Yet ANOTHER Advantage of Kidney Transplants – New Friends!

My budding bud, Wayne: Sox and Tigers fans, united by kidneys!

At this age I'm not accustomed to getting all giddy over the making of a new friend. That's typically the province of grade-school boys at their first Cub Scout meeting. However, I recently forged a new acquaintance, and I've got to tell you: I'm pretty jazzed about it.

Meet Wayne Meyer II (says Jimmy McFarlin III), baseball coach for small-town Le Roy Junior/Senior High School ("Home of the Panthers") about a half-hour drive from where I live. Now, if Wayne was only a baseball coach and former player, that surely would be enough to curry my excitement: as anyone who knows me will attest, I am an absolute geekazoid when it comes to America's (First, Last and Always) Pastime. For my birthday in June, the only present I really asked for – and received, thankfully – was the commemorative bobblehead of Detroit Tigers righthander Michael Fulmer, the 2016 American League Rookie of the Year. 

What does that say about me?

Anyway, I feel pretty confident that Wayne and I will have a lot to talk about going forward, which is important after the getting-to-know-you period has subsided. But here's the kicker: this tall, extremely healthy-looking man is, like me, a kidney transplant recipient!

Small (Wayne's) World, ain't it?

He and I met in the usual way: standing in line for tests at a hospital laboratory office. I was in line behind Wayne, and regardless of what all those signs say about patient privacy and HIPAA regulations, you cannot possibly whisper softly enough at the check-in desk to avoid being overheard by everyone in a small waiting room. 

He answered all the same medical questions I have been asked at that desk at least once a month for the last six years. I was so familiar with them, I knew the basics of Wayne's condition before he ever turned around to face me.

"How long ago was your transplant?" I asked him.

Came to find out he was a "newbie." He underwent successful transplant surgery on Dec. 3, 2016, and, like I did the first year or so, has to come to the hospital every week for blood tests. The transplant team wants to make sure your foreign "tenant" is making itself comfortable in its new home. For Wayne, that means making the 70-mile round trip from Le Roy every seven days. 

I learned that not only do we share the same local nephrologist, the wise and compassionate Dr. Abdel-Moneim Attia, but we had our surgeries at the same hospital, Barnes-Jewish in St. Louis. We were like renal relatives! Kidney cousins! Since our lab schedules were certain to dovetail, I invited him out to coffee at some later date. To my great delight, he accepted.

My favorite birthday gift. Is something wrong with me?

Weeks later, at an Einstein Bagels restaurant in the shadow of the hospital, Wayne and I got better acquainted. It's fascinating to me how many different ways people come to the point of needing a kidney transplant. In his case, he was actually born with only one kidney! 

Wayne said he was never made aware of it – and since he was a young, healthy, athletic fellow, who would think to look? – until his overworked organ began wearing out. "I had the kidney of a 90-year-old man," he told me.

In 2015, Old Man Kidney decided it had labored long enough. "I started feeling sick," he recalls. "I powered through the end of the school year, and the baseball season, of course, but my feet started to swell. My energy went way down." By the time his wife, Victoria, finally convinced him to go to the hospital, "I was struggling," he admits. "I needed to know what was going on, but I was scared to find out."

Not only did Attia calm and encourage him, but he also made a prediction. "Dr. Attia said from the get-go, 'a year and a half, two years,'" until he received a transplant, Wayne says, "but everything from Barnes-Jewish said it was going to be at least a three- to four-year wait. But Dr. Attia knew what he was doing. He called it from the first time he met me when I was hospitalized."

Wayne spent that year-and-a-half wait on peritoneal dialysis – just like me! – and dialyzed at home with his wife's valiant assistance. "The quality of life did not change much at all," he says. "That's what made the transition so much easier." 

Beyond the steadfast support of Victoria and their two sons, Trey and Colin, the outpouring of concern and care from his tiny town was overwhelming, he says. Clearly, LeRoy adores its high school baseball coach and his family. 

"Some guys at school organized fundraisers to help cover medical expenses," Wayne says. "It seemed like everybody knew about it. I still get people from around town, even other towns, asking me how I'm doing. People who I had no idea knew anything."

And how is he doing? "I feel great," he beams. "Never had a sick day because of it. My energy level is great, though I'm not in shape like I used to be."

None of us are, Coach. Although I'll bet his superior conditioning played a big part in his recovery and present state of health.

His health and happiness come tinged with just a touch of regret, however. Wayne doesn't know who his kidney donor was, but "I do know the kidney was supposed to go to a family member, and for whatever reason it didn't work out," he says. "It's an odd feeling, knowing that it was designated for someone within the donor's family and I ended up getting it. It's kind of a touchy situation. It's one of those cases where you're excited, but you still feel bad." 

