Can Kidneys Create Comedy? I'm Trying to 'B Positive'

 Hey, this is a joke, right?

Annaleigh Ashford and Thomas Middleditch (CBS)

I know CBS, comedy superproducer Chuck Lorre – and I – sure hope so. Many jokes, in fact.

My ears did a double-take when I first heard it: among the shining lights of the network's COVID-compromised 2020 fall TV season, the first new sitcom to arrive in the vaunted CBS prime-time lineup, is a show about kidney failure and organ donation.

Sounds like a laugh riot, huh?

B Positive, starring Thomas Middleditch and Annaleigh Ashford, premieres at 8:30/7:30 Central Thursday, Nov. 5, comfortably nestled between two of Lorre's greatest hits, the return of Young Sheldon at 8 and the eighth-season return of Mom – sans Anna Faris – at 9. Sort of a Lorre Lane, if you will. Few comedies could have a more secure launch pad.

As a kidney donor recipient myself (nine years and going strong, thanks), advocate for organ donation and former renal patient representative for the State of Illinois, I was eager, if a bit apprehensive, to see B Positive. I tracked down the CBS media representative for the series in Los Angeles – I'm the former TV critic for The Detroit News and Detroit Metro Times, among other publications – and asked to review the pilot episode. It isn't available, I was told three times, and who do you write for again?

However, as I go online now and see the pilot reviewed by heavy hitters like The Washington Post and The Wall Street Journal, I see the show was available...just not for me. But I am undaunted! I guess what CBS and most other networks may not realize is, in their fervor to promote new shows by offering online "sneak peeks" and promotional clips, you can nearly watch an entire pilot episode in bits and pieces. 

Which I did. So there, CBS media lady.

Now, B Positive has some, well, positives going for it. Lorre is the sitcom Midas of his era, and anybody who can mine years of laughter out of fat people in love (Mike & Molly), alcoholics in recovery (Mom) and a pack of insufferable genius nerds (The Big Bang Theory) has to be given benefit of the doubt with this delicate subject matter. 

Marco Pennette, the creator and executive producer, Lorre's creative teammate and writer of the first episode, received a successful kidney transplant himself in 2013 so he's got first-hand memories. And Middleditch, fresh off six seasons and an Emmy nomination for the HBO series Silicon Valley, was said to be the hottest property in Hollywood this pilot season.

He stars as Drew, a slightly neurotic therapist and recently divorced dad who gets the news no one wants to hear: his kidneys are headed on a permanent vacation and he'll need a transplant, fast. "Start with family," his doctor advises. "They're usually the best match."

"Oh, great," Drew moans. "A Republican kidney."

Instead, he has a chance reunion with Gina, a former high school classmate played by Ashford, a Tony Award winner on Broadway whom you may remember from Showtime's Masters of Sex. Gina is a boozy, flighty, mildly annoying party girl – she remembers Drew as "the one guy I didn't hook up with in high school" – who offers him one of her kidneys almost on a whim. However, she's got to remain clean and sober for at least three months to donate, and that's one portal where the laughs pour in.

Transplant Pals. (by Pamela Littky, Warner Bros.)

Drew and Gina have kind of an oddball but engaging chemistry, not unlike any two characters on Big Bang, and if you pay close attention you will see a lot of old favorites on B Positive. The delightful Sara Rue (Popular, frequent Big Bang guest) is Drew's ex-wife, and look for the immortal Linda Lavin – yes, that Linda Lavin, Alice herself – as one of the seniors on the minibus Gina drives for a living.

Is B Positive funny? I laughed some, especially at a surprisingly broad slapstick scene on Gina's minibus, but laughter is the aural equivalent of beauty: in the ear of the behearer. Here's what I'm concerned about:

How long can they let Drew suffer and deteriorate before his transplant? A full season, or longer? As anyone on dialysis can tell you, the waiting is the hardest part.

Will they let the audience know that organ donation is not a frivolous, spur-of-the-moment decision, but one that should be carefully considered and discussed with family, friends and doctors? Giving up a body part, even for the best of reasons, is serious stuff.

Will they stress that Drew and Gina need to prepare themselves, both physically and emotionally, for the transplant and that it is major surgery?

Will someone let Gina know that some nephrologists (kidney specialists) advise against young women of child-bearing age donating a kidney because it may lead to higher risk of gestational hypertension and preeclampsia?

Maybe I'm overreacting. Perhaps I'm too close to the subject matter and need to let go and trust fellow kidney recipient Pennette will do the right thing. However, to my knowledge this is the first sitcom ever to deal with kidney donation and transplantation, and there may be a reason for that. 

Hey, if the show increases the conversation about organ donation and gets more people considering the option, that can't be bad. In terms of the show itself, however, for now B Positive deserves no more than a B-minus.

Seeking a Measure of Katharsis at the Kidney Konvention

For the first time in at least two years, I am attending a convention related to kidneys and renal health. This weekend I'm off to Nashville for the 41st national meeting of the independent advocacy group AAKP, the American Association of Kidney Patients.

In one sense, this is serendipity. My sister-in-law and her husband live in Music City and their youngest daughter, Eleanor, turns six this week. So when I received the invitation to attend this year's AAKP and noticed the dates, my wife, Karen, and I decided to make it a family excursion. While I'm in a crowded, airless hotel ballroom soaking up such sessions as "Summit on Public Policy" and "The Kidney Disease Self-Management Toolbox," Karen will be frolicking with her sister, the birthday niece and two other kids.

(I am certain Eleanor will not miss me. She hasn't spoken to me since she was three. As the only person in her immediate family of a different color, I may come across to her like the Boogeyman.)

In a much larger sense, however, this convention represents a personal renewal and rededication for me.

Over the past several months I feel like I've lost something – call it passion, commitment, enthusiasm, whatever you choose – for the kidney cause.

I am still the ESRD (End-Stage Renal Disease) patient representative for the State of Illinois, and I am still honored to hold the position. But it's a largely ceremonial post, mandated by state charter. The veteran nephrologists (kidney specialists) and nurse managers who dominate the committee generally welcome my comments with all the enthusiasm of a sick patient trying to diagnose his own illness. They would much rather I was seen and not heard. For that matter, I'm not so sure they're that wild about me being seen, either.

I continue to sit on several national and regional renal boards, but I find I'm not as devoted to the affiliations as I once was. Where once I used to build my week's schedule around trips to board meetings and webinar sessions, now it's largely the other way around. If a meeting happens to fall easily within my other responsibilities and I can make it, I'm there. If not....

And even though I hold the titular title of secretary for my local ESRD support group, I cannot tell you the last time I made a meeting. They are always held on the first Tuesday of the month, but it seems lately I've been on the road for business, or tied up with a church commitment, or otherwise engaged. Sometimes, quite honestly, I've just forgotten. That never used to happen.

Do I have a theory as to why my fervor has faded? Have we met? Of course I do!

I really think it has a lot to do with the present condition of my health – which, at the moment, is superb. After a few years on daily dialysis, overcoming the fear and pain of a kidney transplant and a few more years living with the new reality of 30-plus pills a day and constant blood and body monitoring, today I'm doing great.

