after the kidney – the initial meetings
One of the first things I did after finding out that I might need to be the one to donate a kidney to my father was jump online to search for any blogs or articles about kidney donation that might give me an idea of what I was getting myself into. Even in the days of microblogging and instant access to information, I could find much and what I did find was more depressing and frightening than what I’d hoped for. The images available were of people with infected incision sites or the old-fashioned scars that run half-way around the body. And the blogs were about people taking weeks and weeks to recover from the surgery, about how the donor would have to give up many aspects of their lives in order to make the sacrifice of giving an organ to a needy person. Suffice it to say, these blogs and articles didn’t do much to ease my fears about what was to come. So, in my post-surgery state, I decided to write a one-time only blog about my personal experience with kidney donation in the hopes that I can give a little information to someone else who might be experiencing what I’ve been through. And I’m happy to say that my blog is one that doesn’t need to be scary or full of false information. It’s just the story of what happened to my family and me.
My father found out that his kidneys were failing in January of ‘08. I found out about his condition a few months later. Because of other health problems, my dad’s doctors discovered the failing kidneys before they had actually gone kaput. On a scale of 1-4 (4 being complete failure), his kidneys were at a 3.75, which meant there was a little time to play with before he would need to begin dialysis, but not much. My parents lived at the time in Florida, but the health care system there was not ideal. With the help of my aunt, my dad flew to New York (where I reside) to meet with some of the best kidney specialists in the country at the Manhattan Mt. Sinai. Because my mother was unable to make the trip, I accompanied my father to his initial round of meetings with the kidney team. And that was where the fun began.
During my dad’s first round of meetings, we met with 5 or 6 different people, each charged with a different piece of the transplant puzzle. We met with a nutritionist whose main task appeared to be to inform my father of the many, many foods he would have to stop eating once the transplant was over (including but not limited to: sushi, grapefruit, tomato sauce and anything else that he remotely enjoys eating). With the financial specialist, who made it clear that it is infinitely better to be covered by insurance when in need of a new kidney and that whoever the donor would be was sure to be covered by my father’s insurance, as well. With a social worker, who I don’t really remember telling us anything of importance. And with the surgeon and nephrologist (kidney doctor) who were the ones to tell us the hard facts about who my father needed to donate a kidney to him.
Here’s the deal. If a friend or family member was unable to donate a kidney to my dad, the process would’ve been something along these lines: His name would be added to a donor list with approximately 75,000 other people across the country. A usable organ probably wouldn’t be located for a few years, by which point, he would’ve been placed on dialysis, which requires being strapped to a machine for several hours a day, three days a week. If an organ was found and the organ happened to be a match for my dad (which is not always the case), he would’ve had to drop everything and come to the hospital for an immediate surgery. No preparation time. No time to think. And after the surgery, a cadaver organ (that’s how the official folks refer to it) would’ve lasted for about 5-7 years, give or take.
If a friend or family member is able to donate an organ, the process is quite different. Once a person has volunteered to donate, they go through a series of tests to insure that they are a match for the recipient. Once matched, the surgery can be scheduled at the convenience of the patients. And because the organ is coming from someone still living, it lasts much, much longer than a cadaver organ would. And the chances of the organ taking (because there is always a chance that the recipient’s body will reject the new organ) are much higher if the donor is a blood relative.
After the surgeon and nephrologist laid out these facts for my family, something became very clear. Because of various health problems scattered throughout our genes, I was the best option to give my dad a kidney. All of this information came very quickly in that first meeting. At first, my father didn’t want me donating because he was worried about how it might affect me. Questions of pregnancy and scarring and health issues were all very prominent in both of our minds. Regardless, I decided the only real option was to be tested to see if I was a match for my father. The same day, they pulled me into a separate room, took my weight and height (which led to an unpleasant scuffle with a nurse when she tried to tell me I was 4 inches shorter than I am) and drew blood from me. Lots of blood. Something like 12 vials of blood. Then they sent me on my way with a bandage on my arm and not even a cookie for my troubles.
It took a little over a week to get the results from the blood test. Even though the transplant team had promised they would call with the results, I ended up having to call them. When I finally got through, they informed me that I was a match. And told me that I’d have to call back to schedule an appointment for my own series of meetings with the kidney team.
