Once a week, the faint antiseptic scent meets me before I even reach the check-in desk at the lab. The phlebotomist, the same woman who greets me each week, doesn’t even take my patient ID as she recognizes me, but always asks for my birthday for verification. The vinyl chair is cool against my back as I settle in and roll up my sleeve, and the room hums with the shuffle of earlier patients.
“I’ve been doing this for 22 years,” she said at my first visit, grabbing all the supplies she needed. I barely feel the prick; she’s a professional. She wishes me well and says, “See you next week.”
My blood tells a story about how the kidney is doing, how the medications are working, and whether anything troubling is stirring beneath the surface. The timing matters. Eleven to twelve hours after my last dose and before the next one. It is a new kind of routine, one that teaches me to pay attention to medicine and the clock in ways I never had to before.
Each day, I check my weight and blood pressure, both sitting and standing. The scale often goes higher than I expected; sometimes I even ask it, “Are you sure?” It doesn’t reply. I write the numbers down. Not because I am obsessed with them, but because they help signal warnings long before any symptoms appear. My local nephrologist and transplant center help me stay ahead of problems instead of chasing them.
Twice a day, every twelve hours, I take the medication that protects my kidney and prevents my body from rejecting it. These pills are small guardians that work around the clock. They do not take days off, and neither can I. I fill my pillbox with care, and I double-check what is in the AM and PM boxes. Even the thought of a missed dose sends a pulse through my chest, and I check the pill container again just to be sure the right box is empty.
Sometimes a pill lingers on my tongue for a moment, leaving a chalky taste that reminds me of what is at stake. Refills are called in ten days before the last pill rattles in the bottle. A charged phone and an open voicemail keep the line between my team and me clear. I check my portal often and watch for notifications of messages, lab results, and refills available. These are not chores. They are my lifelines.
I often remind myself that within me is a gently used kidney from my donor. Protecting it looks a lot like self-care. Not the spa version or the “treat yourself” version, but something far more demanding. This is the kind that asks something of me, requiring extra intention, more patience, and a willingness to build a new life.
One careful choice at a time.
Self-care is not pampering. It is a partnership. It is the daily agreement between me, my body, my health care team, and the God who carried me through the hardest parts of this journey.
Food has become an unfamiliar landscape. I try to eat a healthy diet. I avoid grapefruit and pomegranate. I stay away from mixed juices. Buffets, once a fun treat, now look like a collection of risks. It is not about fear. It is about wisdom. When your immune system is intentionally downgraded, you see the world differently. You learn to ask if something is safe for you, and to answer yourself honestly.
Movement is part of my healing. Not the kind that pushes or punishes, but the kind that rebuilds. Walking. Stretching. Listening to my body instead of demanding more than it can give. Sunlight, once a simple pleasure, now requires caution. Immunosuppression raises the risk of skin cancer, so I protect myself with hats and sunscreen, and sometimes by stepping into the shade.
There are boundaries I never expected. No saunas. No dirty lakes. No hot tubs. No international travel for a year. Domestic travel only with clearance. These are not punishments. They are guardrails that keep me on the road I fought so hard to reach.
There are also invisible enemies that most people never think about. Cytomegalovirus (CMV) and BK virus are two of them. BK virus, which I’m dealing with now on a small scale, sits in the back of my mind like a reminder that my body remembers things I wish it would forget. Old infections can wake up when the immune system is diminished. My team watches for them, and my lab screens for them. My job is to wash my hands, avoid sick people, and stay mindful of the invisible world of viruses and vulnerabilities that matter more than ever.
One of the realities of post-transplant life is that I am in charge of my care. My team guides me. My care partner supports me. But I am the one who leads. After each appointment, a printed summary goes home with me. Calls are returned within twenty-four hours. When something feels off, I speak up. I call when my blood pressure climbs, or my weight changes, or my body sends a signal that something is not right.
Some days this new life feels like a miracle wrapped in responsibility.
Other days, it feels like a responsibility wrapped in a miracle.
So, I keep showing up to the lab. To the pillbox. To the appointments. To the boundaries. To the life I prayed for.
Each morning, as I check my vitals and take my medications, I whisper a small prayer of gratitude for the kidney that now sustains me. Before I close the portal for the day, a new notification appears. I have not opened it yet. I sit with the moment, knowing that whatever waits inside is part of the partnership I chose the day I received this kidney.
Related Blogs:
Lifelong Challenges After a Kidney Transplant
Anti-Rejection Medications 101
Life After My Kidney Transplant
Oh Chad !! You are SO right. Just because THE surgery is over, the “responsibility wrapped in a miracle” will continue all the days of your “new” life !! Thank you to EACH of your many prayer warriors …always !!! LM
❤️