Of course, we also talked a lot of baseball. He is a Chicago White Sox fan, but he's such a nice guy that I'm willing to forgive that misguided life decision.

Wayne has invited me to speak to his English class, which will happen in the very near future. I'm so excited! I love talking to young people about the power and passion words can carry, and the remarkable career opportunities I've enjoyed from being able to write good.

Uh, well, I mean. (Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.)

I think the hardest part will be not spending the entire class time talking about our transplants. For both Mr. Meyer and me, it's been an education.

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!

One Is the Giddiest Number

Spent one full day this week under the sheltering shadow of the Gateway Arch, receiving my quarterly kidney checkup at my transplant center, Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis.

Now, I think I'm doing extremely well. All my vital signs appear normal (I take them myself every day), I'm in no pain to speak of (well, not around the transplant site, anyway), and my urine is generally clean and pure. (Sorry: TMI?) But this week's medical inspection confirmed my beliefs far beyond my wildest expectations.

The incredibly fetching LPN, Skye Smith, carefully reviewed all my significant test results and gave Karen and me three pieces of very good news. One, my blood work has been coming back so consistently within accepted ranges that I may now push back my blood tests from every Monday to every other week. My battered and beleaguered veins breathe a sigh of "Thank you."

Two, from now on my quarterly trek to St. Louis can become a semi-annual journey.  In fact, Skye suggested, if we prefer we can check in with my in-city kidney specialist, Dr. Abdel Moneim Attia, every six months and only make the drive to Missouri once a year! All the hotels and restaurants in St. Louis are breathing a groan of, "Awww, we'll miss all that money."

The third item, however, was most astonishing to me. My level of creatinine – possibly the body's best barometer of kidney function, a range that should fall between 0.9-1.3 for a healthy man of my age, a number that soared past 4.0 at the height of my kidney failure – is now standing at 1.0! Unbelievable! Hallelujah!

With God, my friends and neighbors, all things are possible.

My Cheyenne, which Detroit News columnist Neal Rubin referred to recently as "the world's most famous aftermarket kidney," is kicking some serious booty. I belong to the local support group chapter of the National Kidney Foundation of Illinois, and at most of our monthly meetings the members, almost all of whom are dialysis patients or transplant recipients, discuss their creatinine levels like they were comparing golf scores.

Can't wait till our next meeting. I don't know their numbers, but I'm betting my 1.0 will make me the medalist for this round.

The Toughest Decision

I was in the middle of a deliciously hot shower not long ago, singing lustily to some bygone '80s hit (probably by The GAP Band), when my mother-in-law came into the bathroom and thrust her cell phone behind the curtain.

She dropped a bomb on me, baby.

"You MUST take this phone call!" she announced.

"Uh, I'm kinda wet, soapy and naked at the moment," I replied. "This can't wait five minutes for me to dry off?"

"NO!" Mother-in-Law declared. "You have to take it RIGHT NOW!"

I understood the reason for her urgency moments after I took the receiver. My wife, Karen, was on the other end. The transplant office at Barnes-Jewish Hospital in St. Louis, where my kidney case is located, called her when they couldn't find me. And how could they? I was singing in the shower!

The hospital had located a replacement kidney for me.

My eyes began stinging, and not because soap was dripping into them. Apparently, a gentleman from Detroit whom I had never met (and whose name won't be repeated here out of respect to his family), upon learning of his terminal illness, designated in his will that I was to receive one of his kidneys.

I've wracked my brain ever since trying to recall any part of my past where his name might be familiar, but come up empty. I can only assume he may have read my medical confessional in HOUR Detroit magazine a year or so ago, or somehow became aware of this blog. However it happened, the thought that a complete stranger personally chose me to receive a life-giving organ upon his death is beyond humbling. It's overwhelming. Praise God.

Since Karen was still in her office, she set up a three-way conference call between her, the transplant coordinator and me. The coordinator explained that the kidney being donated to me fell under what they call the "extended criteria" category. It was a match, but the donor was eight years older, suffered from hypertension (high blood pressure) and had a history of smoking in his past.

"Geez," I thought, "this sounds like my own kidneys, only with more mileage."

If I wanted the kidney, they would start to make arrangements for the transplant operation straightaway. If I decided not to take it, there would be no harm, no foul for me because of the condition of the organ; I would simply be placed back on the transplant waiting list. Whatever I decided, I had to give my answer immediately, if not sooner. The kidney was being harvested, and if I didn't want it, someone else could benefit from the transplant.

