Losing Weight to Donate a Kidney

"I'm concerned about my Belly Fat", I said to the doctor as I lay on the exam table.  "Do I have too much Belly Fat for the doctors to be able to find my kidney?"

I was about to undergo a physical examination, part of a 1-day work-up at the Transplant Center.  A nurse had just drawn gallons and gallons (well, it seemed that way!) of blood from my body for crossmatch testing, so maybe that accounts for my unusual candor about being overweight.

The doctor smiled and nodded civilly, then proceeded to poke and prod, asked me to inhale and exhale, peered into my eyes, ears, and at my tongue.

Then she checked my belly.

She looked at me sternly and said, very matter-of-factly: "Well, I've gotta be honest with you..." She held her perfectly slender index finger a fraction of a millimeter above her elegantly poised thumb. "...You're this close to not being allowed to donate a kidney.  You can do it right now, but if you gain ANY weight, you won't be allowed.  If you lost even a little weight, that would be GREAT."

My mind was about to go into self-pity mode: why did I allow my weight to pile on like this? Why didn't I do something about it when it wasn't an urgent situation?

I could see it now: they've cut me open, and the head surgeon says, "Where's her kidney?  I can't find it!  There's too much fat for us to even SEE the kidney... Upgrade the laser beam to UltraBright and pass me a longer knife!!!"

That train of thought was futile.  I forced myself to go to solution mode: What Am I Going To Do About My Weight?

I didn't want to go on any crazy eating regimen.  I decided that whatever I did would have to be something I could sustain for life, that would be holistic and healthy and realistic and portable (as in, I can eat that way wherever I find myself in the world).  That meant: no all-grapefruit diets,  no meal substitutes, no pills or potions.  I had already begun a regimen of regular exercise - jogging, working out on my elliptical trainer, doing resistance training circuits - so what I needed was to change the way I eat.

The very next day, I embarked on what I'll call my Semi-Diet.  I call it that because it's semi-vegan, semi-raw-foodist, semi-for-diabetes-patients.  My Semi-Diet consists mainly of raw fruits and veggies, and a few nuts and seeds.  I occasionally eat chicken, fish, or eggs but when I do I eat them with raw & steamed veggies only (eg spinach & tomato omelet - yummy!)  If I feel for bread or any other starchy food, I have it with veggies only.  Like yesterday, I had THE MOST DELICIOUS veggie wrap I've EVER had in LIFE.  And  on the rare occasion that I want to indulge in a typical Jamaican meal, I'll fill up HALF my plate with veggies, and split the rest between the meat and the complex carbs.

It's been a blast!  It's been about 3 weeks since I've changed my diet, and already I'm feeling WAYYY more energetic, my persistent sinus issues have improved significantly, AND I'm beginning to lose a little weight.  I feel stronger when doing my resistance training and I'm able to endure longer stretches of jogging.  Yeah!!! Bellyfat be gone!!!  The surgeon WILL be able to find my kidneys with the regular laser beam!

I think I'm liking this lifestyle.  Now the only question is: once the surgery is done, how will I keep myself motivated to stay on my journey to health and fitness?  I don't know, since the goal would have changed.  But right now... I'm enjoying the ride.

Who knew the decision to donate a kidney would lead me to taking my health more seriously?

At the beginning of my Semi-Diet

2 weeks into my Semi-Diet

It's HARD to Give Away Your Own Kidney!

It is much harder to give away a kidney than you would imagine.

Once I offered my kidney to my friend, the first step was to convince him that yes, I really AM willing to give him on of my kidneys.


Then I needed to find out if I have the same blood type as his.  That's the first of a whole LIST of preconditions if you want to be a 'directed living donor'.

Living donor: a living person who is donating one of their organs (or part of an organ) 

Directed donation: the living donor specifies who should receive the donated organ - usually a relative or friend, but sometimes a stranger!

The blood test was done, and... my friend and I have exactly the same blood type!  That was really great news: my friend can give blood to anyone, but can receive blood only from someone with the same blood type as his.


He contacted the Transplant Center, and within days I received a call from Maria, the Living Donor Coordinator.  She thanked me for my willingness to enter the Living Donor program, then proceeded to ask me a raft of questions regarding my medical history.