At my last annual checkup (which once was my monthly checkup), the chief of transplant surgery for Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis, the site of my operation, used the word "unbelievable" to describe my condition. My standing blood tests have been reduced from bi-monthly to once a month. My creatinine (cree-AT-tin-een) level, an indicator of kidney function that typically falls between 0.6 to 1.3 for normal healthy people, is at 0.9. My beloved little Cheyenne, who moved into my body in 2011 as a long-term tenant, is just showing out.

At my first AAKP convention, in Little Rock, I met inspirations like Brad Mayfield.

So while I remain compassionate about the plight and the journey of my fellow renal patients – particularly my friend and true believer Lana Schmidt, who IMHO is getting screwed by the medical community through a recently-enacted policy in the transplant system that really pisses me off (more about that at another time) – I think it's a natural reaction to drift away from the pack emotionally when your station in life improves. I'm OK, I Hope You're OK, Too. It's human nature. That's why we're not all Gandhi or Mother Teresa.

However, I think with the passage of time, many people get the desire to reach back and lend a helping hand to others who face the same challenges they have overcome. I have encountered so many folks who served to inspire me, like my friend Brad Mayfield whom I met at my first AAKP convention in Little Rock back in 2011. I talked to people who'd been on dialysis 10, 15, 20 years, some who were fearful of receiving a transplant, others whose condition prevented it. I still remember how thrilled I was over the prospect of spending time in Arkansas (I wrote about it here), but the experience ended up being just what I needed, just when I needed it most.

I think I'm ready to jump back into the kidney caravan again, to rededicate myself to the effort. This weekend will be the test. More than 26 million Americans have some form of kidney disease, over 101,000 of them are on the waiting list for a transplant. And while they won't all be at the AAKP convention, if I can make a small difference in one person's experience, if I can be the example or inspiration for anybody, then this weekend in the shadow of Opryland will be well worth the trip. (Eleanor birthday celebration notwithstanding.)

It's a simple shift in perspective: I'm OK, I Want You to be OK, Too.

PKD Gets Its Own Day...But What It Really Needs Is a Cure

It's called PKD, not PDA, although this terrible disease certainly could use some public displays of affection...from you.

Today (September 3) is Polycystic Kidney Disease (PKD) Awareness Day, a day devoted to raising awareness of the life-threatening inherited disorder. In PKD, clusters of cysts develop inside your body, primarily within your kidneys. The cysts are noncancerous, but the round sacs contain a water-like fluid. As they accumulate more fluid, they can become extremely large.

In the vast majority of cases, the cysts overwhelm the kidneys and lead to kidney failure. There is no treatment. There is no cure.

Even though the genetic condition afflicts thousands in the United States and millions more worldwide, most people have never heard of PKD, much less know its effects. Obviously, #PKDAwarenessDay seeks to change all that.

Indeed, you may know someone who has PKD and not be aware; the disease isn't something its sufferers tend to bring up in friendly conversation. Did you know:

• PKD is the fourth leading cause of kidney failure;
• Parents have a 50-50 chance passing PKD to each of their children (unlike many genetic conditions, it does not skip a generation);
• Polycystic kidneys can grow as large as footballs and weigh up to 30 pounds each;
• PKD affects all races, genders, nationalities and geographic locations equally.

#PKDAwarenessDay is the precursor to the fundraising "Walk for PKD 2015" events staged throughout the country in September. In the markets I know best, the Detroit Walk for PKD takes place Saturday, Sept. 12 at Boulan Park in Troy; the Chicago Walk for PKD happens Sunday, Sept. 20 at Busse Woods Grove 6 in Elk Grove Village.

For more information on participating in the Walk for PKD nearest you, to make a donation, or for all other things Polycystic Kidney, reach out to the Foundation at pkdcure.org.

I wouldn't want a football growing inside of me, would you? We've got to stop this crazy thing.

Here is the PKD Foundation 2015 information video, "Do You Know PKD:"

Of Paper Towns, Plastic Tubes and Precious Memories

My mother-in-law is recovering at our home from successful open heart surgery (praise God) to replace her aortic valve. She opted to use the valve of a pig for the procedure, and the surgeon told us afterward that he found her to be unusually thin skinned. 

I'm saving that comedic gold until after she fully recovers.

Meanwhile, our family twins, Emma and Madison, got kind of overlooked in the hubbub of hospital visits, pharmacy consultations and post-op therapy. Their summer schedule would be hectic even without Mom's surgery, and I knew I hadn't spent anywhere close to enough time with those two knuckleheads. I missed them dearly. So this week I suggested a movie night.

I picked them up from Vacation Bible School, took them out for a bite at Steak 'n Shake (their fave) and went to a 10 p.m. screening of the coming-of-age teen film Paper Towns. (Note to self: Never let the girls have total voting power over movie selection.)

 This is what happens when you go to the restroom and leave your cell phone on the table. Emma is on the left.

Oh, we had a time! Teasing, laughing – Madison, the fashionista, couldn't stop commenting about the caterpillar thickness of leading lady Cara Delevingne's eyebrows on the giant screen – talking about teachers and boys, sharing deep darkers.

I must admit, I even learned something: the title of the film refers to a trick sometimes used by cartographers to guard against copyright infringement. Map makers would stick the names of imaginary locations – "paper towns" – at strategic places; if they saw the same names on competitors' maps, they knew they'd been ripped off. See, even in the midst of a mediocre movie knowledge can be enhanced!

I am so proud of the young women Maddie and Em are becoming, yet they never fail to bring out the goofy kid in me. They're 15 now; almost impossible to fathom I've known them since they were seven.

The evening got me to reminiscing about one of my most memorable experiences with them – which, it follows, became one of my favorite and most talked-about blog stories. 

So in honor of a night to remember and Throwback Thursday, I'm reprinting the post here from March 27, 2011, during the depths of my time on Peritoneal Dialysis and, although I had no idea at the time, eight months before the kidney transplant that would save my life. I called the entry: 

Jimmy Springs a Leak

Why they waited until the day of their mutual birthdays to decide they had to buy presents for each other, I'll never understand. But the twins, Madison and Emma, pleaded with me to drive them to the mall on a recent Friday after school. Happily, in January I bought a 2011 black Chevy Camaro (feel free to oooh and aaah below) because I decided to fully enjoy my only midlife crisis, so I'm pretty excited to drive anybody anywhere these days.

The girls love to shriek and cavort from its back seat over the sheer power of the Camaro's mighty V6 engine – which, come to think of it, may have been the reason they waited until they were sure I would be the one to ferry them in my "rocket car," as they call it. They have even bestowed it with a nickname: 'Black Betty." I'm thinking seriously of getting a vanity license plate for it this summer that will simply read, "BAMALAM." Those who get it will get it.

Happy Black Man With Snappy Black Car  

Anyway, we're in Decatur motoring down Martin Luther King Boulevard en route to the mall (why do bad things always seem to happen on MLK?) when I decide to call The Wife on my Droid and let her know where I'm headed.

"Gadzooks!" (or something like that) I think to myself. "My phone is wet! How can that be?"

