Support System: My Dad

Note: To go through a kidney transplant, I need a care team (or person) to attend appointments with me, be with me at the hospital, take me home, and be with me while I recover for 4-6 weeks. My care team are my parents. If they hadn’t been able to be my care team, the chance at a better life through a kidney transplant might never have reached me, even with a living donor ready to step in.

I previously wrote about my mom for Mother’s Day; this is for my dad.

There is a kind of person who doesn’t wait to be asked. Someone who doesn’t sit idle on the sidelines, waiting for a call or text when someone needs help. They are already at your doorstep, truck running in your driveway, ready to take you wherever you need to go.

That’s my dad. Or, famously known as The Pops™ in my circles.

Long before the kidney transplant, I told my parents that my kidneys were failing. Before I had finished sharing my health news, he was already thinking about how to help. He wanted to donate one of his own kidneys to me right there at the dining table. No hesitation. Never mind the restrictions that would have made him a complicated donor; the dude was ready to hand over an organ the way most people offer you a piece of gum.

He helped spread the word while I was on dialysis and waiting for a donor, before any of us knew a donor was more than a year away. He shared my story and my need. He did things fathers do when they don’t have the tools to fix the problem themselves, but refuse to do nothing.

Then the transplant came. And so did he.

Every one of those pre-and post-transplant appointments, and there were many, he was there. Sometimes that meant rearranging his work schedule. He did it anyway, without complaint, without keeping a tab, as if being there was a no-brainer. Sometimes, it was just him and me, driving to and from Omaha when my mom wasn’t able to join. Those drives turned out to be something I didn’t expect: bonus time with my dad. Two guys in a car once I could drive again. We talked. We laughed. We disagreed about the radio. He wanted the oldies. I wanted the 80s and 90s (don’t you dare say those are oldies). We landed somewhere in between.

At the hospital, he showed up every day and ‘clocked in’, without being asked, without needing a reason. Six days. He was there. And while I drifted in and out of that post-surgery fog, catching just enough of the world to know I wasn’t alone, he was paying attention when I couldn’t. He listened to the nurses and the doctors. He asked the questions I didn’t have the energy to form. Where Mom came armed with her notepad, Pop came armed with the questions she hadn’t thought of yet. Between the two of them, nothing seemed to get past them. He also kept an eye on my blood sugar levels during those early days, since I was often too out of it to track them myself.

When I couldn’t drive for a full month after the transplant, as pain meds and recovery ruled out the driver’s seat, Pop became my Uber driver. Labs, appointments, my house to grab the mail, the store when I needed something. He drove me wherever I needed to go. And when I couldn’t lift much either (doctor’s orders), he carried things. When I moved back to my parents’ house to recover, he handled it all so I wouldn’t have to: bags, boxes, whatever needed moving. One part dad, two parts bellhop. (I started calling him the Bellhop-Pop in my head. He might have worn the brimless bellhop cap if I’d asked nicely.)

And he kept the humor going the whole time, which mattered more than I can say. Laughter is over-the-counter medicine. Right? Because there’s something about a kidney transplant that can feel too serious. Pop wouldn’t let it take over. He kept cracking jokes with the nurses, with a straight enough face that they couldn’t always tell if he was joking. He brought lightness into my hospital room, which it needed.

When I tried to reimburse him and Mom for the hotel stays, the gas, and the meals in Omaha, he wouldn’t hear of it. Wouldn’t take a dime. Not because they didn’t sacrifice, but because that’s not what fathers do. He wasn’t keeping receipts. Dad was just being Dad.

As 50% of the best care team a guy could have, Pop showed up in every way that counted. He was my driver, my question-asker, my luggage handler, my humor anchor, and my dad/pop, which covered everything else that doesn’t fit neatly into a logical category.

Happy Father’s Day, Pop. You were my trusty sidekick. Or maybe I was yours. Either way, I’m glad you were by my side along this journey all the way from your dining table to my post-transplant appointments.

Related Posts:
Support System: My Mom
Support System: My Parents – My Care Team
Support System: My Sister, Angie
Marking Six Weeks of Transplant Recovery
About Kidney Transplant Care Teams