Over my seventy-nine years, I have survived eleven surgeries. Two of these were kidney transplants; and without these miracles, I would have died over two decades ago. To say I’m grateful is woefully inadequate, but my existence since receiving those donor organs has involved numerous challenges. The aftermath of an organ transplant is unique to each individual and situation. What I’m about to recount is my personal journey which, while complex, multifaceted, and circuitous, is a tale of triumph.
Some relevant history: Although both my brothers and one nephew are similarly afflicted, no exact diagnosis has ever been made of our familial disorder. My fifteen-year-younger brother, Jerry, found out he was nearing renal failure after taking a routine new-job physical. He was twenty-nine. His first transplant occurred a few years later, and the organ functioned perfectly. But after seventeen years, a large cell carcinoma developed on that kidney, which had to be removed. He has endured two years of dialysis twice, each while awaiting a transplant. This vital blood cleansing process, which I’ve barely avoided, requires four-hour visits three times a week, and while it sustains life, he was miserably ill throughout the course of these treatments. His second transplant has been successful for fourteen years. Dr. Jerry, now 63, is a college dean.
My four-year-younger brother, Jim is an Internal Medicine physician. He has not required dialysis or a transplant, but at 74, his low kidney function is debilitating. His son, Ben has faced myriad severe health challenges, among them reduced renal function. Neither of our two sisters has any kidney issues.
My renal history began in 1963, when a routine college physical revealed protein in my urine (proteinuria). A rather unpleasant IVP test followed, the first of three I’ve endured. (When contrast dye is injected, I become acutely ill in so many ways and places it defies description.)
Although no definitive diagnosis was achieved (My problem was labeled End Stage Renal Disease, which means your kidneys are failing, but we don’t know why), I was advised not to exercise, be exposed to cold, etc. I felt fine; so, as a teenager, I soon ignored this advice, and life went on. Other than struggling to get life insurance, this supposed health issue had no bearing on my life for several decades.
I worked my way through eight years of higher education at the University of Iowa and graduated with a dental degree. After two years of active duty in the United States Army, I began a solo practice in Keokuk, Iowa, which quickly became enormously successful. But by age 45, my Internist had grown increasingly concerned about potential renal issues, and I was referred to University Hospital in Iowa City for follow-ups by specialists (Nephrologists). My first kidney transplant took place there in 2000. In my naivety, I thought my troubles were over, but new and worse issues were beginning.
This was my first surgery, and I was unprepared for the severity of my suffering, but as my doctors had projected, I went home after five days (clasping a bottle of Percocet like a drowning man would a straw!). However, after my surgical injury healed, I felt worse, and my hands trembled constantly. At one point, I became so feeble that I had to lie on my stomach to weed my garden. While push-mowing my yard, I was forced to rest every few minutes, and I found bending over the handle more restorative than standing. However, a well-meaning neighbor called my oldest daughter to alert her, as she was concerned by my unusual behavior.
Despite this debility, my practice continued to flourish. I employed a full-time associate, so I was able to reduce my work hours, but I still felt wretched. None of the numerous blood tests and medication adjustments helped. Throwing up on my way to work became routine. Five years post-surgery, I’d been on a second transplant list for over a year when my body rejected the first kidney. I was put on massive doses of steroids (I’ve taken prednisone every day for 25 years as part of my twelve daily medications). At one point during this crisis, I was unable to stand and crawled on hands and knees to the bathroom.
On a Friday, I gave up and scheduled the start of in-home hemodialysis training. Two days later, I’d just gotten back from church when my transplant coordinator called. I asked, “What are you doing at work on Sunday?” and she replied, “We have a kidney for you.” My wife and I quickly drove to Madison, WI, and my second transplant occurred the next morning. But I remained acutely ill after that procedure. I felt well enough to go home twice, but was forced back to the hospital the following day. The second time, I was so sick that I was ambulanced to Iowa City, which is three hours closer to my home than Madison.
I was taken into the University Hospital’s Emergency Bay, which means I had been admitted. But the nephrology resident on call followed orders and refused to allow me into the renal unit. The ER doctors didn’t know how to proceed, but strongly advised against returning home or taking a three-hour ride to Madison. My wife was frantic. Finally, around two AM, in utter frustration and despair, she said to the resident, “His son is a lawyer. Do I need to call him?” Abracadabra, those magic words won me a bed in the nephrology unit.
(I was born and raised in Lansing, Iowa, attended the University of Iowa for eight years, worked in Keokuk, Iowa, for forty years, and proudly consider myself a Hawkeye. I was so sick in the ER that I was barely conscious, so I don’t know why the Iowa specialists refused to have anything to do with me. Maybe they didn’t want to take over Madison’s problems. I never discovered who issued the edict or why.)
I’d lost touch with reality, and details, like whether it was light or dark outside, eluded me. I was eventually transferred to a special emergency unit. I remember watching with detachment as one doctor put IVs in both my ankles, while another performed an arterial cutdown in my wrist. And then mercifully, I went away. I awoke two days later. My wife told me whenever I’d started to revive, I’d gotten “combative” and they’d put me back to sleep. My four kids and their families were there, and I saw them clearly, but each had a single body with two heads. I was now alert enough to be concerned about this, but the illusion soon passed.
Ambulanced back to Madison that day, I felt better, but was extremely weak, mostly sleeping. I was finally transfused with two units of blood, and on day 19 post-surgery, I returned home permanently.
Twenty years later, my kidney function remains normal. I’m an old man, and my right shoulder doesn’t work well (the third rotator cuff tear suffered while playing tennis proved to be unlucky). Both knees have been replaced, I’ve had coronary bypass surgery, and a year ago, a spinal fusion procedure ended my constant back pain and foot numbness.
Despite these setbacks, I’ve always been active, claiming a fountain of youth does exist, but it’s hidden in a gym. I enjoy working out for 90 minutes every other day, and tend a large garden that produces more fruits and vegetables than I can consume. While I’m no longer able to walk for hours to hunt pheasant, quail, or rabbit, I’ve harvested three deer so far this season with my crossbow, and venison is my primary meat.
I love to write, and do so every day. First published in 1990, six books and 245 articles have followed. Writing, reading, yard and garden work, hunting and fishing, plus regular exercise fill my days and give them purpose. For a senior living alone, routinely crafting enjoyable and productive days is foundational to happiness.
My three daughters, my son’s widow, Holly (John succumbed to ALS on January 31, 2017), and my nine grandchildren live within forty miles, and all treat me better than I deserve. I feel lucky to be alive, and despite the challenges I’ve endured, I’m incredibly grateful to the fine professionals who transplanted my kidneys and continue to watch over me.
In 2022, over 25,000 kidney transplants were performed in the United States (95,479 worldwide). In the US, 97% were successful for 1 year and 90% for 5 years. 55,250 Americans die annually from kidney disease, and some 4,300 of those pass while on a transplant list. There are currently 106,566 Americans awaiting a kidney. The Good Lord gave each of us two kidneys, but one is more than adequate (as my 25 years post-transplant reveal). Anyone motivated to help or seeking information concerning this life-or-death issue can contact the National Kidney Register website.
Over a 30-year nonfiction writing career, Dr. John A. Wilde has published six books and 240 articles. Most of the latter appeared in international magazines with approximately 145,000 subscribers. All are related to Dr. Wilde’s professional career. New to fiction, in 2025, Dr. Wilde has published five stories in literary magazines.