I asked the coordinator if we could have a little time to make our decision, and she agreed. (And it is our decision, by the way; the entire family lives with kidney disease, suffers through a transplant operation and assists in the recovery. Everybody gets a vote in this election.) Take as long as you like, she said. You can have a couple of hours.

I thought I had agonized over other major decisions in my life, but they were easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy compared to this. I tried to contact my kidney specialist, Dr. Attia, for a second opinion but couldn't reach him. Karen and I talked intensely, and my mother-in-law had a few more words of wisdom for me once I was out of the shower.

We prayed. We discussed. We debated. Then we prayed and discussed and debated some more. Ultimately, the verdict would be mine.

Two dizzying hours later, I had made up my mind. My decision might have been different if I was in worse condition, or if I wasn't coping so well on Peritoneal Dialysis. But somebody else might need that kidney more desperately right now, and I could afford to wait for a younger, healthier, more ideal organ to come along.

I called the transplant coordinator back and politely said thanks, but no thanks.

It was a gut-wrenching call to make. I felt as if I was slapping a dead man in the face, spitting on his final wishes. Think about his family, Karen offered. They've probably gone through so much already with his illness and death, and rejecting his kidney is almost like you're rejecting him, and the rest of them as well.

Thanks, honey. That helps a lot.

For what it was worth, at my next scheduled appointment with Dr. Attia we discussed my decision at great length. He agreed with my thought process. If some surgeon is going to cut you open and stick a foreign object inside you, he said, do it once, do it right, and do it with the best organ you can find.

Which doesn't mean I don't think about that man I never met and his amazingly selfless offer every day. Did I insult his memory? Did I make the right choice? Who can say for sure?

And what if that perfect kidney never comes along?

Regaining My Religion

I have grown lazy. Well, maybe not lazy so much as complacent.

Where my daily Peritoneal Dialysis (PD) sessions are concerned, anytime a person does the same thing seven days a week for the better part of a year, it's way too easy to start cutting corners. Maybe I don't do the full-out, 45-second, official DaVita Hand Wash every time before beginning my fluid exchange (see "Washing My Hands of Everything" from last February), or wear a surgical mask when I want to begin dialyzing quickly. Hey, what's wrong with just holding your breath, huh?

Well, I received a double-barreled dose of reality and reprimand today during my monthly checkup in Champaign with my kidney specialist, Dr. Abdel-Moneim Attia. We went over my bloodwork results for the previous month and Dr. Attia beamed at how well I continue to respond to my PD regimen. All my significant markers – calcium, potassium, phosphorous, albumin – are at or above their recommended levels. My mountain of medications are in no need of adjustment. "You are doing very good," the doctor praised in his warm accent. "There is nothing I need to do for you."

Or so we thought. Since this appointment basically had turned into a conversation, my lips got loose and I let it slip that I'm probably not as cautious or meticulous about my dialysis preparation as I was when I first started. Got skill and experience now, you know.

Dr. Attia looked at me aghast. He then commenced to regale me with Halloween weekend horror stories about patients who were doing spectacularly on PD until they got cocky and stopped washing their hands or using surgical masks and hand sanitizer while preparing to dialyze. "There are more germs on your hands than anywhere else on your body," he chided, "and you're using them to prepare solution that will go inside of you."

That does sound right, I thought sheepishly.

It only takes one nasty microorganism to get inside your peritoneal lining, he warned, and within five hours you've got a million of his cousins bouncing around your belly. Excruciating stomach pain, vomiting and diarrhea typically follow with peritonitis, he said; the infection won't kill you, but you'll wish it would.

And danger can come from the unlikeliest of sources, Attia added. He had one patient, a young woman who lived alone, who was performing splendidly on PD until she decided she needed a companion. She got a kitten. "The cat chewed through the tubing, and its germs got into the solution," he said. He shook his head. "And she was doing so well...."

"All right! I get it! I won't be sloppy again!" I squealed. The good doctor had worn me down. When you've got a catheter embedded inside you, tales of how it can go bad and force you to adopt the dreaded vampire-blood-sucking hemodialysis instead are scarier than any ghost stories I'm likely to hear this Halloween. Or ever.

I'm wearing my surgical mask while I write this. Don't want to accidentally breathe on my hands while I'm typing, since I'll be doing my daily exchange soon. Don't worry, I'll become less militant in a few weeks or so, but I have no intention of backsliding again. Like the U.S. Marines, when it comes to dialysis exchanges Semper fidelis will be my motto from now on.

Always faithful.