After the Kidney – The Donor Meetings
After a series of frustrating phone tag calls, I finally managed to schedule an appointment with the kidney transplant team. Although my mother wanted to fly to New York to accompany me to the meetings, I told her to not to, as I figured they couldn’t be all that different from what I’d already sat through with my father.
Instead, a good friend of mine accompanied me back to the transplant office for my evaluation. Again, I met with my father’s surgeon. He didn’t recall having met me before, even though he’d been the one responsible for suggesting that I hand off my kidney in the first place. He went through the basics with me about what I should expect from my end of the donation.
According to the surgeon:
There would be three incision points. Two laproscopic holes – one in my bellybutton and one to the side of my bellybutton, each a couple of centimeters long. And another longer incision that resembled a C-section scar, about 2-3 inches long.
My recovery time would be 1-2 weeks long. The first few days I wouldn’t be able to care for myself and then after that, I’d slowly but surely return to normal.
Nothing about my reguarly scheduled life would need to change post-surgery. No differences in what I eat or drink. The only things I’d need to refrain from are contact sports like boxing or football. Which for me personally is no problem at all.
A kidney donation would have no effect on a future pregnancy, except that I would be treated as a high risk.
After that, I met with the nutrionist, the financial guy and the social worker, all of whom told me exactly what I’d heard the first time round. A nurse came and drew another 12, yes, 12 vials of blood. And they informed me that I’d soon be receiving a present in the mail. A big jug that would need to be filled for 24 hours for a urinanalysis test. Oh joy.
After those meetings, I was directed to the sub=basement of the hospital (generally known as the area where the morgue tends to be), which also happens to be the home of Mt. Sinai’s radiation unit. There, I waited about an hour before being taken in for kidney x-rays (at least, I think that’s what they were). While there, I got into a conversation with the lab tech doing my scan. When he heard why I was being tested, he shared with me that his father had had two kidney donations before he passed away. The tech hadn’t been old enough at the time to donate a kidney of his own. And he wished he’d been able to. His story helped immensely in getting me through that day. I wish I knew who he was to thank him for it.
After the x-rays, I was directed to a second building for EKG tests. They dropped me onto a table, plugged a bunch of metal stick=ems all over me and took whatever it is that an EKG takes note of. Again, when the woman doing the tests heard why I was in the room, she began crying and made sure to tell me what a good girl I was. After that, the tests were done for the day, so I headed home.
A few days later, I received a bright orange jug in the mail with instructions that I needed to fill it before coming back for another round of tests. Out of all of the unpleasant parts of donating a kidney, this was for me the absolute worst. A 24-hour urinanalysis needs to be done right before you return the jug to the doctor’s office. My next round of tests was scheduled for a weekday. Which meant I had to carry my bright orange jug full of pee on the subway, around my office and through the streets of New York for a full 24 hours. I grabbed the biggest shopping bag I could find and dropped the bottle in. And for 24 hours, I played a game of “Hey, look over there” with my co-workers and friends as I filled the jug. When I turned that thing into the hospital, I couldn’t have been happier.
The final round of testings happened the same day that I dropped off the jug. I returned to the morgue/radiation unit for an ultrasound of my kidneys. As no one on the transplant team bothered to give me the correct information for what not to do, there was a moment of panic as the ultrasound people learned that I’d ingested half a Frappuchino the morning of the tests. Side note – an ultrasound can absolutely be performed on someone with a stomach full of Frappuchino. They just don’t like doing it.
I was taken even further into the subbasement where they brought me into a darkened room for the ultrasound. Now, even though I’m not at a place where children are an option for me, I found it a bit unfair that my first experience with an ultrasound produced no miraculous baby floating on the screen. Instead, after the cold stomach gel and the roller ball, I saw a bunch of fuzzy pictures of my kidney. Aw, isn’t it cute?
After the ultrasound, I went to yet another floor of the hospital for a CAT scan. They hooked me up to an IV and put me on a stretcher that dropped me into a machine that looks exactly like the ones on “House” and “ER” and every other medical show you’ve ever seen. The IV was put to use when they injected dye into my system with the warning, “If you start to feel a tingling or burning sensation, let us know.” Oh believe me, they would’ve known. Instead, it felt like ice water being shot into my veins. I closed my eyes and kept them closed as I waited for the test to be finished. I think it took about 10 minutes, although time moves slower when you’re trapped in a big tube. When it was over, they pulled me out and told me to drink lots of fluid, because having dye in your system apparently isn’t good for you. Who knew?