Then, in fast order, I realize the right side of my jeans, my leather jacket and, yes, my underwear are soaking through, too. I pull back my jacket and unleash a spout of liquid shooting straight up into the air – all over the interior of my brand-new beautiful car. Worse, that liquid was quickly identified as warm body juice; the joint where my catheter connects to its external tubing had cracked, and the dialysis fluid that should have been circulating around my peritoneal cavity was suddenly circulating around my Camaro.

As the girls squealed and pointed, I grabbed the leak with one hand and steered the car into a church lot, no easy feat when you're driving a stick shift. I put the rocket car in park, leaped from the vehicle and attempted to cap my gusher. The twins, trying to be extremely helpful, grabbed everything they could find to stuff the leak: used paper tissues on the floorboard, a dirty rag on the backseat. I think I even remember seeing an old PayDay wrapper in all the confusion.

Praise God we were less than a mile from my DaVita dialysis clinic. Doubled over like a gunshot victim in a TV show and working my car's clutch with whichever foot was closest, we sputtered into the DaVita parking lot. It was nearly 5 o'clock on a Friday, but I prayed someone would still be there who could help.

Prayer answered. There has been considerable flux and turnover among the Peritoneal Dialysis nurses in Decatur, and Karey was virtually a PD rookie, but she happily agreed to give my catheter repair a try. While she called Champaign for advice and inspiration, I waited anxiously. When you have a manmade hole in your body with a tube hanging out of it, you are repeatedly warned that infection is a constant danger.

Peritonitis. Can be fatal if unchecked, you're cautioned. And we've just slapped every filthy thing we could find on top of it to stem the tide. We did everything short of blow on the tube to hold the water back! If the catheter gets infected, or needs to be removed, my days on PD could be over.

Emma and Madison, for their part, were wonderful, supportive and encouraging. It took nearly an hour for the emergency patching to be completed, and the girls busied themselves by watching TV in the clinic lobby, talking up patients coming in for their treatments, and taking a semi-guided tour of the facility. (That is, peeking in the open doors.)

Madison and Emma, Acting a Fool at the DaVita Dialysis Clinic   

"Jim," Madison enthused, "this is the best birthday ever!"

I'm sure Maddie doesn't know the meaning of hyperbole yet, but for some reason I had a hard time believing that.

Finally the leak was sealed, temporarily; I had to journey to Champaign the following Monday for the permanent fix. As she was putting on her best finishing touches, Karey asked, "Why didn't you use your clamp?"

"What clamp?"

"Do you have a little white clamp they gave you to tie off the fluid line in case of emergencies?"

Sheepishly, I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the small pillbox I carry to hold my mealtime medication. I opened it. Yep, there it is, all right. A little white clamp. Good thing I have that, in case of emergencies. Hey, I could use some emergency training!

As we walked back to the car, I heard a small, tentative voice behind me.

"Jim," Emma asked, "can we still go to the mall?"

What could I say? They had done so well, been so helpful, reassuring and patient. Off we went to the mall.

"But remember, ladies, my underwear is still soaking wet!" I announced. "So please shop as quickly as you can!"

Ever try to make two 11-year-old girls shop quickly?

Ever go through a mall walking like John Wayne?

Postscript: The Wife watched me the entire weekend like I was planning an escape, looking for any hint of fever or discomfort, but I came through with flying colors. No peritonitis. No infection. God is good. All the time.

'Hot in Cleveland' Is Hot for Donors

Here's a great reason to watch the TV Land sitcom Hot in Cleveland this week, besides the irrepressible Betty White and the extraordinarily fine Valerie Bertinelli, who I had a major crush on when I was a kid and she was on One Day at a Time especially because I knew she grew up in suburban Detroit not far from where I lived and....

Malick, Leeves, Bertinelli and White, 'Hot in Cleveland'

Oops. Went off the grid there for a moment. Sorry.

In a first-of-its kind partnership, TV Land and Hot in Cleveland are teaming with the nonprofit organ donation website MatchingDonors.com to raise awareness of the crucial need for organ donors with this week's episode Wednesday (7.17) at 10 p.m. EST. In the storyline, legendary soap opera star Victoria Chase (Wendie Malick, who I had a major crush on...oh, never mind) makes the life-altering decision to donate one of her kidneys to a desperately ill young girl.

You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be moved, I suspect.

MatchingDonor.com claims to be the most successful nonprofit agency targeted to "finding living altruistic organ donors for patients needing transplants," receiving more than 1.5 million hits to its website every month.

"We are proud to partner with TV Land," says MatchingDonor founder and CEO Paul Dooley. "Their unselfish efforts in promoting organ donor awareness will directly result in saving lives."

As someone whose life was saved by a successful kidney transplant Nov. 18, 2011, you can bet I'm eager to see this episode. My donated kidney wants to watch, too.

I've been telling her about Valerie and Wendie.

I'm Really in the Soup Now

Breaking into a new market, in a different state, is never an easy task. And although I've lived outside Chicago for nearly four years now, I will always be a Michiganian by birth and a Detroiter by heart.

As of this writing, however, I truly feel like I've been accepted in my home surroundings. In honor of National Kidney Month in March, I was invited to share my personal kidney khronicle in the March 13 edition of the Bean Soup Times, a beacon of information for Chicago's African American community for more than a decade!

My sincere thanks to Mr. Toure Muhammad, Bean Soup Times creator and publisher (not to mention comedian, broadcaster, communicator and PR professional), for his interest and allowing me to share his media platform. (Being described as an "Award-Winning Writer" in the headline doesn't hurt the old ego too much, either!)

As I mention in the article you're about to read, African Americans are experiencing end-stage renal disease (ESRD), or kidney failure in all its evil forms, at a rate three times higher than the rest of the U.S. population. So knowledge and awareness are especially crucial for black folks. If my story helps anyone reading it to take precautions – even just to monitor their blood pressure and keep it under control – I'm honored.

Here's the link to the Bean Soup post: http://bit.ly/WEexln. The words in red are links to previous Just Kidneying blog entries to give their readers (and you) some deeper background into the journey.

Happy reading. Remember to caress your kidneys.

New Year, New Life

It's been all the talk around where I live. Or maybe because people know about my medical situation, they've been racing up to tell me about it.

Shortly before Christmas, a man strolled into a suburban Chicago hospital and announced that he wanted to donate one of his kidneys. Not to anyone in particular, he explained; he just felt compelled to give a special Christmas "gift of life" to somebody.

After running the customary battery of tests (physical, not psychological), it was determined that his kidneys were a match for a 60-year-old wife, mother and grandmother from Burbank, Ill., who had been on dialysis for six years while waiting for a transplant donor.

Six years.

Six years of energy- and body-sapping dialysis, every week after exhausting week. Six years of waiting for a matching organ, hoping for the phone to ring with "the call," praying for deliverance. A six-year sentence, six years of a life not being fully lived.

What an indescribably amazing present.

Now, I'm not suggesting that you run out and do the same (Lord knows I can't), but you may be surprised to know that this type of altruism is not as unusual as you might think. According to UNOS (the United Network for Organ Sharing), more than 6,000 living, breathing people donate an organ for transplantation every year, and one out of four of them have no biological connection to the recipient.

