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| Beewee and Me, Just Out of Kidney Surgery |
On November 18, 2011, a decade ago today, my life changed forever. I was lying in a bed at Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis, drifting in and out of anesthesia and thinking about a 6-year-old girl I didn't know and had never met, and how her parents' unbelievably selfless act might add some overtime to my game of life here on Earth.
Three years earlier, to my great surprise, I was diagnosed with Stage IV kidney failure. They say that at Stage V you should start checking your insurance policies and consulting morticians, so all in all Stage IV wasn't so bad.
But once your kidneys start heading south, they won't see the Mason-Dixon Line again. I was going to need a transplant, sooner than later. And prior to that I probably would have to go on dialysis.
Here's the point where I can't understand why everybody doesn't believe in God. When I received my dire diagnosis I was living alone in Detroit, divorced and downsized out of a high-paying job, unable to afford COBRA insurance and barely holding on to my rental house. This is generally what's known as rock bottom.
Then, on an online dating site I was canceling the next day, I met this indescribably wonderful woman named Karen. She lived two states away in Champaign, Ill., so I knew there was little chance of ever meeting her, much less launching a relationship. But we had tons in common, eventually began talking and/or texting daily, and before I knew it I was on a plane to central Illinois to hold her in my arms. She knew everything that was going on with me health-wise and never batted an eye.
A year later we were married.
Wait, it gets even better. I moved out of Michigan for the first time in my life and relocated to Champaign so that Karen – better known today on social media as BeeWee, abbreviation for "Best Wife Ever" – and I could be together. She works for the University of Illinois, and I am firmly convinced that the main reason the State of Illinois is in such constant financial peril is because the health insurance for its state employees is so phenomenal. I had barely set foot in the state as the spouse of an employee, and it was like, "Oh, you need a kidney transplant? Hundreds of thousands of dollars? No problem! Welcome to the Land of Lincoln."
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| Kidney Crusading at a Local Hospital |
For more than a year I was placed on peritoneal (pair-it-on-NEE-uhl) dialysis, the gentler, less invasive form of assisting your kidneys I have since championed for renal patients old and new. Then, after a few false alarms, we finally received THE CALL: a kidney had been found for me from a deceased donor, and it appeared to be an ideal match. How fast can you get to St. Louis?
How fast can this car go?
As I was getting prepped for surgery, I remember the nurses must have broken every HIPAA regulation in the manual, so eager were they to tell me about their donor. "Do you know whose kidney you're getting?" they kept asking. Uh, no, I didn't, but apparently I was the only one.
The story was all over the news in St. Lou, and one nurse called it up online to show me: a 6-year-old girl, apparently in perfect health, suffered a brain aneurysm on the playground one sunny morning and died on the spot. And her parents, in the midst of their sudden, devastating grief, made the decision to donate her organs to others.
As my transplant surgeon suggested to me, I was receiving "the perfect kidney:" it was a flawless blood and tissue match, and at age six her experimenting with smoking, alcohol and drugs was probably minimal.
I named my kidney Cheyenne, in her honor. She's a teenager now, and sometimes she can get a little rebellious, but for the most part she has seemed completely content and productive in her second home. I take tacrolimus (tack-crow-LEE-muss), a leading anti-rejection drug, twice a day, every day, exactly 12 hours apart since 2011 to try to keep her happy. (Anyone who knows my commitment to punctuality can imagine how challenging that has been.)
I have never met or communicated with her parents, by their choice. However, I may try to reach out to them once again on this 10th anniversary. I have always wanted to hug them verbally, if not physically, to let them know what their gift has meant to me. Many times I think about all the things I would not have accomplished or experienced had I not been here for the last decade:
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| BeeWee and Me, at Our Son's Wedding |
The experience of being a father, as we shepherded Karen's brother, Jordan, through his high school years.
The two books I have ghostwritten, and the fascinating one I'm working on now.
My advocacy for kidney transplantation and peritoneal dialysis (I'll never forget the man who gave a knockoff Jimmy Choo – or was it Jimmie Chew – handbag for my wife as thanks for recommending peritoneal dialysis, which gave him more freedom to sell purses out of his trunk), which led to me serving two years as the ESRD (End-Stage Renal Disease, or kidney failure) Patient Representative for the State of Illinois. The whole freakin' state.
That being one of the factors leading to my being named a Distinguished Alum by my Alma Mater, Hope College in Holland, Mich., in 2019. As the first McFarlin to attend college, how I wish my parents had been alive to see that.
Uniting hundreds of couples in my role as a wedding officiant (under the business name Wholly Matrimony 4U), including the marriage of my son Jordan and his fiancée Graycie last summer.
Emceeing my 50th high school reunion.
Finding an amazing church, Mattis Avenue Free Methodist, that has deepened my love of God and my daily walk with his son, Jesus.
And having more time to spend with you, my readers and friends who mean so much to me, and writing this blog post to you today.
Cheers to us all. God bless. Here's to another 10 years!
