Boob Tubes

On March 17th of this year, I showed up to general surgery at Walnut Creek Kaiser, nervous as hell, to have a tunnel catheter installed in my Juggular for Dialysis acess. Right on my chest. Two tubes coming right out of my cleavage. Awesome. After getting past the idea that I would soon have a "boob tube," I started thinking that getting over the aesthetics may only be a small part of the recovery. Boy was I right. My dad and I sat there waiting for an hour when someone came up and told us that it would be about another hour, someone sicker than me needed my surgeon in the OR, we didn't mind, we never do.. It was another three hours, and finally they wheeled me downstairs. My heart started racing. I was very obviously anxoius as I discussed the various drugs they would use to dope me up, it was a conscious sedation- that's right folks, I was going to be conscious while the doctor dug a hole in my chest and shoved a tube down into my heart. And my anxiety was not curbed when I was wheeled into the cold sterile room, as they dowsed me in iodine and covered my face with a medical "sheet" of sorts. Not being able to see a procedure being performed is something I have a real problem with. When I can see what doctors and nurses and other medical staff are doing to me, I have a sense of control. I watched and listened carefully to what I could on the cold table in that cold room, with my face all covered. And slowly my speech started to slur and I drifted into a nap, a drug-enduced, plesant dream, lovely nap.(which I was later told required more than three times the "normal" amount of medication) And then I woke up.
FUCKING OUCH. I felt like a torn up rag doll that just lost an arm. It was some of the most excruciating pain I have felt, and I have felt a lot of excruciating pain. I would now lose my right arm, and most basic movements of my body for about three weeks, and I am not allowed to shower due to risk of infection, things we're going to get worse before they got any better, but I could finally feel alive again. I was ready for my first Dialysis treatment. I was ready to feel better.

I was born with one kidney... part one.

bear with me. these first few are going to be long, but condensing twenty years of medical struggles into a few paragraphs is not so easy as I thought.

Well, it's more complicated than that. I arrived on this Earth on April 3, 1990, supposedly around 5:14 PM, but the details are a little fuzzy for me. From day one, I was complicated. The doctors discovered I was born with one normal, heathy kidney and Prickly Pete, the name that my non-functioning, peanut-sized kidney would eventually pick up. The doctors were not concerned and said I would live a mostly normal and healthy life, little did my parents know it would be anything but.

At the ripe old age of 18 months, I had my first operation. I was experiencing frequent Urinary Tract Infections which led to reflux (Urine backing up my ureters, back into my kidney) which led to scarring and damage done to my only working kidney. At age nine came more bad news, the doctors office I was previously associated with but had not had follow up with for years called and asked me to go get some simple renal (kidney) function blood tests. When we were called in for an exam and office visit they informed us that the frequent scarring was causing major irreparable damage and I had about 50% kidney function. in December of 2009 I underwent a ureter re-implant to try and prevent further scarring.

In April of 2010 we we're told the surgery was unsuccessful and that I would need a life saving kidney transplant. We immediately met with the renal team at Lucille Packard Childrens Hospital, and got things moving. After testing my mother and father, we were all quite pleased to hear that I had not one unbelieveable match, but two. From April-November that year, life was a blur. It was a situation I do not wish on any nine year old. Daily blood tests, and a completely restricted diet, that I didn't really understand, but I knew I couldn't have chocolate or salt.

Even at such a young age, I could comprehend my parents grief. It's tough being a kid with a problem, I'd imagine it's even worse being the worrysome parent of a kid with a problem. It was a great relief when we learned that either one of my parents could deliver the life-saving kidney I so desperately needed. And, although I was not invited to some of the adult discussions about who it would be, I knew my mother had to do it. I knew she wouldn't let anyone else.

On December 6th, 2000 I went into the Operating Room at LPCH where my mother was admitted just 5 hours previously. I had the support of my father, brother, uncle Dan, and Joe Bondad&Anne Marie, friends of my fathers. I remember starting to feel loopy, and I remeber my brother and dad walking along side my gurney down an unbelieveably long hallway. I remember crying, saying I wasn't ready. I remember going into the OR and hearing the noise of various metal instruments clanking together. I dont remember much else..