Are you diabetic?  Pre-diabetic? Are you hypertensive? Pre-hypertensive?  Do you smoke? How much do you weigh? How tall are you?  How much do you weigh?

(Ok, she really didn't ask that twice, but answering that particular question was REALLY traumatic for me!)

Do you have heart problems? Cancer? What about your family medical history?

Maria gave me an overview of the  donor evaluation process, and asked if I were willing to continue to the next step: testing for my compatibility with the patient. That testing would involve drawing blood.  A lot of blood.  

I'm afraid of needles.  In high school I successfully evaded the tetanus vaccination - only to face it again 12 years later when it was required for travel.

I would be extensively and intensively tested, not only for compatibility with the recipient, but also for my overall health AND the health of my kidneys.

"Once you've agreed to be considered a donor, you'll go through an in-depth assessment of your health. It's your health that is of utmost importance to the transplant team. What they want to know is that: 

• Your blood type is compatible with the recipient's blood type, and how your tissue antigens match to the recipient's antigens, 
• You are healthy enough to withstand major surgery and recover completely, and 

• You have a healthy kidney—preferably the left one—to donate, and you have a healthy kidney to keep—one that can compensate for the loss of a kidney."

- from Living Donors Online 

...That was just the intro to Phase 1 of the evaluation. 

Why I'm Trying to Give Away a Kidney

My friend was born with Polycystic Kidney Disease - PKD for short.  There are 2 forms of PKD, and he has the form that is inherited from a parent who has the disease.  It doesn't skip a generation.

Polycystic kidney disease... causes numerous cysts to grow in the kidneys. These cysts... slowly replace much of the kidneys, reducing kidney function and leading to kidney failure. 

- National Kidney Foundation -

My friend's kidneys have deteriorated to 10% functionality, so medically he is in end-stage kidney failure.  There are two life-extending options open to him: dialysis, and transplantation.

Were he to go on dialysis, he'd be hooked up to machines which do what healthy kidneys do - remove waste products from the blood, maintain safe levels of sodium, potassium and phosphorous in the body, and regulate blood pressure.  He'd probably be on dialysis 3 days each week, for maybe 4 hours each time.

With transplantation, he gets a healthy kidney from a live or deceased donor.  For the rest of his life, he will be monitored by his medical team AND he will take immunosuppressive medication, which will prevent his body from rejecting the transplanted organ.

If my friend did not have a live donor, he would have been placed on the national waiting list.  More than likely he would have to begin dialysis while waiting on a kidney.

A successful kidney transplant frees patients from the need for dialysis, and is a more effective treatment for kidney failure... Transplant patients have less restrictions and a better quality of life than do dialysis patients. Most people feel better and have more energy than they did on dialysis. 

- RenalInfo.Com -

My friend's father died after 10 years of being on dialysis.  He was never on a waiting list for a donated kidney.

A transplant isn't a cure, but it's the closest thing to it.  My friend's nephrologist (kidney specialist doctor) floods him with success stories.  The transplant center that's dealing with my friend's process is one of the best in the USA, with success rates that exceed the national average.  My friend has lots of first- and second-hand testimonials from people who are living with a transplanted kidney.  These include a woman who's been living with a donated kidney for twelve years.  There's also a  Jamaican gentleman who spent hours on the phone with my friend telling him about his own experiences pre- and post-surgery.

Backed by lots of prayer and the evidence of statistics, my friend and I are optimistic that his quality of life will improve tremendously once he receives his kidney.

My kidney.

Serious Business: Women Aren't ALWAYS Right

I don't think it's completely fair to say that it's a man's world. I believe there are issues in which men tend to get the shaft. At least, here in Jamaica. Discussions about men's and women's issues tend to be one-sided - from the woman's viewpoint.

Take for instance, domestic abuse. It is ALWAYS, ALWAYS wrong for a man to abuse a woman in any way, be it physical or emotional. It's never right to do something wrong.

I believe that if a man feels he is getting to a point in his relationship where he will have difficulty controlling his anger, he should walk away. Battering his partner CANNOT be the answer. A man should NOT hit a woman; and if he does, he should bear the consequences.

On the other hand, what we don't hear as much about, is the man's side of the story. I'm not talking about the man who is abusive and needs psychological help (that's another discussion). I'm talking about the fact that there are women out there who inflict emotional and yes, physical abuse on their men.

