'I did this also for me'

I remember reading the phrase "end stage" and wondering what it meant when paired with "renal failure." Did that mean the kidneys were about to fail? Or had they failed and the body as a whole was failing? Did it mean Yolette was about to go on dialysis, or did it mean she was dying?

I remembered Yolette as a presence on campus. She was funny, smart, articulate, and committed. She was fun to be around, had an infectious laugh, and was one of the first people I met from Texas -- Corpus Christi, to be exact. It seemed like such an exotic place to someone who hadn't been anywhere.

The notice in the alumni magazine sought a kidney donor with type O blood. The notice gave a number to call. It seemed like such an easy thing to do. I've always given blood. I was on the Bone Marrow Registry. All I had to do was call and they'd consider me. It was a small step. I called and was put on a list as a possible donor. The clinic was evaluating other candidates and would call only if they didn't work out.

Five months later, around Thanksgiving, the clinic called back. I was asked if I would take the next step -- having my blood tested. Again, this was a small step. I was not committed to anything. I agreed, and the clinic sent a kit, which I brought to my doctor. I had my blood drawn and shipped it to Dallas.

I began to think more about what was happening with Yolette. I ran into a friend I hadn't seen in months and learned she had had a kidney transplant around the time I first called the clinic. The husband of someone her husband worked with was the donor. She had been in renal failure but hadn't had to go on dialysis. I contacted her donor and found out how the process had affected him, what it meant to donate a kidney to someone.

I thought about Yolette's family, especially her mother. I didn't know if Yolette was married, if she had children, how many brothers or sisters she had. But I thought about what it meant to lose a sibling, a parent, a child. I had recently lost both parents and a brother. I could put myself in those roles. But losing a child was something I couldn't imagine. My youngest had been very sick as a baby, and the decisions my husband and I had to make were not easy. But we had her with us. I thought about how I would feel if someone had the power to cure my child and had refused to do it.

Getting in touch
A couple of months later I got another call from the transplant center. My blood had passed the tests. It was time for the next step. Was I willing to go to Dallas for a few days and undergo a series of medical tests to determine if I was healthy enough to donate a kidney? This was a bigger step, but still not a hard one to take.

I was nervous about going to Dallas. I was worried about what the doctors would find when they did their tests. I knew that a number of prospective donors had been rejected during this phase. Was I already sick with something I didn't know about? Would I find out something about the procedure that would make me want to bow out? If so, how could I face Yolette and tell her? I found this the most anxiety-producing part of the process.

Theresa, the pre-transplant coordinator, asked if I had talked with Yolette. I hadn't called her. I was embarrassed; I didn't know what to say. How do you call someone after 25 years and tell her you might be her kidney donor?

Having already figured out who her potential donor was, Yolette put me at ease when I finally called her. We had a lovely "What have you been doing for the last 25 years?" kind of chat and then made arrangements to meet for dinner while I was in Dallas.

My time in Dallas was pretty uneventful. The medical tests weren't bad, and I had plenty of time to rest and think. During our dinner Yolette had asked me why I was doing this. I didn't have an answer for her. "Because it's the right thing to do" seemed too glib. "Because I want to help" seemed patronizing. "Because if you were my sister or daughter I'd want someone to do this for you" was how I really felt, but I didn't know how to say that to her.

Within a few weeks I was accepted as a donor, and surgery was set for late June. I would have 2 1/2 months to prepare my family and myself for the surgery.

Gaining support
My husband, Scott, had a difficult time accepting my willingness to take a risk for someone I didn't know very well. Eventually he came to support my decision. After some initial questioning, my older children also gave me their support. I had dreaded telling my brother and sisters about my decision. They had already lost one sibling. I wasn't sure how they would react. I was fumbling for words when my brother put them in my mouth. "It's the right thing to do," he said.

The waiting was hard for me. I thought often of the time 11 years before when I was waiting for my daughter's surgery. I remembered how the days dragged by while we waited for the day that would change her life. I thought about Yolette, her family and friends, waiting for the day that held such promise. Yet they also had to be holding their breath that I wouldn't change my mind, that something wouldn't happen to me that would cause the surgery to be canceled.

Then suddenly the wait was over. I went to Dallas and met Yolette's family and friends. I had the final medical exams to make sure I was still healthy enough to donate. The question was always there -- sometimes asked, sometimes not: Why?

Is it disingenuous to say I don't know why? Was it for Yolette? Of course it was. Partly. Yolette is a wonderful, vibrant woman whose life was being cut short by kidney disease.

But I did this also for me. I was offered the opportunity to do something to make a difference in someone's life. I was offered the chance to show my children that risk isn't all that needs to be assessed when making decisions.