I thought it would be more difficult, or maybe more complicated, but it was neither. A transplant surgeon called from the University of Minnesota this morning to tell me they had a cadaver kidney for me (I’ve been on the transplant list for four-and-a-half years). “I’ll pass,” I said in a quiet but steady voice. “Call the next person on the list.” The physician wanted a reason. “I’m still working out some ethical issues with the whole transplant business.” There. It was out before I had a chance to even think about censoring myself.
That was pretty much a lie. I mostly worked out transplant ethics for myself within six months of my diagnosis. But it’s easier than telling the whole story. Or maybe more convenient. The short version of the whole story is that I feel very strongly that corporations should not profit from the misfortune of the chronically ill. It would be hypocritical for me to hold that position and then turn around and benefit from someone else’s misfortune. In order for me to receive a cadaveric kidney transplant, there has to be a cadaver. Get it?
I’ll be 50 next month, God willing, and I have a vague gnawing in my gut—nothing clear enough or strong enough to call a belief—that everything happens for a reason, my kidney failure included. We’re supposed to learn from things that happen to us; that much I know for dead certain. Where I am is partly a result of some things I haven’t learned yet. And here’s the really difficult part: I may never learn them.