I returned to work after the testing and managed to struggle through the day, exhausted but relieved to be finished.
A few weeks later, I again was forced to call the transplant team for my results. (Another side note- the MOST frustrating aspect of this experience. The fact that I was lost in the computer system and therefore was treated as a new patient every single time I called the office). I was informed there was a problem with my urinanalysis test. Of course there was. I ended up having to spend another day dragging a jug of pee around the city. But this time it took. And I was cleared to give my dad a kidney.
After the Kidney- The Wait
Once I’d been cleared to donate a kidney to my dad, the only thing left to do was schedule the actual surgery. My father had had several other health problems during the summer. Out of a need to be closer to the hospitals and kidney team, my parents moved from Florida to Hoboken, which meant that the surgery could be scheduled at any time. My last round of tests was finished by early August. We decided to schedule the surgery for Labor Day.
I prepared myself mentally as best I could. I had a two-week, non-stop activity-athon with friends who were supportive and helpful far beyond the call of duty. I even scheduled a goodbye party for my kidney to be held the weekend before the surgery. I had a list of questions to ask the surgeons before we went under the knife – important questions like “Is it okay to wear cute pajamas in the hospital” and “Can I bring a laptop with me”.
But unfortunately, sometimes life gets in the way of the plans we make. A few days before the surgery, my father went to his cardiologist for a pre-surgery check-up and it was discovered that on one of his previous visits to the hospital, he’d suffered a small heart attack. As the kidney team repeatedly told both my parents and me, they could not do the surgery if any other health problems appeared in either the donor or recipient. My father’s heart needed to be attended to before the kidney transplant could happen. And just like that, the surgery was postponed.
We had a long wait as my father went through a heart operation and recovery process. It was almost three months later that we were able to reschedule the surgery for the beginning of December. The process happened much faster this time. I had only two weeks to prepare. Once again, I informed my bosses, let my friends know, rescheduled my kidney party. And then we learned that the paperwork from my father’s cardiologist hadn’t gone through to the kidney team in time. And the operation was pushed back another week. Which meant another round of apologizing to people for crying wolf.
Finally, finally, finally, we were able to schedule the surgery for Dec. 9, 2008. A few days before, my dad and I went back into the hospital for a final round of tests called a cross-match. We were shown pictures of my kidneys taken from the CAT scan. My kidneys are small (which makes sense, as I’m a small person), but perfectly shaped. My dad’s surgeon, who once again couldn’t recall having ever met me, told us how the surgery would happen. Went over my dad’s charts one last time. Had us draw another 12, yes, 12 vials of blood. And that was that.
After, we met with the anesthesiologist who asked a few questions about my medical history before sending me on my way, the admin people who asked a few questions about both my father and my medical history before sending us on our way and my surgeon. This was the first time I’d met with a doctor whose sole concern was me, not my father. It was a huge relief to talk to someone focused on my well-being and my surgeon was completely capable and confident and made me feel 20 times better about the entire process.
In the meeting with my surgeon, some facts changed. According to him, my recovery would be closer to 2-3 weeks, not 1-2. A pregnancy post-surgery would not be considered high risk immediately. It’s just necessary to inform a doctor of the situation. There would not be 3 holes as initially promised. There would be 6 – 5 laproscopic and the big one. A risk of high blood pressure was added to the list of potential problems. And I was informed that because of my donation, should I ever need a transplant myself, my name would immediately be pushed to the top of the list.
Once those meetings were over, all that was left to do was the actual transfer of the kidney.
After the Kidney – The Surgery
I spent the night before the transplant having dinner with a few friends and then staying in a hotel room with my parents. As we needed to be at the hospital by 5:30 in the morning, the hotel stay seemed the best option and the hotel was nice enough to give my parents a suite once they’d heard about the reason for our stay. Giving away a kidney does have its benefits.
Around 4 in the morning the day of the surgery, I began to panic for the first time. Up to that point, I’d been strangely calm about the whole situation. Besides looking at the really unpleasant pictures of transplant scars, I’d managed to avoid considering the problems that could occur post-surgery and my denial had enabled me to soldier on through the process. But that morning, I began to think about how the surgeons had changed their wording of my post-surgery state from “feeling some discomfort” to “it’s gonna hurt.” And how I could be endangering my health by leaving myself with only one kidney to work with. When I shared my fears with my parents, they repeated for the umpteenth time that I’d been very brave, but was in no way required to go through with the surgery. For some reason, this knocked some sense into me. Still scared, I sucked it up, got dressed and we headed to the hospital.