Brace(let) Yourself

Well, I received my shiny new medical ID bracelet in the mail last week, and it's a beaut. Sweet.

It occurred to me that if I was going to be spouting off about kidneys all the time like this, it might be a good idea to become semi-legit. So I sent in an application and donation to the National Kidney Foundation of Illinois, and in return the foundation sent me a spiffy silver medic alert bracelet with a red hexagon in the center and that snake wrapped around a stick, so in case I get bonked on the head or become otherwise unable to communicate everybody around me will know I'm not what you'd call 100 percent healthy.

On the back of the bracelet there's room for five tiny lines of engraved text. I consulted with my AWWOE (Angel Who Walks On Earth), DaVita dialysis nurse Diane King, to determine what those lines should say.

We agreed upon my name (although I probably could have figured that out on my own);

 Jim McFarlin 

my treatment;

Peritoneal Dialysis

the name of my nephrologist (though his full name, Abdel-Moneim Attia, is too long to fit on one line so we decided to shorten it to            

Dr. Abdel Attia     

I hope they can find him in a pinch);

his phone number, unnecessary here;          

217-DIA-LSIS

and my only known allergy.                             

Penicillin 

    

I now have four bracelets on my right wrist. I'm starting to feel like a Jamaican. In addition to the new silver lifesaver, I have the brown beaded bracelet with the butterfly in the center that our 10-year-old, Madison, made for me early in our relationship. I can't imagine taking that off anytime soon; maybe when she gets married. And yes, real men can wear butterflies.

Then there's the bright blue-and-green rubber bracelet I wear from AFSP, the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (http://www.afsp.org). It's a cause I support and a bracelet I wear on behalf of Jake Kaidan, a beautiful and engaging teen who took his own life four years ago, devastating his mother and my dear friend Lisa Johnson and her husband, Frank. I don't think there's anything that affects me more deeply or intensely than teen suicide. What an incredibly tragic waste.

And there's the simple green plastic strand I wear because Madison thought it matched the color of the AFSP band. I use it to remind me to stay green (I'm a committed – some might say fanatical – recycler) and to make more green stuff any way I can. Wouldn't it be funny if emergency medical people couldn't find the medic alert bracelet amid all the other bangles? 

Hey, wait! That wouldn't be funny at all!

You Like Me! You Really Like Me!

I think it's fair to suggest that very few people in the history of crappy kidneys have experienced a more enjoyable monthly checkup than I had last week at the DaVita clinic in Urbana-Champaign. Not only are all of my most important biological markers (phosphorus, calcium, protein and the like) at or above their recommended levels – "You are doing great," smiled my nephrologist, Dr. Attia – but my ego also received a major booster shot.

No fewer than five employees at the DaVita location, including the regional director herself, Ellie Suhl, took time out of their busy Friday to stop by my examination room to meet "the man who writes the blog" and compliment me on the quality of the work and for bringing attention to kidney disease and the outstanding work DaVita does in patient care. One woman said she especially giggled at my description of Diane King, my angelic dialysis nurse, as "Pollyanna," which meant that she not only really read the blog, she also had reader retention!

Now, this means two things:

(a) Many more people than you and me are reading these blatherings, to my great surprise, and

(b) I'm going to have to stop cussing in this blog and take it much more seriously every time out. After all, ladies are watching!

One nice added attraction of my appointment was being able to tell Ms. Suhl and several other people what I'm telling you now: DaVita's corporate marketing department in southern California somehow got wind of "Just Kidneying," and a delightful young woman interviewed me last week for a potential feature story in DaVita's national magazine!

Amazing. Life is a funny ol' dog, ain't it? Thirty-five years spent writing about other people in magazines national and local, and the first national article ever done on me comes as a result of renal failure.

Why, I could become the King of Kidneys! The Dean of Dialysis!

Hey! This Stuff Is SERIOUS!

On Tuesday, Dec. 1, 2009, the first day of the rest of my life arrived. As you may remember, a week ago, on Nov. 24, I underwent outpatient surgery at Carle Hospital in Urbana, IL, to have a catheter tube permanently implanted in my midsection in preparation for peritoneal kidney dialysis treatments to come. Yesterday, at the DaVita dialysis center in my new home of Decatur, IL, the surgical dressings were removed for the first time since the operation, the incision site was inspected, cleaned and sterilized, and a practice dialysis session was held to show me how it's done and to make sure the catheter is working properly.

Notice the look of uncontrolled terror in my eyes.