Still, to just walk into a hospital and volunteer to give up a part of your body....

The woman in Burbank referred to her donor as "my angel," and she's probably not far from wrong. What a phenomenal way for her – for both of them, actually – to ring in the New Year!

So let me end this meditation the way I end many of my speaking engagements: Please consider organ donation. Just consider it. As of this writing more than 74,000 people are on the active national waiting list for an organ transplant, and hundreds die every year still waiting.

Make the notation on your driver's license. Let your family and friends know of your intentions. Once you're gone, you won't need them. Honest. Trust me. The Walking Dead is just a TV series. It's not real.

And as for donating an organ while you're still living, hey – as gifts go, it beats the heck out of a Kindle.

Fat Man and Little Cheyenne

Cheyenne was feeling a bit grouchy not long ago. Nothing severe or particularly disabling, you understand – a twinge here, a dull ache there – but any time your live-in kidney shows the slightest signs of discontent, you tend to sit up and take notice.

She hasn't been inside me for a whole year yet! It's not even time to renew her lease!

Having someone else's organ sewn into your body, it seems to me, is like entertaining a long-term house guest: You want her to be happy and content in her surroundings, and if she is you almost tend to forget she's there. She becomes part of the family. But if you sense she's grumpy or suddenly not enjoying her stay, you rush to address her concerns. And so it was that I called to request an ASAP appointment with my very favorite nephrologist, the caring, grinning Egyptian, Dr. Attia.

A week or so later I was sitting in the lobby of the Carle Hospital wing in downtown Champaign where he practices. After having my weight and other vitals confirmed, I waited mere moments before Attia burst into the examination suite, an Omar Sharif lookalike, his perpetual smile beaming. "Jimmy, how are we doing?" he asked.

We sat side by side in front of the room's computer and reviewed my key statistics: blood pressure, protein, creatinine level, cholesterol. I don't ever remember hearing a physician using the word "perfect" to describe my body or health before, but Attia's glowing praise sent my heart into a happy dance. I take the care and comfort of Cheyenne very seriously, and I was delighted to see that my efforts were paying dividends.

"But Doc," I countered, "if all that's true, why do I keep getting these occasional twitches around the transplant site, and the feeling like something is pressing on the kidney?"

At that point he explained something I'd never thought about before, but that makes complete sense: Surgeons cannot reconnect nerve endings when they transplant an organ. It would be impossible to do so, even if they could keep you in the operating room for a month or two. So Cheyenne literally feels no pain.

Attia then looked at me, flashed a knowing smile and returned my attention to the computer screen. He pointed to a line of numbers on my chart that he had neglected to mention previously.

It was labeled, "Weight."

He said, "From the time of your transplant last November, you have gained 16 pounds! What you're feeling may be your increased weight pushing against the kidney."

In other words (he didn't actually say this, but he might as well have), "If you weren't so FAT, Mr. Piggy-Wiggy, maybe you wouldn't be feeling anything at all! Your poor little kidney needs room to operate, Chubbins! Just because a transplant allows you to greatly expand your food choices doesn't mean you have to eat everything in sight!"

Oh.

As it so happens, my amazing and admirable bride, Karen, recently embarked on a medically-supervised weight loss program called Ideal Protein. I don't think she would mind my telling you that she has lost more than 30 pounds in less than two months! I am so very proud of her.

I'm not saying I plan to lose weight by osmosis, just by being in her presence. But we have been eating much smaller, healthier portions around the house lately, and if I can avoid sneaking off to Steak 'n Shake when she's at work I may drop some poundage in spite of myself.

Hang on, Cheyenne! The cavalry's on the way! Breathe, girl, breathe!

Maybe the Greatest Thing Ever Invented

My blood tests this morning to monitor my kidney function went like every other blood sample sucked out of me every week for the past six months – that is, until the supervising nurse spied the green bracelet with the medical symbol on my right wrist. "What is that?" she asked.

What, indeed. I have been meaning to tell you about my Care Medical History Bracelet for the longest time, but it has grown so comfortable on my body that I'd all but forgotten about it until the nurse roused my memory.

Shortly after my kidney transplant last November, my magnificent wife, Karen, realizing that my list of medical advisories, medications and other vital information suddenly increased a dozenfold, went online to http://medicalhistorybracelet.com/, found this brilliantly simple little band and gave it to me as a gift.

The Care device is the next generation, 21st century edition of the medic alert bracelet. It fastens securely around your wrist, but when you pull it apart – Voila! A computer flash drive is contained within.

Plug it into your home computer and, with the aid of some pre-loaded software, you can input every bit of essential information about yourself and your medical condition – medicines, dosages, blood type, primary physicians and specialists, emergency contacts. There's even a place to download a photo to prove it really is you wearing your bracelet.

So if you are involved in a major calamity or trip over a chair in your office and knock yourself loopy, everything any emergency medical technician would need to know about your health is available to them via their nearest computer without you having to mumble a word. And the information is easily updated, making Care a huge upgrade over the traditional engraved alert bracelet.

It only costs about $30, and takes no more than an hour or so to fill in the necessary blanks. (If you've been careful to compile all your data in advance, that is.) In a perfect world, I'm thinking, every man, woman and child would have one of these bad boys strapped on tight. Next step: Computer chips implanted in your ear, just like your Cockapoo!

The Care website says the bracelet is waterproof, but I take it off when I bathe anyway. Can't be too careful where metal and water are concerned. Two drawbacks, though. Far as I can tell, the flash drive software is readable on both Macs and PCs, but you can only input data on a PC. So if you're an Apple addict (like me), you'll probably have to borrow a PC from somebody to create your profile.

Second, and more critical, as my supervising nurse noted today, YOU CANNOT LOSE THIS THING. More than wearing your heart on your sleeve, with Care you literally are wearing your life on your wrist. And since there's apparently no way to lock the flash drive's info (nor would you really want to), the Care Medical History Bracelet could be an identity thief's wet dream.

But the positives far outweigh the negatives, in my view. You just need to take extreme care with Care. And like the infomercials say, "Makes a great gift."

Learning to Share

Getting the news that you have a serious, potentially fatal illness – like Stage IV kidney failure, for instance – can be a senses-shattering event. I remember when I was hearing about my Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD) diagnosis for the first time, there was a moment where the doctor's voice morphed into the teacher from the Charlie Brown cartoons: "Bwah-BWAH-bwah-BWAH-bwah-BWAH."

The initial reaction for most of us, I believe, is to want to internalize and hold all the scary details inside. Still, once you come to grips with the reality of your situation, you've got to tell somebody about it. For comfort, for advice, for the illusion of control – if nothing else, so that someone will know what's happening to you and where to look should you drop off the grid for a few days.

Despite what you read in this blog, I find it hard to talk about myself and my illness. Maybe you would, too. Recently I was asked by the "Live Now: Rethink Kidney Disease" website, for which I am proud to serve as contributing editor, to write a piece offering suggestions on how to share the facts about your CKD with others. I'm guessing some of the advice could translate to any other disease, or simply to bad news in general.