Many women think nothing of screaming at, swearing at, punching, kicking, throwing sharp objects at their man during an argument.

It's just as wrong for a woman to be abusive, as it is for a man.

There are other areas of inequity. How many men are out there who are unknowingly raising children who are not their own? Who are being denied access to their children as the spouse's means of retaliation for a broken relationship? Who are dragged into court for child support when they've lost their jobs, even though they had been faithfully providing for the child while employed?

We need to even out these discussions a bit. It's always wrong to do the wrong thing, whether it's a man doing wrong... or a woman.

Shooting Things of Beauty

I am trigger-happy. Yup, put a camera of any sort into my eager hands and I'll immediately point and shoot.

And, of course, post to Facebook. But that's another story...

Now I love to point & shoot people. Candid shots preferably. I am committed to immortalizing that moment you're cramming about 3 serving spoons' worth of food into your mouth at once. That's an event that should be preserved for posterity.

But what REALLY moves me, is beauty. I love beautiful old buildings and nature scenes: oceans, mountains, trees. I am moved by grand and and shabby bridges, stormy skies, cotton-candy clouds.

I'd like to share some of my beauty shots with you. Enjoy them with me and marvel at the creativity of God, and His generousity at sharing His creative genius with us mere mortals.

A Dog's Life

If I believed in reincarnation (and let me make it clear: I don't; I believe the Biblical statement "It is appointed unto man ONCE to die"... but I digress)...

...IF I believed in reincarnation, I would want to come back as my dog, Coco.

Now, Coco is a 6-yr-old Rotty mix. VERY mixed. I've had her since she was 6 weeks old. She's had me from 'Woof'. And we've been together long enough now for me to be slightly - but only slightly - envious of her.

First of all, Coco is a very happy person. Uhm... Dog. Sure, when she wakes up she's a little slow, but give her 30 seconds and WHAM! She's Happy Dog. Every day. If it's sunny or overcast, if she got less than her usual ration of food the night before - doesn't matter. That dog's got deep Inner Joy.

Me now? I have deep Inner Melancholy. I wake up with a sinking feeling in my stomach and spend minutes mentally fast-forwarding through my day, until I find a reason to be morose. And if I don't find it for that day, I mentally go through the whole week.

I want to be Coco.

The other thing about my doggie: she is very secure. Almost every morning when I open my door, she bounds inside to where I'm sitting and looks at me happily and intently. And if I don't pat her head right away, does she slink away feeling rejected? Nope. She KNOWS I love her, so she rests her head in my lap and waits patiently.

Very secure, very strong sense of self.

Me? Ignore me for 30 seconds and all my rejection issues are triggered and I begin to mope and sulk.

There are other traits of uprightness I admire in my dog:

• Keeping it simple. Coco ain't complex: she eats the same thing every day and is enthusiastic about it almost every time.

• Neighborly. Coco has made friends with several of the neighbours who regularly walk past my house. The fact that I acquired her to be a vicious guard dog has apparently eluded her. Or maybe it's that darn sense of self - she's secure in who she is, so she's not hampered by my ambitions for her.
  

• Straightforward. Coco doesn't DO hidden agendas (agendae? agendix?) There's no guile in this dog. She either likes you or she doesn't. She's hungry or she's not. And if she doesn't want to respond when you call her, she simply doesn't.

All these things, in addition to the fact that she's cute, pays no bills nor taxes, and doesn't struggle with her weight, makes me want to be Coco in my next life.

STOP! ENOUGH! (Gleaner Article - "Burnt Alive" - Click here)

I'm somewhere between numbness and heartbreak. A grandmother and her three young grandchildren in St. Thomas, were burned alive in the grandmother's home on Sunday night.

The children were 2, 3, and 5-years old. The grandmother was shot before the house was set afire. A mother is left mourning the loss of her 3 children AND her own mother, in one fell swoop.

The police suspect murder. Apparently the grandmother, a Ms. Lynch, was involved in a dispute.

There must be a better way. We can't continue to shoot and stab and burn and hack each other as a solution to disagreements. And those of us who are adults MUST lead the way, because our children are reaping the whirlwind from the wind we are sowing.

