Alan and Gloria, on his 70th birthday. |
JK – Just Kidneying
It's kidney disease as Toy Story and the blogger as Buzz Lightyear: from dialysis to transplantation – and beyond!
Wednesday, November 16, 2022
I Really Give a Whitt About This Guy; I’m Hoping That You Will, Too
Thursday, November 18, 2021
Happy Kidneyversary to Me: Celebrating A Decade of Death Defiance
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."
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:
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!
Monday, April 12, 2021
It May Not Be the Bee's Knees, But I Hope My Knee Will 'Bees' Better
This is about how my knee feels now. Every day. |
• This will be my first major operation since my kidney transplant at Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis on November 18, 2011. (Great Googly-Moogly! That was 10 years ago! I just realized that. Suppose I should think about doing some sort of anniversary tribute later this year.) And to tell you the truth, I really don't know how I feel about this week's procedure.
• My surgery initially was scheduled for March 2020, about a week before the world as we knew it flipped upside down and corona became way more than the name of an imported beer. My joint replacement was canceled due to a sudden, urgent need for hospital beds. Then it was aborted a second time in November when the virus spiked again. As a result, I have been in relentless, agonizing leg pain for more than a year, Biofreeze and IcyHot my constant sidekicks.
I have not been a happy cowboy.
As another result, I find myself approaching this week's operation with a feeling of...well, really, no feeling at all. I'm not excited or anxious or nervous or relieved. I was bitter for quite some time over the cancellations and the knowledge that my suffering continued through no fault of my own. But when you've been in pain day after day for months, it sadly becomes part of your normal existence. You learn to live with it. If you can call that living.
(Many deep thanks to Danny McFarlin –– absolutely no relation, unless his family once owned mine –– the physician's assistant who kept me reasonably sane between surgical disappointments with a series of cortisone injections in my knee. He really gave me a leg up.
My Surgeon: 'No-Pain Bane?' |
And while I'm told the pain will be worse after the procedure, at least initially, at this point it's all relative. Besides, fool me twice, shame on everybody. When I'm actually on the gurney with an IV in my arm and being wheeled into the OR, then I'll know it's really going to happen. Until then, I'm keeping my emotions on lockdown.
• The orthopedic surgeon performing my procedure (a total left knee arthroplasty) is one Dr. Robert Bane, who by all accounts is the Dr. Kildare of east central Illinois. I am not exaggerating when I tell you every single person who's asked about my operation has broken into a broad, knowing smile when I answer, "Doctor Bane," followed immediately by, "He's the best."
OH! I misspoke. One woman at my church replied, "I tried to get Dr. Bane, but I couldn't get onto his calendar. (Pause.) He's the best, you know."
Even other doctors praise his holy name, which is rare indeed. Last week my cardiologist broke into a broad smile when Bane's name came up. "You're in good hands," he reassured. Ironically, I have yet to meet him: we conversed briefly via Zoom many months ago, but due to COVID I will not meet the man in person who's going to cut into my flesh until I'm on the table preparing for the anesthesia. I'm in the hands of a near-total stranger. He is, quite literally, the Bane of my existence.
I am absolutely positive I am not the first one to come up with that.
• I know times change over the course of a decade, but I don't remember ever jumping through as many pre-surgical hoops as I have for this procedure. I have had a complete pre-op physical, new X-rays, bone density screening, blood pressure monitoring, a consultation with my cardiologist. Bathe with a special soap the night before and the day of surgery. Sleep on clean sheets. Stop taking vitamins and all supplements. And, of course, the obligatory COVID-19 test.
Good news: here you can take the COVID test without having to leave your car. Bad news: It entails pulling into a line as long as the ones giving out free food these days and enduring what seems like a drawn-out, confusing and disorganized process. Very good news: The Carle system requires patients to simply run a Q-Tip around both nostrils, rather than jamming a stick past the eye and into the brain. Extremely good news: I tested negative, so we can continue to communicate.
• I suddenly came to realize one reason so many pre-op tests are required is because I'm not as young as my brain keeps telling me I am. I was blown away by the number of contemporaries who responded to my Facebook announcement of impending knee replacement with comments like, "Had mine done years ago," "Had both of mine done" or "You won't regret it." One friend even sent me a book of healing techniques after surgeries! Good Lord – my friends are getting so OLD! So thankful I'm retaining my youth.
My knee, without a scar. For posterity. |
• I was grateful that my pastor, Herb Coates, specifically mentioned me and my upcoming surgery during his congregational prayer last Sunday. Prayers are always welcomed. However, since I was manning the Welcome Desk next to the front door after the service, I was an easy target for every parishioner who wanted to inquire about the operation –– which seemed like every parishioner. I swear, I think some of them seemed to care more about my surgery than I do. Is that a good thing?
• I am also so, so grateful for the advancements in medical science. Knee replacements are commonplace now but practically unheard of in America until the 1970s. I think of my Aunt Carrie in Palmetto, Ga., God rest her soul, who made her living by cleaning the local movie theater. In those days you were lucky to have any job, so she worked on her hands and knees, picking up candy and all manner of filth brooms couldn't reach, well into her 80s. What unbearable pain she, and so many other laborers, must have endured!
