While I’m on the transplant list, I’ll pass when I’m called. This position never fails to confound and anger friends and family, mostly because they know what a pain in the ass dialysis is. But that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
The reasons are diverse, but deeply intertwingled. There’s the issue of a transplant being a treatment, not a cure. There’s the cost of anti-rejection drugs—monetary costs alone would be well into unaffordable territory at four figures each month for the rest of my life; and that doesn’t factor the emotional and physical costs. Having failed to wrestle the ethical issues into submission for myself in almost four years, there’s little reason to believe that’s going to happen now. No matter where I am on the list, it’s a kidney that could be used by someone else.
The hope for me has always been regeneration. After all, salamanders can readily grow whole new legs when one is lost or damaged. It’s only logical that an organism higher up the food chain should be able to regrow their own parts. It’s basically a hacking problem.