We MUST understand that in life, people will disagree with us. We will have conflict. That there are ways to resolve conflict that are constructive. We can attempt to explain our point of view. We can listen to the other person's perspective. We don't have to agree with it, but we can respect it. We can work towards a mutually beneficial solution if we talk, and listen, and figure out what the issue really is, and how best to deal with it.

We can agree to disagree. We can walk away if realize that the disagreement is fundamental, based on our own principles, our value system.

We can choose our battles.

We can choose peace. Not denial, but an adult decision to do what is necessary to preserve dignity, relationship, community.

With divine help, we can forgive. Forgiveness means letting go. Forgiveness means acknowledging that someone harmed us, but we will not take revenge. Forgiveness means we will acknowledge our hurt, but we will not keep stoking the flames of the pain.

I am saddened that, in a time when crime and violence have overtaken our beautiful country, there are increasingly fewer resources available to those agencies that can actually help us to figure out non-violent means of settling conflict.

I've been a part of PALS (Peace and Love in Society), training various groups of people in conflict management and resolution. The principles and skills I learned and taught, have actually been useful in my everyday life as I face conflict in interpersonal relationships as well as at the organizational level.

I'm rambling, because I'm hurt. I know there is a better way. I know that many of us are angry, and when our hearts bleed, we want someone else to physically bleed, to go through pain because they have made us feel pain.

But folks, there IS a better way. A divine way. A practical way. And we must, we MUST, take it.

Or else WE. WILL. ALL. DIE.

Why I Don't Go To The Market.

I wish I could go to the market. Coronation Market, specifically. It's so much cheaper to buy your fruits and vegetables there, rather than the supermarket.

But I can't go to the market. At least, not by myself. Because I simply do not speak the language necessary to get the market prices. I do not speak patois.

Now hear mi good: I LOVE Patois. It's just that I'm a HORRIBLE patois-speaker. I understand patois quite well - after all, I was born in Jamaica, raised in Jamaica. Never lived anywhere else but Yaad. But for some inexplicable reason, when I try to speak patois, I sound very... uhm... you know, wrong. No matter how hard I try to sound like what I am, a Yaadie, within 3 milliseconds of attempting to speak patois, I'm outed as the fake that I am.

Which is what happened on my very first trip to Coronation Market. I went with a good friend of mine, a seasoned Coronation-Market-Goer. I had dressed very carefully in my most raggedy pair of jeans, complete with strategically-placed holes and frayed hems; a t-shirt; white sneakers, which I stepped on for a bit to make them look less white.

My girlfriend, a seamstress and designer, was dressed in a outfit she'd made for herself that very morning. Coordinated shorts and blouse. Green piped with deep orange. Complementary shoes and bag.

So we hit the Market and began to shop. I was quite proud of myself, walking with my little crocus-bag thingy, asking market women for so many pounds of this and that, pulling the exact change from various pockets in my jeans.

Proud of myself... Until my girlfriend came to check on me. She didn't think I was doing so well. I was spending too much money. Then she heard me address a woman selling vegetables:

"Excuse me," I said politely. "How much a pound is it for your tomatoes?"

My friend immediately pushed me away from the scene of my crime, and took over the shopping process. "You hold the bag, Nicky. I will shop. Yuh nuh bodda talk. When yuh talk a beer tourist price yuh a go get."

Then she returned to the market lady.

"Mawnin'. How yuh ah sell di salad dem todeh?"

My friend bought my tomatoes at a much lower price than what I was quoted. I kid you not.

I've gone to the market on other occasions, but always with someone else. They do all the bargaining. I give them my list, I hold my bag, I hand them the money for each purchase. I follow backa dem as they push their way through the crowded market stalls. They shout, "Gimme way! Mi a pass! Oy deh!"

I barely manage to restrain myself from saying "Excuse me please... Sorry I stepped on your toe... Uhm, sir, your cart is in my way... Could you nudge it to the left just a touch, so I can pass?"

But now my Coronation Market-going friends have moved away. So... until someone else in my circle decides to start shopping at the market, I am doomed to paying higher prices in the supermarkets in Upper Senawndru (St. Andrew, in case that was too hard to read).

Sigh.

Smaddy help mi nuh. Do.

Obama and Other Heroes

O-BA-MA!!! O-BA-MA!!! O-BA-MA!!!

Tomorrow, the Lord willing, we will see history being made.

