get used to the idea.  It is not like they were just informed of my choice.  They were even a part of my original decision.  They have been with me every step of the way.”

The truth is that they had been logically, emotionally, and physically with me for all of the initial decisions (and some of the testing)…but they had not been living within my skin (and active mind) for all of the intervening days.  They have not been thinking about my Living Kidney Donation every day for the last two and half years.  They were bound to hit an emotional wall. 

During the last two weeks I watched as little light bulbs turned on in the minds of my family.  Helping answer questions for my children (and my young students) has been relatively easy.  It has always been my goal to give them all of the factual information that they can handle, and they seem relatively eased by it.  Adults seem to have more difficulty with the facts.

I negotiate today’s mine field, littered with the new emotional connections that my family has made to my choice.   I try to walk respectfully alongside them as they process.  They have given me tremendous support.  I wish to do the same.

So, I have my plane tickets, hotel reservations, a jam-packed medical itinerary for the days preceding the surgery, a large bag full of books (hoping to feel well enough to devour,) my laptop, a stack of favorite DVDs, and my iPod.  My husband will fly in the night before the surgery to be my support. 

Most of the major planning is done.  All that remains is the execution of those intricate plans.  In less than two weeks, I will be flying over the sublime beauty that is New Mexico.  I look forward to the surgery—because that date will mark the beginning of working toward a new normal for me and for my Dad.  After this long journey, just the thought of returning to normal (even a new one) sounds like bliss.