I would reprint the piece here in its entirety, but then you probably wouldn't visit the "Live Now" site and they would stop paying me. Hey, Mama didn't raise no fool!

So here is the link to the article, and I hope you find something of value in it. I even interviewed other people for their insights, so it's not only me babbling. The piece is called, appropriately, "Telling Others About Your Chronic Kidney Disease".

Now It's REALLY an Award-Winning Blog

The FedEx driver scared the boogaloo out of me the other morning, banging on our front door to drop off a package. Now, I'm accustomed to receiving overnight deliveries – usually DVDs to review in my capacity as a television critic – but since I was deep in thought and less than three feet from the door at the moment, I had to swallow hard to get my heart out of my throat and back to its normal location.

Ah, but this particular package was no skinny disk or press kit. It was way too heavy, and felt kinda wooden. To my great surprise, it was a plaque!

It's not every day you receive an award via FedEx (well, maybe you do, but I live a fairly humdrum existence), so I ripped the packaging apart like a 6-year-old on Christmas morning. It was my 2011 Robert Felter Memorial Award from the Renal Network, Inc., which I proudly announced last June in a post titled "This Award-Winning Blog."

The inscription reads the award "Is Proudly Presented to JIM McFARLIN (hey, that's the way it looks!) For Working on Behalf of Kidney Patients."

Aw, shucks.

As I've noted before, I'm certain the award wasn't bestowed solely because of this "Just Kidneying" blog. I've made numerous speaking engagements the past few years on behalf of Peritoneal Dialysis, kidney disease prevention and organ donation, including an appearance before the Michigan Legislature, and visited dialysis clinics to talk to patients one-on-one and lend encouragement. I'm contributing editor for the "Live Now: Rethink Kidney Disease" website, and I've written articles for HOUR Detroit magazine and several other publications concerning Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD).

But virtually none of those things would have happened had it not been for "Just Kidneying," which brought my CKD and my feelings about it to the attention of decision makers, dialysis clinic personnel and convention planners in many places. So, just like at the Oscars, I accept this award on behalf of my blog. I'm extremely honored to receive it.

I didn't expect it to arrive in a plain white FedEx envelope, however. Initially I was told the Robert Felter (I think I'll call it "The Bobby") would be presented in a semi-formal dinner ceremony, most likely somewhere near the Renal Network's regional headquarters in Indianapolis. But the congratulatory letter that accompanied the plaque regretfully informed me "that the organization with whom we were collaborating on the patient meeting was not able to secure the necessary funding. Thus, there was not a Network-sponsored patient meeting."

That's the kind of award ceremony I would get: a package dropped at my doorstep.

Dang. I was actually looking forward to that rubber chicken.

Fear Factor

A phone conversation the other night with my great good friend over many decades, Larry Kaplan, really served to clarify some issues and emotions for me regarding my recent kidney transplant – emotions I hadn't admitted to anyone, not even myself.

I have known Larry since the first week I set foot in Detroit to work back in 1979. I was the rock critic for The Detroit News then, and the paper's staff photographers deemed it beneath their dignity to shoot rock 'n' roll bands at night for concert reviews. So the entertainment department hired Larry as my full-time freelance sidekick, doing hand-to-hand combat in the photo pit to embellish my meager words with visual splendor. In recent years, he has reserved a bedroom in his spacious condo for me to use upon my frequent return visits to Detroit, sparing me untold amounts of stress, advance scheduling and hotel fees. (Thanks, Larry.)

We hadn't talked since a month or so before the surgery, and he was asking me the kind of simple, direct questions anyone might inquire of an old friend fresh from the scalpel. "Is there a lot of pain?" (Oh, YEAH!) "Will you have to take anti-rejection medication? (For the rest of my life.)"

"Do you feel any different inside?"

Yes, it suddenly occurred to me, I do.

I'm scared.

No, scratch that. Dude, I am terrified.

Beyond the pain of recovery, my body has changed in so many dramatic ways. I'm swallowing three times the medications I was taking while on dialysis – some with meals, some only on an empty stomach, some in the morning, others at bedtime – and until I establish a routine, the sheer scheduling of the doses every day has my head spinning. "You MUST take your medicine regularly!" my post-transplant handbook warns. "Rejection will occur if you skip or stop your immunosuppressive medicine."

No pressure.

But it's more than that. Way more. I have been given an awesome gift – one so precious that sometimes, when I stop to think about it, I am moved to tears. I know that last year alone, more than 4,700 people died while waiting for a matching donor kidney like the one I now have. I know that a family somewhere is experiencing heart-shattering grief for the donor whose organ is giving me a second chance at a full, healthy life.

I know a vast network of supporters I cannot begin to tally – the transplant team, surgeons and nurses at Barnes-Jewish Hospital, my church family at Harvest Bible Chapel Decatur, relatives, friends, relatives of friends, co-workers and clients past and present, total strangers – have been immersed in prayer and positive, affirming thoughts on my behalf. My friend Rochelle Riley, the fine columnist for the Detroit Free Press, summed it up in a Facebook posting this week after my first post-surgery outing: "Yay to Jim McFarlin who's outta the house!" she wrote. "We're all so excited 'round these parts!!!"

No pressure.

I just feel there is so much victory, so much fulfillment of hope wrapped up in all of this. I could not bear the anguish of having to say to these same people at some point in the future, "Folks, my 'dream kidney' is failing...and it's because of something I did."

My immune system is intentionally suppressed. By how much, I have no idea. But living with the idea that a careless cough in the face from a 3-year-old could set my entire personal ecosystem into screaming yellow meemies is going to transform me from Average Sloppy Guy to Anxious Germophobe. I can just feel it. I'm going to make Howie Mandel look like a mud wrestler. I won't be quite as bad as Larry, who used to squirt a person's hand with sanitizer before he would shake it, but I'll be pretty insufferable for a time. Please bear with me.

I'm going to start doing all those things we tell ourselves we need to do to improve quality of life. Make exercise an important part of my lifestyle. Watch what I eat, and eat better food. Balance and manage mind and body, work and leisure. Pray more.

I can do this, Larry, thanks for asking. I have to do it.

I just don't want to screw this up.

Happy Happy, Joy Joy

As some of you may know, I am proud to serve as Contributing Editor for Live Now: Rethink Kidney Disease, the website hosted by Baxter Healthcare Worldwide urging people afflicted with CKD (Chronic Kidney Disease) and ESRD (End Stage Renal Disease) to reclaim life on their own terms. (And coincidentally, to promote Baxter's in-home therapies like Peritoneal Dialysis – the system I use and advocate – and Home Hemodialysis.)

My latest essay for Live Now, "Don't Worry, Be Happy," has posted to the site. It suggests that maintaining a positive attitude in the face of a serious illness (or any other bad ju-ju, for that matter) can have a remarkably beneficial effect on one's overall health and outlook.

I'm pretty happy with the piece, but then again, I have a positive mental attitude. I hope you like it. I would repost it here in its entirety, but that kind of defeats the purpose of writing for the Baxter website in the first place. (Besides, they pay me.)

