I have just moved to Paris from London. I had a kidney transplant 2 years 1 week ago from my dad.
I was oblivious to my problem until three months before my operation when a wicked head ache indicated high blood pressure, which in turn indicated that I had practically no kidneys left. They'd been attacked by my immune system. Yet another of the hundreds of thousands whose immune system's turned rogue and decided to attack the thing it's defending. Bit like an adolescent child taking it out on its mother. A child picking a scab. An Indian mother discarding the colustrum and feeding its newborn some biscuits. Anyone taking drugs. Someone with cancer stubbornly smoking. I'm amazing myself at how many examples there are indeed.
Guess I shouldn't be so hard on my immune system after all.
Anyways, 3 months after discovering the headache, I was flat out on a table waiting for my brave soldier of a dad's kidney. He'd been wheeled out and I was wheeled in. The rest of the family lay in wait upstairs for us to come through on our conveyor belt safe and sound to them. We did. Dad was up and about 5 days later. My recovery took 10 days as my wound is larger and I have a cocktail of drugs the docs need to get right.
In brief those 2 years have been good. I will never complain about the chance and luck I've had in being able to get through this without dialysis, and with still being able to get up and go to work each day, bring in an income, get promoted in my job, move countries, go out and party, travel the world and love my friends and family.
But I've also rejected my kidney for several months (perhaps still ongoing), I've had Ecoli and ungratefully infected my brand spanking new kidney, got myself some septicemia and probably had about 6 or 7 biopsies of my new kidney since it landed in its new home.
Those things don't come without a certain amount of stress. And that's why I started this blog. I crave understanding sometimes.
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