Organ Donation Chronicle - D Minus 4

Part Nine - Crisis Averted

Yesterday was the first step of the actual process leading to the surgery. As I am an out-of-state donor, they take a number of steps that would have been done earlier and place them just before the surgery so one doesn’t have to make that many extra trips. One of these steps was supposed to have been done in February when I visited last. This was visit with kidney specialist and a review of my medical history. As the doctor and my coordinator were on vacation when I was there, we couldn’t do this and it was scheduled for yesterday.

I had a heart related situation fifteen years ago. Subsequently, I have had a couple of clean stress tests though there does show a light irregularity on my EKG. Looking at my chart, the kidney specialist decided that I needed to do another stress test. It’s 10 in the morning and they want me to the cardiologist (in a different town than the hospital) at 11:45. In the meantime, they are trying to get everything I was supposed to do Friday morning done in the hour or so I had left. This included meeting the surgeon that is most likely doing the work on me.

It’s a good thing I have researched this hospital completely and know they have an excellent track record and reputation because the experience I’ve had with the majority of the people (my coordinator, the kidney specialist, my sister’s coordinator, the social worker) has been unimpressive. It’s like they’re this big factory and they’re just processing us. Every time I ask a question, I get a “I don’t know” or a pat answer that clearly is from the book. Requests to have certain people who are the specialist for the question not known, are never followed up. Fortunately the surgeon seems cut from a very different cloth and I felt very comfortable with him and let’s face it, he’s the most important one.

At the cardiologist’s, I’m expedited on to the treadmill and do a stress test. The RN handling this is big expressive very outgoing guy. As we do the test and just afterward, he’s getting quieter and quieter with a troubled look on his face. I know something bad is happening. He tells me about the irregularity which I know from the last time I did this. He shows it to the cardiologist who says that they’re going to have to do some additional testing before they can clear me; either a nuclear stress test where they actually take a picture of your heart and arteries or an angiogram that does that does this in even more depth. These could take days to do. At best I’m looking at the prospect of delaying the surgery or at worst my being disqualified as a donor altogether. Emotionally, I’m taking a broadside from a battleship.

At this point probably the nicest thing that could happen took place. The cardiologist (I’m embarrassed that I can’t remember his name) clearly sees my distress as I relate the issues of distance and my personal circumstances. He puts everything into overdrive. There is an extra dose of the nuclear dye. He OK’s my explanation that I’m in good shape and can easily do another stress test. He’s tells everyone they’re going to do it now. The staff could not have been nicer or more supportive.

The nuclear stress test involves them having you do the treadmill, then shooting you with a nuclear dye, and then lying you down motionless for 20 minutes each on your front and back while they take pictures using some sort of MRI type device. All during the wait, the test, the pictures, I am meditating and visualizing with as much concentration as I can. Finally as I am waiting following the test, the doctor comes out and tells me I’m clean and I can go ahead with the donation. As a final kindness he tells me he will call the kidney specialist to make sure that they have gotten the news and that everything is still on schedule.

It is almost 4 in the afternoon by the time all this has happened. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, it’s pouring cats and dogs out, and I’m totally wiped out. I get to my father’s and he gives me a restorative snack of cheese and armagnac. We decide to cook at the house. I run out and get a big steak and baked potato that Dad cooks along with onions cooked in schmaltz. I go down into his cellar and dug up a bottle of a ’91 Côtes du Rhone. It’s a real soul food kind of meal and with my Father’s company, very restorative. I crash at around 9 PM and sleep through the night.