It was completely out of character. But as I heard the 83-year-old man talking on the radio about donating one of his kidneys to a stranger, the thought jumped out: ‘I could do that!’ It was a revelation that, at 65, my donateable organs might not be past their use-by date; it was an extraordinary opportunity to transform someone’s life; it was something significant that maybe I could do…
‘I could’ turned into ‘I should’ as I began to find out more. There are around 5000 people on the NHS waiting list for a kidney transplant, living and partly living, and around 250 a year die waiting. Most transplants will come from deceased donors and almost all the rest from family and close friends. Many more will want to donate but can’t, either because of their own health or because their tissue-type isn’t compatible. And some families simply can’t afford, practically, financially or emotionally, to have two adults on the sick list at once.
I, on the other hand, seemed pretty well placed for a spot of surgery and convalescence. My time was my own, with no dependants nor worries about sick pay, thanks to the pension. Most importantly my lovely husband was up for looking after me while I had the licence to loll around.
Nobody needs more than one healthy kidney – in fact some have never had two. (Spandau Ballet’s Gary Kemp, for instance, was born with just one and his brother Martin with three.) I hadn’t needed my spare so far, so why not give it to someone who did? It didn’t seem much of a risk – kidney donors typically live longer than average, perhaps because the screening process is so rigorous that only the healthiest make it through.
It is a mega medical MOT and can take many months. I totted up 15 separate consultations and tests, from ECGs and CT scans to psychiatric assessment, and was told I had exceptional kidney function and lovely veins (at my age I take compliments where I can find them).
The computer-dating process that matches donor to recipient found me to be a near-perfect tissue-type match with a high-priority patient on the waiting list and just over a year after my first appointment I was being wheeled into the operating theatre to give my kidney to a stranger.
I’m really not one of life’s stoics – at a twinge I reach for the paracetemol – but being a donor wasn’t that big a deal for me physically. A few days in hospital where what pain there was (or rather ‘discomfort’ in NHS Newspeak) was bearable; a couple of weeks of utter exhaustion (a glimpse maybe of what kidney patients feel full time); and then back to driving and walking the dog. As my operation was hand-assisted keyhole surgery I’m left with a couple of small dents where the instruments went in and a now-faded scar where the kidney came out.
Though physically I feel the same, emotionally I’m changed. The whole experience was an adventure and the most rewarding sort of payback for the luck I’ve had all my life. Luck that still holds, it seems. For though I’d been told not to expect any contact with my recipient – strict anonymity on both sides is the rule – six months later out of the blue came a long letter, telling me in moving detail just how much difference my donation had made. ‘Thank you for giving me back my life,’ it said at the end. ‘I’m overjoyed.’ Me too.
To find out more about altruistic kidney donation, go to www.giveakidney.org
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