Why?

The questions have started.  Sometimes they’re not out loud, but I definitely get the looks.  And many won’t say it to me, but to others who repeat them.  Let me see if I can get through some of them here:

·         Have you thought all the way through this?

o   Yes, I have.  When signing up for surgery – that will alter my lifestyle – it’s not entered upon lightly.

·         What does your family think?

o   My husband and my kids are very supportive.  I wouldn’t do this without their blessings.  We had family discussions, then individual discussions before I even contacted the Mayo Clinic to be evaluated.

o   My parents initially had a hard time with the idea.  Nobody wants their kids to suffer on their behalf.  My response?  “Say thank you and get on the operating table when the time comes.”

·         Why would you even consider this?  It’s major surgery, you know?

o   Yes, I know.  I “considered” it because he’s my dad and quite frankly, I’m not ready to lose him.  It seems like a small price to pay.

·         But your dad is in his seventies, don’t you think that maybe it’s time to let him go?

o   Yes, he’s in his seventies (72 to be exact), and no.  It’s not time.  He received a life-saving heart transplant in 2007 – the age of his heart is 27.  Besides the kidney failure (caused by medications following the heart transplant), he is active and healthy.  He also has an older sister who is 93 and going strong.  I’d like to sign up for another 20 years with him.

·         Why you?  Didn’t anyone else step up?

o   Yes, they did.  I just went first (they only test one at a time).  My job (being self-employed) gives me the most flexibility.  And I’m a “fixer”.  If I can fix it, sign me up.  No hesitation.  There never was. 

·         This is not to be entered into lightly.

o   More of a statement, than a question.  But yes, I know.  And if both of us weren’t strong enough to get through surgeries – the Mayo Clinic wouldn’t spend another minute on either one of us.  This is not me (or my dad) making these decisions.  These decisions are being made by transplant professionals that follow rigorous guidelines to insure success for all parties – including themselves.

My Dad

This is my dad.  I share him with one brother.  To me, my dad has always been larger than life.  The baby of 11 children (who lost his mother at 17 years old), a jokester and an Army Airborne Ranger.  I thought all of the other kids sang the same nursery rhymes we did – turns out “I Wanna Be an Airborne Ranger” wasn’t sung in all households.  I thought it was.  His nickname is “Slug”.  I believe I was probably 12 or 13 when I realized his real name was Russ.  I had no idea.

My dad and I have always had a great relationship.  My mom recently said that we had always been “thick as thieves”.  Probably.  But my mom was always my best friend (but a tough cookie in the mom-department).  Don’t get me wrong – we fought like two pig-headed people during my teen years.  My shorts were too short.  My shoulders or my belly button were showing.  And my shirts were too see-through – even when I had borrowed it from my mother.  My dad has a laugh that is loud and contagious and a booming voice when he’s angry.  And sometimes not a lot of space in between.

My girlfriends all loved him.  Teen boys feared him.  He has a heavy footstep and stopped the hearts of every boy that rang our doorbell to collect me.  Part of our game was me yelling, “No, dad!  Let me get the door!”  With him stomping (loud enough to be heard on concrete) and returning the banter with, “Don’t you dare.  I will meet this young man!”  If he was still on the doorstep – he passed the test. 

I remember the first time I saw my dad cry.  I believe I was 8 years old.  He took me to the cemetery and introduced me to his mother.  I hadn’t realized that my Grandma Nina wasn’t his mother.  The tears scared me because I had never seen them before.  I also remember the second, third, fourth and fifth times I saw him cry – the day they moved out of state, my wedding day and the days that both of my daughters were born. 

We had running practical jokes and prided ourselves in being able to one-up each other.  His favorite line about paybacks was “you never know when it will happen or how bad it will be.”  As his daughter, I took that as my personal challenge.  I do believe I won the KNIX/KUPD (country/rock radio stations) sticker wars of the 1980s.

I have always been my dad’s personal shopper for my mom’s gifts.  When they moved out-of-state, he gave me a credit card “in case of emergency” – meaning that if he didn’t have a gift, I could take care of It for him.  State lines wouldn’t pose a problem.  (I probably used it for gas a time or two in college.)  I’ve provided him gifts up to and including her birthday last month. 

My dad started having health problems in 2001.  They started with his heart.  We (yes, it was a family affair) survived a valve replacement and a double bypass.  Of course, in true Martin fashion – we clued in on the fact that his valve was bovine (cow).  We were relentless with the cows and spotted things.  On May 5, 2007 – my dad collapsed after his birthday dinner and was airlifted from Safford to Phoenix.  My mom’s phone call went something like this… “Your dad is on a medical helicopter.  He wasn’t stable when he left.  Will you please go to St. Joe’s and tell me if he’s alive when he gets there?”  Uh… sure.  Thankfully when we heard the chopper blades and the elevator door open – he gave us the thumbs up. 

By July 2007, we were told by a frat boy wearing New Balance running shoes and a LiveStrong bracelet to take him home, make him comfortable and that he would be dead by Christmas.  Turns out that frat boy was actually a doctor.  We didn’t listen to him.

My parents contacted the Mayo Clinic to see if he qualified for a heart transplant.  Through a series of intense testing – he qualified.  Even at his advanced age of 64.  (Not that old, I know.  But in TransplantLand – it is.)  We were told that hearts were hard to come by and that he would most likely die on the list.  He made the list at the end of September 2007.

Monday, October 8, 2007 at 5pm we got “the call”.  Of course, we thought “the call” would come in the middle of the night.  This is what we had been groomed for.  Instead, it came during rush hour on a Monday.  The flurry started and we all rushed to deposit kids with trusted friends and get to his side.  As it turns out, his donor was in California and they made several trips back and forth to determine a match.  They took him into surgery around 4am on October 9.

At approximately 4pm, we were summoned to be at his bedside.  Apparently he had started to flutter his eyes and they ran to get us so we would be the first thing he saw when he found his focus.  I remember walking into that room and seeing his heart monitor happily skipping out a new tune.  His face was pink and healthy (we hadn’t realized how gray and ashy he had become).  I grabbed for his hand.  It was warm.  I had forgotten what his warm hands felt like.  He fluttered his eyes open, looked at my mom and said “I’m here.”  I’m not sure if it was a question or a statement.  Or if he was surprised to see US there and not his mother.

Fast forward to 2015.  He’s worn his new heart like a champ.  No rejection. No issues.  I tell people that if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t know.  Until recently.

As it turns out, his anti-rejection medication causes kidney failure.  His kidneys are ailing and appear to be failing quickly.  It feels like it came out of nowhere, but if we look back – they kind of warned us along the way.

So… are you ready for the point?  Here it is.  I’m a blood and tissue match.  And I will donate my dad one of my kidneys. 

Thick as thieves.  Me and my dad.