We checked in around 5:30 in the morning. We sat through a quick, final round of paper work before my dad was ushered into one room and I was pushed into another. I was given a hospital gown and some socks (neither of which were changed until three days later). They ONCE AGAIN drew some blood and forced me to pee into a cup, even though I had no pee to give. They explained that the final urine test was to check for pregnancy. I tried to assure the nurses that there was really no risk of a pregnancy in current state. As the staff didn’t seem to care much about my love life, they forced me to take the test anyway.
After that, my mother and I sat in my father’s room while they performed similar tests on him. And it wasn’t long before a nurse came into the room to take me to surgery. I was taken into the final waiting room around 8 in the morning. The nurse walked me through a room full of people on gurneys in hospital gowns. I was seated at the end of the room across from a very nice gentleman who obviously saw how scared I was. He tried to say hello, but was soon overwhelmed by doctors preparing him for his own surgery.
It wasn’t long before a surgical resident came to my gurney to keep me company. She informed me that she would be holding the camera for my surgeon. She was clearly enthusiastic about seeing what she called “a really complicated procedure”. I tried to make conversation, which led to an unfortunate incident where she described how cool it is to watch them move the bowels around to get to the kidney. This did not ease my fears. She did, however, tell me to stop panicking about the episode of “Nip/Tuck” where the woman woke up in the middle of a surgery and felt everything. This apparently doesn’t happen much in real life.
The resident was joined by the anesthesiologist, who immediately began hooking me up with several rather painful IVs and who did not appreciate my attempts to joke with him. Then he was joined by my surgeon and another anesthesiologist, who thought it would be a good thing to describe the operation in terms of “stab wounds.” Side note – It is NEVER a good idea to describe something in terms of stab wounds.
With that wonderful thought in my head, the anesthesiologist started flooding my system with water. They wheeled the gurney over to my dad, who had just been brought into the room himself. We said goodbye and then I was being wheeled down the hall towards surgery. And although the anesthesiologist may not have had a sense of humor, he sure knew how to do his job. We weren’t even halfway down the hall before I was out like a light. I didn’t even get to count backwards. I think I was asleep by about 8:30.
As I was asleep, I don’t really know what happened between the hours of 8:30 and 12. But I’ve been told it went something like this. They rolled me on my side. Instead of the two small and one big incisions I’d originally been promised, the surgeon made 5 small and one big incision to remove the kidney. Thanks to modern technology, the incisions no longer involve any cutting into the side or back of the patient. My dad was taken into surgery around 9, I think. Although it seems like there should be some massive process regarding the transportation of the organ, the kidney was removed from me by my surgeon and directly handed off to my dad’s surgeon. My dad’s surgeon then walked the organ over to my dad’s room and placed it in my father. He did not remove either of my dad’s failed kidneys. Instead, the new one was placed on the right side of my dad’s pelvic area. The unplugged the necessary veins and arteries from one of the old kidneys, plugged them into the new one and that was that. Very similar process to plugging in a new car engine, or so I’ve been told. My operation was finished around 12 and my dad’s shortly after.
Now the details get fuzzy for me. I vaguely remember waking up in the recovery room. The anesthesiologist handed me a button attached to a morphine drip which he introduced as my new best friend. Then I don’t remember much. I woke up again to my mother asking if my mouth was dry. I remember her mopping my lips down with something before I passed out again. Woke up again to see both of my aunts standing over me. I was just aware enough to order one of them to stop crying and then I passed out again. I woke up one final time as they began to wheel me into my permanent hospital room. They took me past my dad, who looked just as groggy as I did. We exchanged “I love yous” before I passed out again.
