Twelve years ago today I received a kidney transplant. I was fortunate enough to have my father donate one of his since transplants from relatives generally are better matches. Other than one acute rejection episode a few months after the surgery, I’ve not had any significant issues with my certified pre-owned kidney. I’m able to do pretty much anything I want to except for contact sports and can go about my business just as normally as anyone else. (Well, mostly normally anyway. I still have to be myself after all.)
I was pretty lucky in that I was only on dialysis for around nine months before I had my transplant. But even that short stint was enough to appreciate the freedom that a transplant gives you. Sure, taking a handful of pills everyday is a bit of a drag, but it’s a whole lot better than connecting yourself to a machine every night for eight hours. And as an added bonus, my brother no longer refers to me as a member of the Borg collective.
So tonight I’m going to give my father a call and wish him happy kidney day, just like I’ve done for the past eleven years. I would get him a card, but I’ve not seen one that said “Thanks for the spare kidney!”.