The Day My Kidney Transplant Failed

A view from the trenches of end-stage renal disease

You’d think being unable to walk for a couple of minutes without needing to lie down would ring a few alarm bells. You’d think blood pressure readings so high they no longer registered as human might provoke some introspection. But no, all this seriousness was a little too much for my petrified brain, which chose to pull the curtains of life closed and burrow a little deeper under the covers instead.

I ran on the fumes of my denial as long as my body allowed me to, seeking refuge within myself while a hundred tell-tale symptoms coalesced into a single horrifying reality.

At 4 pm on a stifling Wednesday afternoon, the pain finally overwhelmed my fear.

So here I am, gasping for air in the back of a taxi barreling towards the local E.R. I’m waving directions to my ashen-faced driver because my breathing is so labored I can’t talk without gurgling. If I were any less scared I’d feel guilty for dragging this man into my nightmare, but there‘s no room left for empathy.

The cab slides to a halt and the door opens. It’s only a hundred feet to the entrance. It might as well be a mile.

Emergency Triage: Code Red

I’m on my third consecutive blood transfusion in as many hours. A young-looking doctor is frowning at me and fanning his glistening face with a copy of my blood tests.

“But why didn’t you come sooner?”

Why indeed.

The truth is I’d never considered my transplant a cure but as a time extension. From the get-go, my doctors had impressed upon me that the transplanted organ wouldn’t last forever, and that’d I’d be fortunate to squeeze a decade or two of normality from the deal.

So, instead of appreciating this new lease on life, I hunkered down like a wounded animal and lived on borrowed time, haunted by the knowledge that the devil would soon come knocking and send me screaming back into the barbaric hell that is life on hemodialysis.

I look up into the doctor’s eyes and smile.

“Yea, well, I don’t know.”

Nonplussed by the obvious lie, the doctor reaches for my wrist and draws back the cuff, exposing the scarred, pale flesh beneath.

He traces his index finger along the swollen contour of my arteriovenous fistula, a surgically enlarged artery used to remove and return blood during hemodialysis. I feel the artery buzz and thump under his gentle touch.

He nods, satisfied.

“Good. We’ll be needing that.”

Reentry Into the Hemodialysis Universe

I’m being carted around the hospital’s brightly lit halls on a luxurious gurney. Compared to the last three days and nights spent strapped to a plank of wood in the emergency triage ward, this is a carnival cruise.

I try and sit up when we aren’t moving because my breathing deteriorates when I’m on my back, but unforgiving hands clasp my oxygen mask and push me back down. This game of whack-a-mole continues all the way to our destination.

A hundred right angles later, my chauffeur parks the gurney in a corner of a large gloomy room and walks away. I sit up slowly, tracing his silhouette and footsteps as they fade into the darkness. Keep in touch, asshole.

It’s absolutely freezing in here. I pull my covers around my shoulders like a superhero and rip the oxygen mask off my face.

I’m suddenly overcome by the unmistakable cacophony of whirring and ticking emanating from a dozen dialysis machines set against the far wall. On either side of these machines lie immaculately made beds, covers peeled back invitingly like flytraps.

A tide of memories I’ve worked hard to suppress comes flooding back, threatening to wash away what’s left of my dignity. I draw the covers a little tighter around my trembling frame. At least I‘d be able to blame the shivering on the cold.

A Light in The Darkness

My nurse’s name is Silvia, and her courageous smile and is a beacon of warmth and light in this frigid oubliette.

I tense as the first 1½ inch needle tears through my calloused skin and lodges cleanly inside my fistula. Gently, Silvia wraps the needle, securing it against my skin, and turns to face the machine.

The blood pressure cuff on my free arm starts to tighten. I do my best to relax, but my heart is pounding alarmingly in my chest, almost too quickly to tell the beats apart. The cuff tightens again, and again, and again, wrapping so tightly that the blood is pooling painfully in my hand. Then the pressure releases and the machine’s alarm bursts into life.

Silvia squints at the machine’s display.

“195 over 120.”

A masked doctor in surgical green robes emerges from the gloom. The figure places two fingers on my wrist and mutters softly.

Then it turns to me and speaks. But a sudden swell of electrostatic noise surges in my ears, drowning out their voice. I raise a trembling fist to give the doctor a thumbs up and notice it’s glistening with sweat.

The doctor barks an order to Silvia who hurries from sight.

Panic sets in. I’m losing control of my body and the situation, as I knew I would. My nightmare is becoming flesh. I close my eyes, seeking refuge within the familiar confines of my imagination, but the chaos breaks through, there’s no escaping it.

I open my eyes to find Silvia’s smiling face inches from my own. She pulls my head back with one hand and tips the head of a small bottle into my mouth with the other. I feel three drops of something viscous and bitter land on the back of my tongue and swallow.

Almost immediately a comforting warmth washes through my body, starting from my ankles and working its way up to my neck. My fluttering heart rhythm steadies into a familiar drumbeat and the wall of noise begins to pair down and subside. I blink as reality slides back into focus.

In the confusion I hadn’t noticed the doctor’s adamantine grip on my left arm, pinning it in place and preventing the needle from coming loose.

I lay back as Silvia wipes the sweat and stress from my brow and steel myself for the second needle.

An Old Hope and a New Beginning

I’m sitting alone in a wheelchair outside the dialysis ward and despite some dizziness and cramping, I feel better than I have in months. Any minute now someone will come and wheel me back to my hospital room where I’ll spend the next few weeks undoing years' worth of damage.

Then, once they’ve patched me up as best they can, I’ll be sent packing with a solemn reminder to attend my triweekly dialysis sessions at whatever outpatient clinic I’m assigned to. Failure to do this, of course, will likely mean my death. Needless to say, I don’t plan on skimping out.

In the meantime, I’m going to start organizing my long and arduous journey towards another kidney transplant. The whole process will take years, probably closer to a decade, but you have to start somewhere, don’t you?