An extraordinary meeting at an ordinary place.
The initial one of many gatherings with my donor might begin in a place that seems ordinary, perhaps at the Farmhouse Café, where other similar meetings have taken place (such as Jeff, his co-worker who received a kidney 3 years prior, and myself, or later with Jeff, my parents, and I, the day before my kidney transplant). Or perhaps an ordinary coffee shop, yet knowing the meeting would be far from ordinary.
This meeting and memory would forever be carved in my mind. I would go through a range of emotions from anxiety about the first impressions, to leaving, having gained a new friend/brother, or sister.
I’ve tried to imagine whether this person is a male or female, older or younger than me, but your guess is as good as mine. I can imagine they are similar to Jeff, someone with a big heart willing to give a gift so their friend or family member could be blessed with a kidney through our cross-match/paired kidney transplant.
I imagine I would get there early, probably too early. I imagine the sound of footsteps approaching, the pause before hearing their voice, “Are you Chad?” They would ask with a smile on their face. They may be just as eager to meet me as I them. I hope so. All of this encounter would be heightened. My heart racing, not from fear but from the enormity of what they represent in my life, what they also represent to my family.
They are the reason I can sleep through the night, and I no longer need to rely on dialysis to extend my failing kidney function. I now have the strength I once lost, the reason my future can be planned instead of measured by whatever number I was on the donor waitlist.
The greeting would be simple, a genuine hello followed by a silence holding meaning in the unsaid, as we both might not have any idea what to say at that next moment. I’d try to resume the conversation by asking, “Can I get you a coffee or a slice of cheesecake?”
Sitting down to talk, my words would seem too small, too inadequate, too important, but I would try anyway. I’d want them to understand how their gift has rippled through my life in ways they may never have imagined. Their choice did not just save me; it restored pieces of me that had been failing with no sign of improving, not just my kidneys, but hope as well.
Tears might come, but not the kind that sting. Quite the opposite. Tears of joy, happiness, and gratitude.
It would be a liberation, of being able to meet at last, a shared acknowledgment of what it means to be human, and now, even more connected. Gratitude would be the language we both understand, even when spoken words fall short of what lives in my head and heart. Written words more often can carry what my voice in such a moment cannot, and I find myself able to share more fully when I write than when I try to speak in the moment.
But here, at this meeting, I would try to speak them, anyway.
Walking away from this initial meeting (with plans to meet again and stay in touch), I’d carry a sense of completion, another milestone in this journey. Not because the journey ends there, far from it, but because it gains more paragraphs in my new chapter. Essentially, a second edition to this new chapter.
Meeting them would remind me that behind this medical miracle is a human heart willing to give, and that generosity is a story, this story, our story, worth telling again and again.
The next time we’d meet again, I’d want to include Jeff and his recipient, aka my donor’s friend or relative.
Then one day, our families, too.
Related Post:
Thinking about my Kidney Donor