After the Kidney – The Hospital Stay
The first evening of my hospital stay post-transplant is a bit fuzzy. My mother and aunts were in and out of the room, but I didn’t seem to have the ability to keep my eyes open to talk to them. I went in and out of consciousness. There was some strange piece of equipment massaging my legs, but I couldn’t look down to see whether it was from The Sharper Image catalogue or not . (These were actually leg massagers used to stimulate leg muscles of patients who can’t get out of bed). I couldn’t identify what time it was and when I tried to look out of the window, it appeared to me that someone had drawn a gigantic black curtain over it so that I couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. (I’ve been informed since that this was probably the result of my hallucinating while on the morphine pump.) A very nice woman that I didn’t know kept asking me if I was okay. Around the third or fourth time we talked, I realized that this was my roommate speaking and managed to introduce myself before I passed out again. Nurses came in repeatedly during the night to draw blood and take my blood pressure. And every single time they entered, they’d turn on the lights, insuring that neither my roommate or myself could sleep properly. Also not helping were the IV drips we were hooked up to that are programmed to incessantly beep every time something stops dripping. These interruptions were followed by many, many doctors trailing into the room to check on my status. And finally, my surgeon paid a visit to wake me up one last time. After a full day of sleep, no food or water, he decided I was ready to rejoin the world. I was given a glass of cranberry juice and orders to start trying to sit up as soon as I felt that I was able.
Soon after the surgeon left, I decided that 24 straight hours of sleeping was probably as much as I was going to do. I attempted the task of getting into a sitting position. Someone really should’ve warned me. The simple motion of pulling myself up made me feel as though someone was trying a tear a hole through my stomach. It took three more painful tries (each of which resulted in my flopping around like a turtle on my back) before I managed to sit up. But strangely, once the pain had passed, I felt fine. Much clearer mentally than I had expected considering the number of pumps I’d given the morphine drip the night before. When my aunt entered my room to say hello to me, she was astonished at how alert I was.
It wasn’t long before the nurses suggested that I try walking around the room a bit. She offered to help me stand, but then pointed out that I needed to figure out how to do it on my own. A few more turtle falls and I was on my feet. This was when I learned how to walk while dealing with incisions and attached to an IV drip. The drip, which was on rollers, actually provided a perfect compliment to my old lady shuffle. It wasn’t long before I was rolling out of bed to shuffle to the bathroom and back with little problem at all. Still pain, but no problem.
The medical team came rolling in while I was testing out my walking abilities. They looked stunned to see me already out of bed and rosy-cheeked. They presented me with a silver key chain that bears the word “HERO” on it as a thank you for my donation. I don’t know if the word actually applies to me, but it was a nice gesture on their part and the first time I really felt that anyone on the hospital staff bothered to acknowledge that the recipient is not the only patient involved in this particular operation.
By the end of the day two, I was feeling almost like my old self. I was taking short strolls around the halls of the hospital, hadn’t felt the need to nap at all and was refraining from using the morphine button. If they would’ve let me check out of the hospital then and there, I might have. But there was another night of blood pressure checking, blood taking, beeping machines and doctor visits to go. I didn’t sleep any better the second night and because I was trying to stay off the morphine, I also came to the realization that hospital beds are very uncomfortable, especially when you’re forced to sleep in one position for the entire evening.
On morning three, my surgeon was the last one to visit me again. He asked a few questions, checked my incision and deemed me ready to leave the hospital as soon as I’d been weened off the pain killers to which I was attached. Even better, after they’d removed my IV drip, I was able to visit my father for the first time.
I made it down the hall with the help of my aunt. My dad was kept in a less private, but more strictly monitored room specifically for transplant patients. His doctors had been keeping me updated on his progress. My kidney was indeed a good one and started working for him immediately. His creatinine levels (the level used to judge your kidney functions) were the lowest they’d been since he was a child. My kidney was definitely being used for good. However, because the surgery was much rougher on him than it was on me, he had been off of food for several days and was only just reaching the sitting up phase of recovery. I stayed just long enough to injure both of us by making us laugh. (Another side note- Post-surgery, the things that will make you hurt the most are laughing, sneezing and coughing, in no particular order). He was too tired to do much after that other than tell me I was a wonderful daughter, so I left him to relax and wobbled back to my room.
The nurses gave me one more IV drip (being awake and having one of those administered is no fun at all) and let me sign my discharge papers. And finally, I was left in the care of a good friend who managed to get me out of the hospital, into a cab and on my way home.
After the Kidney – The Recovery Period
My biggest worry upon arriving home post-transplant was figuring out how to get up the four flights of stairs that lead to my apartment. As I had only remastered walking and still couldn’t get much above a shuffle, we had a major task ahead of us. Luckily, I have a lot of good friends, several of whom are of the large, male variety. It took three of them to sit me in a chair and carry me (like a very scared Cleopatra) up the four flights. They managed to do so painlessly and with a surprising amount of ease.
