Web Extras

"I'm going to do these other tests and see what happens."

I still didn't know what to say. "OK." My mind drifts momentarily back to the crow that I had awoken to on Kabetogama Lake. Had it been a sign of something good approaching on the horizon?

The days slowly trickled past while we waited for the test results. At last we got the call. Eric and I were a partial match. He checked his busy schedule at work and a date was set. He sent me a package the following week. It was my 25th birthday. Inside the small heavy box was a card.

"At your age, you can't afford spare parts," the card read.

There was a large can of kidney beans within the box.

"But I've got a few that you can borrow," the inside of the card read.

Due to my restricted diet, I couldn't eat Eric's gift. Instead, it went on a shelf beside my fleecy stuffed animal crow. The darkness of disappointment had turned into the light of hope. We had a plan, and the journey could now continue.

October passed like a swirling breeze of autumn leaves. The big day was lumbering closer and closer. Two days before our surgery, Eric and I went for a hike up North Moat Mountain. For nine miles we slogged through mud and crunched across ice. We returned home that night tired, filthy and smiling. Was this a taste of what was to come? Every challenge is an opportunity, even the worst trials and obstacles. I had the opportunity to go on a life-changing journey. I also had a family that was willing to go on that journey with me.

I awoke from surgery in the recovery room. I don't remember much about the recovery room. There was a thing in my neck, the central line. I could feel tubes against my skin and quietly hoped that they weren't connected to me. The nurse drawing my blood from one of the central line's colorful ports smiled at me. There was a thing in my arm. It was called a peripheral IV, but it was a thing; another tube providing access to my innards. I answered her questions with a smile. I heard myself speaking in a cheerful tone as though there was no place I'd rather be than right there. The truth was that I could think of almost a million places I would have rather been, but most people who are sick or in pain forget about everyone else. Doctors and nurses deal with a lot of anger, frustration, fear and despair. I had resolved long before my surgery I'd try to always smile and always say "Thank you." I would be the silver lining to their hectic day of tending countless patients. Another nurse entered my dominion of blue curtains and beeping machines. She was young, my age, blonde, with a charming smile. Perhaps there is a silver lining to every dark cloud.

I remember my entire family being there in those first hours. My oldest brother Jeff and his wife, Jaime, my mother and father, even two of my mother's close friends (my other mothers) were there that day. Eric's girlfriend, Kristy, was there. Eric was fine, cranky, but all right. I was laughing. We were telling jokes, making a scene and probably embarrassing my mother. The world was suddenly moving. The beeping of my machines was getting fainter. I glanced around in a momentary panic. No dark tunnel, no bright light ahead; I thought, I'm good. A room had opened on the transplant floor. We were headed upstairs, headed to the 10th floor.

A nurse guided my bed, another pushed the IV stand and its heavy load of colorful fluid bags. Like an emperor being carried to his palace on a sedan chair, I was wheeled through hallways. The elevator doors closed and we rose towards the dark evening skies of Boston. I was brought into my new room and it was time to get settled for the night—as if that's possible in a hospital. There was a Code Blue next door. I wished I didn't know what that meant, but I was a Wilderness EMT for four years. I knew that someone next door was being sped away to the intensive care unit. My parents would be returning in the morning. It was Tuesday night. I would be there until Saturday, Friday if I was lucky. It was time to get settled for the night, time to rest.

It was and is my firm belief that it is not humanly possible to actually relax or sleep while in a hospital. Those who say otherwise are either mutants or have completely abandoned their sense of reason. I became accustomed to this fact during my first night on the 10th floor. I also learned that it is even less possible for someone like me to sleep in a hospital—someone who can hear a mouse fart from a hundred yards away. A hospital is a menagerie of nocturnal noises; patients coughing, papers rustling at the nurse's station, a siren 10 stories below, the IV alarm. My fluids needed changing again. The alarm would wail until the nurse arrived. A new bag would be hung on the stand, my urine bag would be emptied and measured. She would want to check my temperature; it would be low again. I'd then have a few meager hours of what could be called peace. Not tonight, though. A dazzling blue light flashed in the hallway, accompanied by a siren. A woman's calm and reassuring voice sang out in a cheerful tone.

"A fire has been reported in the building; please proceed to the nearest exit in a calm and orderly fashion."

"Seriously?" I heard myself groan. Sitting up in bed, I momentarily considered the calm fashion in which I would descend the stairs—with an IV stand and urine bag in tow. It was a 10-story descent through the concrete tree tops to the pavement below. I lay back and got comfortable. At least I would die with good kidney function. It was Tuesday night, and I would be there until Saturday.

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