A Black Man will take the oath of office and will be sworn in as the 44th President of the United States of America.

What a suppm!!!

I must confess, I am one of the ones who never thought it would happen. And when I stayed up late, eschewing my beauty sleep (which really isn't working anyway) to follow the US election blow by nail-biting blow, I couldn't believe it when they declared that Obama Had Won.

The next morning I watched the re-runs of the Obamas taking the stage and waving to the throngs of excited fans - sorry, voters, supporters - who had gathered to celebrate the Obama victory. And as I watched Barack (yes, we're on first name terms; is mi bonafide) and Michelle (she's cool) walk hand-in-hand, with their children, my eyes misted over.

OK. I bawled. Snot and everything. I had lived to see the USA vote for a Black Man to become President.

I know that reality is already setting in. This is the worst possible time to become head-of-state of the most powerful nation in the world (that's what they say about themselves). Mr. Obama barely has a honeymoon period. Majorly serious tings a gwaan outta street. Personally I'm glad I don't have the kinds of ambitions he has. I can barely rule my doggie, much less an entire nation.

But I am still allowing myself to wallow in the euphoria of this moment. The word 'milestone' is almost inadequate. I'll be on Facebook and CNN. Hopefully I'll get some work done in between, cause, Obama or no Obama, I still got bills to pay.

But... what a day, what a day.

What will we learn from this as Jamaicans? Hopefully not just "Is black man time now!" Or, like I've heard secondhand: "Wi nuh need nuh visa fi go a farrin... Black man ova deh a run TINGS!"

Hopefully Jamaicans my age and younger will look on and understand that Obama and the black race in the USA are reaping today, what was sown in blood, sweat and a deluge of tears in years gone by. And the sowing and sacrifice must continue today if we - or more accurately, our children - are to reap tomorrow.

When we turn off our television sets tomorrow night, let's reflect on our own heroes, on whose backs this nation was built.

Nanny.
Paul Bogle.
Sam Sharpe.
George William Gordon.
Marcus Garvey.
Norman Manley.
Alexander Bustamante.

The unsung heroes living among us today. Are we fashioning a Jamaica that's worthy of them?

Hippopotomonstro... WHA???

I learned a new word today. C-A-L-U-M-N-I-O-U-S. It means that a statement is "harmful and often untrue; tending to discredit or malign."

Some of the synonyms listed (dictionary.die.net) are equally yummy words: denigrating; libellous; inflammatory...

So now I can say, with a straight face: "She refused to refrain from uttering calumnious statements about my character." I'll let the four syllables roll smoothly off my tongue and watch my listeners wildly rack their brains before blurting, "Calumni-WHO?"

I've long had a love affair with words. I think it was bequeathed to me by my Dad, who would pop little treasures like "circumnavigate" and "transitory". I'd look on him questioningly, only to have him haul out the two massive tomes - Volumes I and II - of his ancient dictionary. "Look it up," he'd command me with a pseudo-stern tone and a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

So now I collect words. Calumnious. Perspicacious (discerning). Obfuscate (to bewilder... as in, "Nicky's pronouncements frequently leave her friends obfuscated.")

I also collect mixed metaphors. ALL my friends mix their metaphors, or just destroy them completely. Some of my favourite gems:

• "My life isn't constant - it just ebbs and bows."
• "You've GOT to get your act together, Nicky! It's time to put your head to the wheel!"
• "That cricket match was suspenseful... It had me on the edge of my feet..."
• "Talk is one thing... but when the rubber hits the tracks..."
  

I spend lots of time thinking about the strange-isms of the English language. For instance, why are the following words SPELLED the same way, but PRONOUNCED differently?

• Rough
• Cough
• Through
• Bough
• Tough

And, how about opposites? What's the opposite of INEPT? Is it EPT? Or APT? And, if it's APT - why???

Everybody talks about "illicit relationships". Have you ever heard anyone say that their relationship was "perfectly licit"? I hear the word actually exists - I've seen it in the dictionary - but who says "licit"? Maybe I will begin. Tomorrow.

I never say my favourite word, though. Simply because... I can't. But I absolutely LOVE this word:

Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.

Look it up. Very useful piece of vocabulary. It means... drum roll please...

Fear of long words.