So here's a link to the article: http://bit.ly/v6Isp2.

Please do me a favor: Click to the page at least 50-100 times, even if you only read it once, so the people at Baxter will think I'm a wildly popular writer.

Thank you. Be happy.

It's the Pits

Admit it, guys: sometimes, when you're all alone in the bathroom getting ready to go somewhere and you suddenly realize you're out of deodorant, don't you sneak into the medicine cabinet and "borrow" a swipe of your lady's pit juice?

Well, I did one recent morning, and I must say I was shocked by what I found.

In my rush to leave the house I crept furtively onto Karen's side of the bathroom, slipped open her toiletries compartment and grabbed her Dry Idea antiperspirant. Dry Idea, as I'm sure you know, is perceived as a women's product, but SLAP! SPLOOSH! A quick stroke on each armpit, return it to its exact place on the shelf, close the door and no one will be any the wiser.

While placing it back in the cabinet, however, I happened to turn the container around and glance at its ingredients.

Here's what I saw:

In case you can't read the sentence smack in the middle of the label, it reads, "Ask a doctor before use if you have kidney disease."

Say WHA?

I can see consulting your nephrologist if you've been recruited to compete in a beer-drinking contest, or if you're thinking of going on that all-banana diet. But what kidney patient would ever think of asking a doctor's advice on what kind of deodorant to use?

I have scoured the Interweb trying to find information on why Dry Idea is the enemy of anyone with Chronic Kidney Disease. Nuthin'.

I am dying of curiosity. If anybody knows why this particular brand of stink pretty is Kryptonite to weak kidneys, please enlighten me.

In the meantime, this chance incident serves as a reminder to me to always read the product labels. On everything. It's a practice that's especially important when one's system is weakened by illness or disease.

Dry Idea's advertising slogan used to be, "Never let them see you sweat."

No kidding.

The Arkansas Traveler

So, where are all the hot springs?


Oh, I see. There's a town in Arkansas called Hot Springs. Sorry. My bad.


OK, then, where are all the little rocks?


Better little rocks than kidney stones, I suppose.


I finally made it to the state capital of Arkansas last week to attend the 38th annual convention of the American Association of Kidney Patients (AAKP), my reward for winning the Renal Network's 2011 Robert Felter Memorial Award. And I hope that the citizens of the great state of Arkansas and the South in general understand that all those disparaging, smartyboots comments I've made in previous blog posts about taking this trip were simply for comedic effect and never intended to be taken at face value.


Kinda.


But seriously, folks, I found Little Rock to be a quaint and captivating little American city, filled with some of the most disarmingly friendly people one could ever wish to meet. Southern hospitality is alive, well, and living in a land that celebrates Bill Clinton and feral hogs, not necessarily in that order.


It is the smallest town ever to host the kidney conference. I asked Jerome Bailey, communications manager for AAKP, if this was the first time the convention ever had been held outside the organization's home state of Florida.


"Oh, no!" he replied. "We've held it in Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Chicago...."


Nice award. Wrong year. I coulda had Vegas!


I was impressed by signs in Little Rock National Airport informing arriving visitors of "Airport Angels" scattered throughout the terminal who were ready to offer directions, answer questions and generally act as ambassadors for their beloved village.

At Detroit Metro Airport, the only angels you're likely to see are Hell's.


This is the lobby of the hotel where the convention was held, the historic Peabody, billed as the most lavish accommodations in the state.

The lobby alone is enough to dispel whatever stereotypes I may have held about Little Rock. The Peabody is opulent, its rooms upscale. As you may know, however, in summer Southern Heat is far different from Northern Heat. In August, Northern Heat feels like a thick wool blanket wrapped around your entire body. Southern Heat is the same blanket, but soaked in hot water and pressed against your face as well.


To compensate – and possibly to appease us cranky Northerners – the interior of the Peabody was air conditioned to a temperature somewhere around sub-Arctic. Never have I been so cold in a large building before. By the second day, at every session I was wearing the heavy sweatshirt I was so thankful I had packed.


The Peabody chain, as you might know, is world renowned for its Peabody ducks, a tradition begun in Little Rock. Every day, promptly at 11 a.m., a flock of five ducks waddle down a red carpet and dive into the hotel's lobby pool, where they flap and frolic until 5 p.m. when they return to their evening quarters with much pomp and fanfare.

A word to the wise: If dining in the hotel restaurant, never ask for the roast duck entrée. Bad form.


I did make it to the William J. Clinton Presidential Library and Museum, which as you can imagine is a source of great pride to the local citizenry.

Regardless of your political leanings, you should visit presidential libraries whenever you get the chance, if for no other reason than to touch a period of American history. The Clinton museum was hosting an Elvis Presley exhibit, which if you remember Bill Clinton makes complete sense. The museum also has on display the saxophone Clinton played on The Arsenio Hall Show the night he essentially secured the nation's black vote. 


However, I looked all over for the one thing I really wanted to see, but never found it: the definition of what "is" is. 


The three-day convention offered breakout sessions with titles like "Preparing Yourself for Dialysis" and "The National Kidney Registry: Understanding the Kidney Exchange Program." They were extremely informative, but no more so than my fellow attendees.

Here I am with my new friend Brad Mayfield. (No relation to the late R&B immortal Curtis, as far as he knows.) Brad and I talked at length about our individual journeys. I got to ask him how it felt to receive a kidney transplant, lose it through organ rejection and then rebound, physically and emotionally.


The greatest component of the AAKP convention was the feeling of being surrounded by hundreds of people who could relate exactly to what you've been going through. I met people who have been on dialysis for 30, 40 years and are still going strong. 


No place for a scintilla of self-pity here. What's that old saying, "I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet?" 


Just call me Shoeless Jim.

Left Holding the Bag

I have just returned home from a grueling 11-day sojourn to Chicago, Florida, back to Chicago and off to Muskegon, Mich., to research my current book, conduct interviews and act as emcee at the wedding of my childhood friend's youngest daughter. Eight different cities, five different hotel beds and countless restaurant meals in a week and a half.

I'm pooped. And just a bit backed up.

And at every stop along the way, my trusty Baxter Home Choice® Automated PD (Peritoneal Dialysis) Cycler machine has been by my side. I realized recently that I haven't really said much about my PD cycler in these musings, which is a sin and an oversight because it's the primary reason I continue to feel as well as I do. In the latest issue of LifeLines, the national patient newsletter of DaVita, a fellow PD user from San Antonio named Jack White describes the procedure more simply and completely than I could:

"The process is so simple most anyone can use PD. First you need a port inserted in the wall of your abdomen. This requires a minor surgery. The cavity in our abdomen that contains the stomach and intestines is called the peritoneal cavity. The lining of the cavity is called the peritoneum and is filled with tiny blood vessels.

"In PD the peritoneum acts as a filter. The peritoneal cavity is filled with a dextrose solution that draws the impurities out of the blood in all of those blood vessels in the lining.

"We hook the solution bags up to the port in my abdomen. The entire process works on gravity. [There's a] drain bag on the floor for the bad stuff.... First the old stuff is drained out of my abdomen into the bag on the floor. The new dextrose solution fills my abdomen and the exchange is done. I'm ready to resume my daily activities. The PD cycler machine is a little computer that directs the swtich back and forth from drain to fill."

