The Borrowed Kidney

Well, not really borrowed, as that implies I could give it back. But the person I borrowed it from is, alas, dead, and should I give it back I would also, alas, be dead — or need another treatment called dialysis.

People give their transplants names. My kidney is Delphine. The psychological pathway for a receiver is complicated: often they are bewildered, shocked, and think themselves undeserving of treatment and even transplants.

This was my case. I very nearly threw in the towel after peritoneal dialysis failed and I had to have emergency surgery on my arm to fit a fistula. While I waited for the fistula to get up to speed, I had a catheter in my jugular vein, which gives me the willies even thinking about it now.

The peritoneal dialysis left me with a hole in my abdomen — healed since — where a plastic tube went in. Not so sexy.

I was lucky to receive all the treatment I did, from all the amazing people in all the medical teams. I was lucky to get a borrowed kidney and, after over ten years of transplant, my kidney — yes, it is mine now — still works amazingly well.