Because I hadn’t had a moment to myself in nearly four days, I immediately became ungrateful and tried to kick them out of my apartment. Luckily, they refused to go. Like good friends, they insisted on buying me supplies, checking my temperature and staying parked in my living room until I finished a much needed shower, just in case I needed a hand.
In the shower, I made my first unpleasant discovery. I’d been scared to look at the incision wounds during my stay at the hospital. In the shower, where there isn’t much choice in the matter, I discovered two fascinating things. One, there was a heart monitor sticker still attached to my chest. And two, my stomach looked as if I’d gained about twenty pounds in the last three days. Neither of these things pleased me in the slightest. I removed the sticker with a good amount of rubbing alcohol, but didn’t know what to do about the stomach. It wasn’t until the next day that we confirmed with the hospital that swelling post-surgery was normal, probably water-weight from the IV drips at the hospital. It took a few days of self-concious stomach hiding for me to feel that I’d returned to my normal size, but eventually I did.
I quickly discovered over the next few days that my recovery wasn’t going to be nearly as difficult as the doctors had described to me. Although my friends were insistent on not leaving me alone, I was able to do just about everything from my daily routine by the second evening of my recovery. I was still walking like a Golden Girl, but with every hour, the incision hurt less. The only real pain I ran into came from what I like to refer to as Phantom Kidney pains. Every once in a while, the muscles in my back around where the kidney was removed begin to ache. Although I was never aware of the location of my kidneys before, I can use that pain as a kind of kidney marker to identify exactly where it used to be. My other recovery symptoms included light-headedness (attributed to the fact that my blood pressure is strangely low for someone post-surgery or in general), an occasional ache in my side and some other personal issues that one should not discuss online. But none of these issues were pressing and by day four, I’d stopped taking the pain medication prescribed to me and was able to sleep on my side and even stomach again.
The rest of my recovery has been fast and relatively easy. I was walking up and down my apartment stairs by day 4. I was able to take short walks outside by day 6. I even managed a very quick jog through my apartment by day 8. The 2-3 week recovery period was actually more like 1-2 with an extra week to get myself prepared to join the real world again. Most of the time, I even forget that I’m missing a body part. The doctors had also warned of a possible depression post-surgery, something similar to post-partum. I seem to have avoided that with the help of friends and family who have made sure I am rarely left to my own devises.
I also forced myself to finally look at the scars from the surgery. The idea that hung heaviest in my head during this process was what my body would look like after it was all over. I’m single. I’m a girl. There are self-esteem issues at work and having five holes and a massive scar are not something that any woman my age wants to deal with. To my relief, however, the surgeons were exaggerating their description of the scarring as well as the length of my recovery. Rather than the holes I’d expected from the laproscopic surgery, all I found were five rather small lines where the holes had been expertly sewn up. Even the C-section scar is much, much smaller then anticipated. In a few years, I doubt I’ll even be able to accurately identify where the cuts were made.
My father’s recovery has not been as quick. For the recipient, there are many new drugs to be taken with new side effects that were not discussed in detail pre-surgery. Another heart surgery directly following the transplant didn’t exactly help matters, either. But the good news is that my dad’s new kidney is helping his system to ward off other problems that may have arisen in the near future. And hopefully with the new kidney, the better-working heart and a little time, my dad will be as good as new very soon.
It’s cliched to say, but donating a kidney to my father has been a life-changing experience for me. It was frightening, it was painful, it was all-encompassing, but in the end, it was an experience that helped me to save my father’s life. A lot of people my age (including me up until this February) struggle with the fact that they may not have done anything important in this world. But now I can say that I have and say it honestly.
I also know that I wouldn’t have gotten through this experience without the tremendous amount of support I received from my friends and parts of my family. Having people to carry you through this time is imperative and something as big as major surgery really shows you who the people are in your life who are willing to step up when things get hard. My mother (who has maybe had the hardest job of all in trying to take care of my father and I with no one able to do the same for her), my aunts who stayed at the hospital through the entire ordeal and the many, many friends who trekked to the wilds of Queens to cook for me, sit with me, play board games and make gingerbread houses with me. I am eternally grateful to all of them.
This blog is not only a record for me of this important experience. I hope that someone facing the same decision I was presented with months ago comes across it. And I hope that it helps make the process a little less frightening for them. But sorry, no pictures. I’m keeping my scars (as small as they are) to myself.
