'I have a piece of Liz in me'

Liz Hopkinson saved my life.

I'm 49 years old, and my kidneys gave out three years ago. I lost the ability to urinate and feel well. In fact, anyone who has end-stage renal disease - kidney failure - can die.

I have battled chronic kidney disease all of my life. I was born with a hypoplastic kidney, meaning it was unusually small. This kidney caused a lot of infections and high blood pressure, ultimately leading to the complete failure of both kidneys. The kidneys' most obvious role is producing urine, which removes toxins from the body. But just as important is what the kidneys regulate. These organs make sure the body maintains a balance of calcium, potassium, phosphorus, magnesium, protein, and all other minerals we need to live. Without functioning kidneys, the body is in trouble.

I went on hemodialysis in July 2002. I reported to a clinic every other day and spent four hours on a machine that took out a pint of blood, cleansed it, and placed it back in my body. I was hooked up with needles and lines, and I watched my blood make a convoluted trip through a whirring machine. Often my blood pressure would drop precipitously and I felt as if I were dying. I broke out in a clammy sweat and got massive cramps in my legs. I was so nauseated that my stomach felt turned inside out, and I would nearly black out. To add to my problems, the graft in my arm, which united a vein with an artery so dialysis could be administered, kept getting clotted. I had to have various operations on my arm to unclog the graft.

After enduring this treatment a couple of years, I decided I needed to switch to a gentler cleansing called peritoneal dialysis. I was implanted with a catheter in the lining of my stomach, known as the peritoneum. I would take the front end of the catheter and hook it up to bags of dialysis solution. With a computer called a ``cycler'' I regulated the ebb and flow of the treatment. I would fill up with solution, allow it to dwell in my body, and drain the refuse. Toxins would be removed through a sugar-based solution, and the peritoneum was the filter.

I felt better than when I was on hemodialysis, but I still felt sick. I was on the cycler every night for 10 hours while I slept. I sometimes felt pain, but usually I was OK. Getting up in the morning was a chore. My bones were sore, and I frequently felt nauseated. Sometimes I threw up.

What got me through is that I had to report to work. I'm the news director for the public radio station in Dallas/Fort Worth, and I would be damned if I couldn't do what I was used to doing. All I knew is that I had to push to maintain my life, and I was willing to do it.

Emotional struggle

I loved my life, as limited as it felt. Thanks to talented doctors I could carry on. As important as my nephrologists were to my health, I benefited the most from my psychoanalyst, Dr. Maya Peris, who helped me understand that illness was a part of me. I knew I had to engage with being sick. The emotional aspects of being ill could be just as tough as the physical ones, but I was determined to live as fully as I could. And I did.

Still, I hoped for the best treatment, which was transplantation. I was placed on the recipient list for organs. To put it bluntly, when you are on the list, you are waiting for someone to die so organs can be harvested. Every month I saw the statistics. Nearly 4,000 people were awaiting kidneys in Texas.

These days, more kidney donations are coming from living donors; only one kidney is needed to serve the body. Fortunately for me, my friends and family were by my side. Three people stepped forward to be tested as living donors. One by one they were eliminated because of health problems, and that was hard. I think it was harder on the volunteers than it was on me, because they wanted to help me so badly.

Then one of my close friends from Wellesley College, Judy Savage, decided she'd inform alumni that I needed help. She wrote a small notice and placed it in the alumni magazine.

Paths cross again

Liz moved into my dorm, Beebe Hall, when she was a junior and I was a senior. She stood out because she had a full-bodied and joyful laugh. She also had brilliant red hair, which I admired. Liz and I had friends in common, but we didn't socialize beyond a hallway conversation or a shared meal in the dining room.

Never would I imagine that she would be my lifeline. Never would I suspect that our paths would cross again in such a meaningful way.

One day my transplant coordinator called to tell me I needed blood work. I asked her why. She said I had a potential donor, a woman named Elizabeth Hopkinson. I had no idea who this was; I knew Liz by her maiden name, Barbieri. I asked where Elizabeth lived, and learned it was Concord, Mass. I knew there had to be a Wellesley connection, but who?

I called Judy. She didn't know. She had received a call from someone who wished to remain anonymous. My journalistic instincts wouldn't let me rest until I could figure this out. We went down the list of all my classmates, and it didn't check out. Before hanging up with Judy, I said, ``Let's review all of the Elizabeths we know.'' Then it hit me. I told her there was an Elizabeth in our dorm: Liz Barbieri.

'A new life'

Liz revealed herself to me once she decided to move forward. I asked her if she was sure she wanted to do this; she said yes. I told her how hard it was to get approved as a donor. She remained undeterred.

She came to Dallas and got tested. We met for dinner, and she was confident. I was unsure, not wanting to get my hopes up. Later, when she got the green light, I couldn't believe it. We talked some more, and she said she'd do it.

It was no small act of courage on her part. It required her to sacrifice more than an organ. She volunteered for a nephrectomy - the surgical removal of her left kidney. She traveled to Dallas, where I live and receive treatment, to do it.

Our surgery was scheduled for June 24. Liz came down with her husband, Scott, and her friend Nancy Twomey, a nurse. We met, and our families met. It felt right.

She and I had to be at Baylor Hospital in Dallas at 5:30 the morning of the surgery. I remember walking in and seeing her with a thermometer in her mouth and a blood pressure cuff on her arm. She was laughing.

An hour later, she was ready to go, and we had a tearful goodbye. The waiting room was full of friends and family, and it was tense. Liz was in surgery before I was called. When I kissed my mother and brother goodbye, I felt the deepest sense of peace. I knew so many people were rooting for us - how could we go wrong?

As the operating-room nurse placed me on a gurney and rushed me down the hall, I could feel so much love from everyone, especially Liz. The whooshing movement of my gurney and all of the emotion made me think of how a baby is born. At that moment, I felt as though I were moving down the birth canal. I would get a new life.

Now I have a piece of Liz in me. It's not just her kidney. It's her spirit and well-being. I couldn't be more honored.