                                                             The miraculous Baxter Home Choice® PD Cycler.

It really is an amazing device, especially when you consider that the alternative is traveling to a faraway, antiseptic dialysis clinic multiple times each week, having all your blood sucked out of your body and pumped back in, and being surrounded by masked attendants and fellow sufferers you don't know.

I could not possibly travel as freely and frequently as I do without my cycler. And let me just take a moment here to tell you how wonderful Baxter is. On this trip, after almost two years of near-daily use, eight hours a day, my trusty cycler emitted an ear-bending beep and breathed its last. To make matters worse, its death occurred on the last day of my hotel stay in Sarasota, Fla., and I had not yet reserved my next room somewhere near Miami.

I called Baxter's technical support line and explained my dilemma. "Well, where will you be tomorrow?" my tech, Matt, asked.

"I have an interview in Miami Lakes at 11 o'clock," I said.

"How long will you be there?"

"Two hours or so, I guess."

"Bring your old machine with you. We'll have someone meet you there and swap it out for a new one."

And, sure as the IRS, the next day a Baxter driver arrived at my interview location with a brand spanking-new cycler, dropped it off with the receptionist and took the old unit away before my appointment was concluded. Who says service has gone the way of the Nehru jacket? Very impressive.

The cycler weighs more than 30 pounds, and since it costs more to replace than I'll probably make this year, it never leaves my sight when I'm on the road. I carry it with me on board planes, usually without hassle from the TSA or flight attendants, and because I never know how far it is from my airport arrival gate (why is it always Gate 99?) to the baggage claim, I often swallow my pride and request a wheelchair assist from the gate. Usually, once I sit in the chair and they pile my cycler and briefcase in my lap, no one can see me anyway.

I have tried to make the trek from the gate without a wheelchair. In my slightly weakened condition it feels like dragging a boulder across the desert. At least, that's what I look like I've done by the time I reach the carousel.

Here's my rub: While the cycler rides for free, the supplies it needs to operate – the drain bags, filtering cassettes, clamps, tape and the like – take up so much space they require a separate bag of their own. And American Airlines, which I flew on this trip, licking its greedy chops over the prospect of additional gouging, charged me an extra $60 for that bag of supplies each way of my journey.

That's right. Pick on the sick kidney guy.

I try very hard to fly Southwest, which has no oppressive add-on baggage fees, whenever I can. But there are some places Southwest doesn't go. I'm told there is a way around the extra charge for essential medical supplies. and if anyone knows about this, please educate me. Meanwhile, I'm going to do some research on my own.

I've got another trip, to Little Rock, set later this month. I don't want to be left holding the bag again.

Giving Me the Finger

WHAT THE HECK IS THIS?

Not long ago I woke up to find the ring finger of my right hand bent back like a brown "C," as if it was pointing back at me, or preparing to flick something away. Even worse, it was locked in that position. And it hurt! I grabbed it with my other hand and tried to straighten it out. After hearing a small but audible "click," it was back in its normal position.

Now it's happening to the same digit dozens of times each day. Since I use that finger, along with its nine close friends, to do important things like write, make money and deliver these messages to you, this is no minor inconvenience.

It's an incredibly weird feeling when a part of your body doesn't respond to your mental commands. When it locks, I stare at my finger  and think, "Bend! BEND! I, your master, ORDER you to return to your regular place!"

Nuthin'.

Like I did when I learned I had kidney failure, my first move was to the World Wide Interweb to do some fast, intense medical research. What I have is actually quite common, Google tells me. O, fortunate me.

It's called "trigger finger," or stenosing tenosynovitis. We'll just stick with "trigger finger." And according to the American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons Web site, even with all the advances in modern medicine nobody seems to know exactly what causes it. Marvelous.

Here's what the orthopods do know:

• It happens when the flexor tendon, which controls the movement of your fingers and thumbs, becomes irritated or actually gets caught for a moment on a tiny nodule growing in the sheath that keeps the tendon in place.

• It is more common in women than men. (Lucky, lucky me.)

• It  occurs most frequently in people between 40 and 60. (Check.)

• It is more common in people who have certain medical conditions, lilke rheumatoid arthritis or diabetes. (Wait a minute: I've got diabetes, too?)

(Oh, no. It's probably the kidney thing. Never mind.)

• It may occur after heavy hand use or activities that strain the hand. (You mean, like typing millions of words over a 35-year career?)

Fortunately, a woman at our church, Theresa Miller, is a well-known physical therapist in the area. Unfortunately, she couldn't hold out much hope.

There is no "cure" for stenosing tenosynovitis, Theresa told me, and the best treatments are rest, perhaps some heat, and anti-inflammatory medicines. Occasionally a doctor will inject a steroid medication DIRECTLY INTO THE FINGER to help relieve the pain. (I'll need a moment here.)

As a last resort, surgery may be recommended to prevent permanent stiffness. In any case, the options don't sound particularly sunny.

Karen has become very adept at massaging the sides of my finger in just the right places when it locks to ease it pack to full extension. Theresa suggested a special finger splint to aid in the resting process, and I'll likely pick one up the next time I'm near a medical supply outlet. So in the future, if you should read anything I write that suddenly starts missing all its "Ls" and "Os," it's probably because I'm trying to finish my w rk whi e wearing the sp int.

A Donor Has Been Found!

If there's one thing I have learned through this amazing kidney journey, it's that nothing should amaze me.

You remember the story of the anonymous Detroit gentleman, a stranger to me and in terminal condition, who read about my situation and designated that one of his kidneys be given to me upon his passing? (If not, you can read about it here.) That selfless donation had to be declined for numerous reasons, but now, astonishingly, another potential organ donor has stepped forward:

Charlie Sheen.

Apparently during all my coverage of Sheen's tribulations with Two and a Half Men as TV critic for the Detroit Metro Times, one of his people, Stan Rosenfeld, came across Just Kidneying while Googling my name and brought the blog to his attention. In the call I received last night, Sheen says he feels moved to make sure I'm "WINNING!" in my quest for a transplant and is in the process of undergoing a blood test to make sure we're a type match. Even if we're not, he feels the tiger's blood surging through his veins will be enough to overcome any incompatibility issues.

The real issue, as it was with the man from Detroit, will be the overall health and condition of his organs. Charlie believes his kidneys are sufficiently pickled to be well preserved for transplantation, and as a "rock star from Mars" he thinks it's highly possible he may have a third or fourth extra kidney inside him anyway.

We plan to meet in person backstage during his live tour stop at the Fox Theatre in Detroit Saturday to seal the deal, at which time I will tell him what I'm about to tell you now.

Happy April Fool's Day, everybody.

Jimmy Springs a Leak

Why they waited until the day of their mutual birthdays to decide they had to buy presents for each other, I'll never understand. But the twins, Madison and Emma, pleaded with me to drive them to the mall on a recent Friday after school. Happily, in January I bought a 2011 black Chevy Camaro (feel free to oooh and aaah below) because I decided to fully enjoy my only midlife crisis, so I'm pretty excited to drive anybody anywhere these days.

