Hail To The Kidney

Phoenix – It’s official: My left kidney has taken up permanent residence in my mother’s lower abdomen. And apparently, it’s enjoying its new digs.

The surgery on Tuesday morning went very well, “as perfect as it could go,” the doctors said. My 4-ounce kidney was in tip-top shape – pink, hydrated and full of pep. It didn’t stop producing pee for a second, even while in transit to Mum’s operating table. “It was squirting out urine like a fountain,” the doctor told me.
And it just keeps on chugging. Yesterday, my mother’s catheter bag was full of clear, yellow tinkle. The nurse lifted up the 2-liter bag and exclaimed, “It’s beautiful!”
You hear the darndest things in the hospital.
Fortunately, I was released from the Phoenix Mayo Clinic yesterday, 48 hours after I checked in. Mom is expected home this evening. The care we received there was outstanding.
How do I feel right now?
Well, even though I feel like there’s a knife in my stomach – and my body is puffed up like a blowfish (they pumped air into my tummy during surgery) – I still don't have my head fully around what just happened.
I donated an organ! Woah!
I’m not sure my dear mother has realized what’s happened, either. Last night, while we were talking on the phone, she asked if I could dust the living room furniture today, if I felt up to it. A friend would be stopping by, and she wanted the house to be spotless.
“Mom,” I said. “I can barely walk and I’m taking 8 Vicodin a day. I don’t think I’ll feel like cleaning the house.”
“Well, I just thought if you were up to it…”
“Mom, this is highly dysfunctional," I said. "Nobody expects the house to be perfect. You just had surgery."
I envisioned her making this absurd request while lying helpless in a hospital bed, with an IV in her neck and her catheter bag full of gorgeous urine that MY kidney made. I couldn’t resist: “I can’t believe I just gave you a kidney and you’re asking me to clean the house.”
Talk about dashed hopes! Sure, I love Mom and would step in front of a bus for her, but I thought giving her an organ meant that I was forever freed from obeying her orders.
Damn. I should have drawn up a contract before the surgery. It would have read something like:
“I, Julie Beth McKnight, agree to never ask my middle child, Jenna Michelle McKnight, to do any chores, run any errands or exert any sort of energy on my behalf. Also, she can drive my BMW (as fast as she’d like) and borrow anything from me she wants, without asking! Lastly, I agree to never argue with her and to always accept that she is right.”
Now, doesn’t that seem like a fair trade for a kidney? -- JM