There's A Mouse In The House

I may very well sleep with the door to my room open tonight.

You see, I saw a mouse in my room.

First it was an almost imperceptible movement, just at the corner of my right eye. I froze, and waited, and... Yes! There it was! A mouse, scurrying across the floor, in front of the tv, under my bed.

I kicked my bed, then climbed on top of it. Kneeling down, I peered cautiously over the edge. No mouse.

I bounced up and down on the bed, quite vigourously, on my knees, hoping the sound would frighten the mouse and he would scurry out of my room (that's what mice do, right? Scurry?)

No luck.

So I'm going to sleep with my room door open. I have no intentions of being locked up in my room with a mouse for company.

You know, I think I saw this mouse last week. He was scurrying across a piece of furniture in another room. So I rushed and set two glue traps. Mouse fi dead.

Two mornings later, I was about to go into the kitchen to make my morning coffee... a religious ritual for me... when I heard sounds that can only be described as frustrated scurrying. Sure enough, the mouse had been caught on the glue trap, and was trying desperately to escape.

I froze. Then I did the the most logical thing.

I ran screaming into my mother's room. (Yes, I am 38 years old, but I'm not perfect, ok?!)

"Mummy! Mummy!"

My mother immediately sprang into emergency mode. "What happen?! What happen?!"

"A mouse! A mouse! Amousegotcaughtinthetrapinthekitchen!"

Mummy unsuccessfully tried to hide a smile. "Alright Nicky. Calm down. I'll deal with it."

"I'm calm! I just cant! Deal! With! It!" And I turned on my heel and went to my room, avoiding the kitchen, calmly slamming every door on the way.

Safely ensconced in my room, I listened to my mother, the Intrepid Mouse Destroyer. Bang! Whack! Thud! Scrape scrape scrape! More Bangs! More Whacks and Thuds!

Then... silence.

Figuring it was safe, I emerged from my room. My mother was already on her way to me. She was panting, sweating, tired. Boy, that mouse must have really gotten it, I thought.

"The rat got away," my mother announced flatly.

What???!!!

"Only the tail was caught in the trap, and it escaped and ran that way." She pointed vaguely towards the back door.

We stared at each other, then she returned to her room, and I went and made my coffee.

I think the mouse is back.

Survival of the Meanest

Driving in Kingston, Jamaica is a perilous activity for the sane, undertaken only out of necessity - to go to work, run errands, and so forth.

Driving in Kingston, Jamaica is a contact sport for the insane, undertaken only out of the driving need (forgive the pun) to add to the chaos that is Jamaican life, and to raise the blood pressure of the few sane drivers who do exist.

How else can you explain the taxi drivers who turn left from a right-turning lane (or right from a left turning lane)? The bus drivers who stop in the middle of the road to drop off and pick up passengers? The SUV drivers who blithely park across the last 2 spaces left in the supermarket parking lot?

How about everybody else who turns without using an indicator or a hand signal?

That's my favourite beef, actually. I'm convinced that 50% of Jamaican drivers believe that their vehicles will explode if they switch on their indicators. Another 30% believe that using an indicator will decrease their manhood.

I actually have anecdotal proof of this. I was in a taxi one day and I noticed the driver was making turns with no signals whatsoever. I asked him why he was doing this. His response?

"Bad man nuh use indicator."

See? Signalling that you're going to turn or switch lanes, just isn't sexy anymore.

If signalling reduces a man's machismo, then overtaking certainly builds it right back up. That's right, sir, go ahead and overtake a line of 6 cars, while going around a corner. And when you see the oncoming truck, make sure to jus' jook the front of your vehicle right in front of mine. It's just what I needed to make sure I don't fall asleep at the wheel.

Oh, and then there are those drivers who think that red lights are... you know... just suggestions. Maybe you should stop... But only if you feel like, or if another vehicle is nearby, or if you're not in a rush. But please don't feel pressured to pay any attention to traffic lights of any colour.

Sigh. It's crazy. I used to love to drive. It used to be my escape, a chance to think. Me, the vehicle and the open road.

Forget that. It's me with all my frayed, jangled nerves, eyes darting left and right, muttering half-sentences of prayer in between gasping for air... the vehicle... and the open road now jammed with insane drivers intent on proving their machismo.

I have issues with women drivers too... but nex' time.