The girls love to shriek and cavort from its back seat over the sheer power of the Camaro's mighty V6 engine – which, come to think of it, may have been the reason they waited until they were sure I would be the one to ferry them in my "rocket car," as they call it. They have even bestowed it with a nickname: 'Black Betty." I'm thinking seriously of getting a vanity license plate for it this summer that will simply read, "BAMALAM." Those who get it will get it.

Happy Black Man With Snappy Black Car  

Anyway, we're in Decatur motoring down Martin Luther King Boulevard en route to the mall (why do bad things always seem to happen on MLK?) when I decide to call The Wife on my Droid and let her know where I'm headed.

"Gadzooks!" (or something like that) I think to myself. "My phone is wet! How can that be?"

Then, in fast order, I realize the right side of my jeans, my leather jacket and, yes, my underwear are soaking through, too. I pull back my jacket and unleash a spout of liquid shooting straight up into the air – all over the interior of my brand-new beautiful car. Worse, that liquid was quickly identified as warm body juice; the joint where my catheter connects to its external tubing had cracked, and the dialysis fluid that should have been circulating around my peritoneal cavity was suddenly circulating around my Camaro.

As the girls squealed and pointed, I grabbed the leak with one hand and steered the car into a church lot, no easy feat when you're driving a stick shift. I put the rocket car in park, leaped from the vehicle and attempted to cap my gusher. The twins, trying to be extremely helpful, grabbed everything they could find to stuff the leak: used paper tissues on the floorboard, a dirty rag on the backseat. I think I even remember seeing an old PayDay wrapper in all the confusion.

Praise God we were less than a mile from my DaVita dialysis clinic. Doubled over like a gunshot victim in a TV show and working my car's clutch with whichever foot was closest, we sputtered into the DaVita parking lot. It was nearly 5 o'clock on a Friday, but I prayed someone would still be there who could help.

Prayer answered. There has been considerable flux and turnover among the Peritoneal Dialysis nurses in Decatur, and Karey was virtually a PD rookie, but she happily agreed to give my catheter repair a try. While she called Champaign for advice and inspiration, I waited anxiously. When you have a manmade hole in your body with a tube hanging out of it, you are repeatedly warned that infection is a constant danger. Peritonitis. Can be fatal if unchecked, you're cautioned. And we've just slapped every filthy thing we could find on top of it to stem the tide. We did everything short of blow on the tube to hold the water back! If the catheter gets infected, or needs to be removed, my days on PD could be over.

Emma and Madison, for their part, were wonderful, supportive and encouraging. It took nearly an hour for the emergency patching to be completed, and the girls busied themselves by watching TV in the clinic lobby, talking up patients coming in for their treatments, and taking a semi-guided tour of the facility. (That is, peeking in the open doors.)

Madison and Emma, Acting a Fool at the DaVita Dialysis Clinic   

"Jim," Madison enthused, "this is the best birthday ever!"

I'm sure Maddie doesn't know the meaning of hyperbole yet, but for some reason I had a hard time believing that.

Finally the leak was sealed, temporarily; I had to journey to Champaign the following Monday for the permanent fix. As she was putting on her best finishing touches, Karey asked, "Why didn't you use your clamp?"

"What clamp?"

"Do you have a little white clamp they gave you to tie off the fluid line in case of emergencies?"

Sheepishly, I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the small pillbox I carry to hold my mealtime medication. I opened it. Yep, there it is, all right. A little white clamp. Good thing I have that, in case of emergencies. Hey, I could use some emergency training!

As we walked back to the car, I heard a small, tentative voice behind me.

"Jim," Emma asked, "can we still go to the mall?"

What could I say? They had done so well, been so helpful, reassuring and patient. Off we went to the mall.

"But remember, ladies, my underwear is still soaking wet!" I announced. "So please shop as quickly as you can!"

Ever try to make two 11-year-old girls shop quickly?

Ever go through a mall walking like John Wayne?

P.S.: The Wife watched me the entire weekend like I was planning an escape, looking for any hint of fever or discomfort, but I came through with flying colors. No peritonitis. No infection. God is good. All the time.

Shelter From the Storm

What I'm feeling is something close to survivor guilt. I'm sitting on the king-sized bed in my room at the majestic Four Seasons in Westlake Village, Calif., a room with a chandelier and a mini-bar. I'm scheduled to speak here Thursday morning to offer a "patient perspective" (read: provide the morning entertainment) for Baxter Healthcare's annual national sales convention.

Baxter flew me out to LA and is putting me up at the Four Seasons for two days to give a 15-minute presentation. God bless America.

But back home on the prairie of central Illinois, weathergeddon has arrived. Sleet. Ice. Snow. All together and in various combinations. We're expecting the locusts and frogs by Friday. Chicago is anticipating at least two feet of snow, much of which will be covering my new black 2011 Camaro (love that car) when I return. That's if I can return.

The airports aren't flying. The roads are shut down. The Midwest is closed for the week, frozen into suspended animation. The University of Illinois, where The Wife works, has closed all three of its statewide campuses for the first time in 100 years. This is serious.

I feel like I should be united with my family, battling shoulder to shoulder against the cruel elements, the sporadic power outages, the bone-chilling cold and paralyzing ice. Then I stroll down the richly appointed hallway to the elevator and down to the sushi bar at Onyx, a restaurant in the Four Seasons, where I order a "Hawaiian Volcano," possibly the best thing I've ever put into my mouth, and I break into bursts of uncontrolled giggling. Decatur, Ill., seems very far away.

The "Hawaiian Volcano" sushi roll at Onyx in the Four Seasons Westlake Village, Calif., maybe the single best thing I've ever tasted.

I came so close to not making it here at all. When the dire weather predictions began filtering through last weekend and Wednesday, the day I originally was scheduled to fly out of O'Hare, was targeted as the day all heck would break loose, my family encouraged me to get out of the house and drive to Chicago as early as I could on Monday. (They said it was because of the oncoming storm, but now that I think about it....) The people at Baxter's travel department, so incredibly helpful, understood my concern and paid the change fee to book me on an flight early Tuesday morning.

Which, of course, I missed.

I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express near the airport, but missed my shuttle ride by seconds. By the time I got to O'Hare 30 minutes later, the best United could do was put me on standby for the next flight at 10:30 a.m. I had a little breakfast, went to the gate and waited. And prayed. And hoped.

The 10:30 flight, the update screens said, was completely sold out, and I was seventh on the standby list. Passengers were rushing the gate like U.S. Embassy workers getting out of Egypt. In my mind, I was contemplating the best place to have lunch at the airport.

Then, at the very last moment, I heard, "Passenger McFarlin!" I grabbed that boarding pass like it was a winning lottery ticket and dashed to the last seat on the 747. God is good, all the time. I was meant to be here, I guess. I swear I could see the storm clouds moving in as our plane was climbing above them.

I don't necessarily feel pressure, but I'm thinking I need to be really good Thursday morning to justify Baxter bringing me here and out of the frozen tundra. I'm going to try very hard not to giggle.