I'll think of you Wednesday, Auntie. Just before the lights go out.
Thursday, March 11, 2021
Taking My Best Shot: Pondering the COVID Vaccine Controversy
They even give you a sticker! |
A Shot in the Arm for America. |
Thursday, November 5, 2020
Can Kidneys Create Comedy? I'm Trying to 'B Positive'
Hey, this is a joke, right?
Transplant Pals. (by Pamela Littky, Warner Bros.) |
Thursday, June 4, 2020
I Can Feel That Knee On My Neck, Too
Now THAT'S Symbolism. |
Memorials to George Floyd Are Going Up Across the Nation. |
COVIDQuarantineJoblessnessKobeTrumpBreonnaAhmaud: it all runs together. A steady stream of 2020 indignities. Simmering, churning anger. Pressure. Time on our hands. We can't breathe.
Friday, April 10, 2020
Please Say a Prayer For My Man, Alex the Great. He's Got IT.
Alex and Me at the Book Launch Party for "The Booster" in '19 |
I posted some goofy photo on Facebook the other day that made vague reference to the coronavirus, and among the comments was a totally unexpected response from Alex Kimbrough's wife, Rosalind. It simply said, "Call Your Buddy Alex!"
These days, when anybody says "Call your buddy" who lives in disease devastated Detroit, you do it.
So I did.
And he does.
They say it's only a daily, brain-numbing drumbeat of numbers, advisories and Trump denials until someone you love is stricken by "the virus." And I see now that it's true.
Because while I have been moved by the recent deaths of distant friends and notable names in my former Detroit home, people like the amazing drama educator and devotee Brenda Perryman, former Aretha Franklin intimate Willie Wilkerson, and legendary restaurateur Otis Knapp ("Mr. FoFo") Lee, this is now a entirely different dimension entirely.
Because you see, Alex Kimbrough is my boy, in that inflection African American men use to describe another man who inhabits his innermost circle.
And Alex Kimbrough has COVID-19.
I suppose Rosalind wanted her husband to tell me himself. My late afternoon call woke him up, which was not completely uncommon: as morning news director for Detroit's FOX2 (WJBK) for as long as anyone can remember, more than 30 years at the station in all, his workday typically begins in the wee small hours.
But once I sensed that his weak, gravelly speech was more than the sound of someone being awakened from a deep slumber, I immediately felt guilty. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. My own breathing was becoming sporadic.
"She didn't tell you?" Alex asked me. "Well, it's good to hear your voice."
He doesn't know when or where he contracted the illness, but who does? He had just been released after spending five days at Providence Hospital, and never needed to go on a ventilator. Thank heaven for all blessings, great and small.
Alex in His Element, Here Directing Aretha's Funeral Coverage |
But Alex almost was at a loss for words –– which for him would be literally unheard of –– when trying to describe how much pain he was, and continues to be, in.
"It's worse than the worst flu you could ever have," he rasped. "Don't get this, Jim. Do NOT get this. You don't want this."
Alex said the higher-ups at FOX2 have advised him to take all the time he needs to recover, to not even think about returning to the control room until he feels 100 percent. Wise decision. The station wants to protect one of their, and Detroit's, great natural resources.
In addition to his work at WJBK, in his "spare time" Alex has freelanced directing programs for Detroit Public Television (WTVS) for more than 20 years, and freely lends his talents to other Metro Detroit productions as well. For a brief period he even worked for the Detroit Lions. When Aretha Franklin's sudden death in 2018 left local and national broadcast outlets without someone to coordinate the TV media pool, Alex was recruited to spearhead the coverage, more than eight hours live and nonstop.
He is so highly regarded by his peers that he has served as president of the National Association of Black Journalists' (NABJ) Detroit chapter, vice president of the local branch of NATAS (National Association of Television Arts and Sciences, the Emmy people), and has long been active in the local chapter of the Directors' Guild of America.
And you would be hard-pressed to find a more devoted or passionate alum of Detroit's famed Cass Technical High School: Alex's regular "Cass Tech Moments," usually connected to a fellow grad who appeared on a FOX2 morning show, are the stuff of social media lore. His proposed documentary on Cass Tech, which he's been working on almost as long as I've known him, has become a permanent agenda item whenever we talk.
And atop it all, Alex Kimbrough is a loyal and loving husband to Rosalind, and a doting dad to their only son, Brandon. He's been a BMW –– Black Man Working –– for an entire career, committed to providing for his family. He's just a good brother.
I almost feel guilty or selfish asking you to pray for someone who appears to be on the back end of coronavirus when so many have lost so many to this disastrous pandemic. However, like I said, the abstract becomes achingly real when it suddenly affects someone you know and care about.
So, if you are so inclined on this Good Friday, and beyond, please ask God to lay His healing hand on Alex Kimbrough and help him to make a full recovery.
After all, who else is going to finish that Cass Tech documentary?