Right off the top, we (that is, my wife Karen, my mother-in-law Linda and I) received some discouraging news. Diane King, the delightful and extremely knowledgeable DaVita dialysis nurse who conducted our initial two-hour training, relayed the information that my kidney specialist, Dr. Attia, had decided to move up the start of my dialysis from sometime in January, after the holidays, to as soon as my incision completely heals in around two weeks. My latest lab results, from blood drawn on Monday, were not encouraging. My potassium levels were up, and my creatinine markers (the waste molecule generated by muscle metabolism that's an indicator of kidney function) were elevated.

Reality hit us all between the eyes. After talking about the possibility for many months, it was time to get started on daily dialysis treatments. Karen's eyes briefly filled with tears.

This is me with Diane King, the DaVita dialysis nurse. She has a voice like Pollyanna's, which somehow makes disheartening news easier to accept.

But then, before the training process begins in earnest, the first document among the mountain of paperwork I am required to sign is the "Authorization for Consent to Peritoneal Dialysis Procedure." And on the first page, the "significant risks associated with the procedure" are outlined. They include the possibility of:

• Contracting an infection in the peritoneal cavity (called peritonitis), the catheter tunnel or the exit site;

• Developing hernias in the groin from the pressure of the dialysis fluid;

• Erosion or perforation of the bowel walls by the catheter;

• Being stricken with hydrothorax, the leaking of dialysis fluid into the chest cavity;

• Sclerosis or scarring of the peritoneum, which can result in obstruction of the bowel, and, of course,

• Death.

Whoa! Hold on! Back the truck up! I don't recall anyone ever mentioning any of this before the catheter was stuck inside my belly, when peritoneal dialysis (PD) was being praised as the more convenient and advantageous form of kidney assistance. I tend to be the kind of person who looks at the glass as half full, but come on!

Well, we're in this all the way now, come what may. More on the first dialysis run-through treatment tomorrow.

Tube Stake

Well, the die officially has been cast: After considerable negotiation (and a bit of whining on my part), we have set the date and time for the operation that will insert a permanent catheter through my midsection and into the peritoneal lining of my abdomen. It's 9 a.m. Tuesday, Nov. 24, and if you'd like to send up a little Thanksgiving prayer about that time I certainly wouldn't oppose it.

My nephrologist, Dr. Attia, assures me that this doesn't mean dialysis will begin right away. But my kidney function continues to deteriorate, he says, and when the time does come he wants the dialysis port to be fully healed and ready for operation.

I think it never actually dawned on me that my recent consultation with Dr. Michael Neuwirth, the surgeon who's going to do the implant procedure, would mean plans were in place to do the operation so soon (see "The Doctor With X-Ray Eyes," Oct. 30). I'm not ready. I don't think I'll ever be ready.

When I got the call from Dr. Attia's office, I was told they wanted to do the operation next week. Whoa, too quick! Besides, I plan to be out of town on business next week. I suggested the week after, but Dr. Neuwirth is on vacation. (Whew.) That pushed the creation of my second belly button back to our current compromise date of Nov. 24.

If I've learned anything over this past year or so of infirmity, it's that the body is nothing more than a housing for our soul and spirit – and not a particularly sturdy one, at that. We spend so many years of our youth protecting it and pampering it, trying to keep it smooth and sleek, yet as we grow older we end up patching holes and replacing parts anyway. But there's something about this catheter that really has me rattled.

I think it's because an appendage sticking out of my gut might make me feel weaker, or sicker, more vulnerable – less whole. I had a very soft and intimate conversation with Karen the other night before we went to bed and suggested as much to her.

She looked me in the eye and said, "That won't matter, Jimmy. It'll just be something different. You'll always be sexy to me." What a magnificent life partner I have.

How It Happened

One of the many remarkable things about our kidneys – and believe me, I've done enough reading and research to go for my master's in kidney – is that they can go right along performing their vital functions –  filtering the blood, producing urine, eliminating toxic wastes, reducing excess sodium and potassium, manufacturing active Vitamin D – until they lose up to 80 percent of their normal function. Don't you wish you could do your job at full capacity while only exerting 20 percent of your energy?

Anyway, that's where I am now. At my last visit to my nephrologist (kidney specialist), warm and straightforward Dr. Abdel-Moneim Attia (ah-TEE-ya) at the Carle Clinic in Champaign, I learned that my lab work revealed my total kidney function had declined from 24 to 19 percent. Yikes. One doesn't suddenly regain function; kidney damage, I'm told, is irreversible. The trick now is to maintain what I have left.

How the heck did this happen? Some people damage their kidneys due to injury or trauma, diabetes, genetics, abuse of painkillers or other drugs. I, however, basically did it to myself, because I ignored for too long a condition all too common to African American men 30 and older: soaring, uncontrolled hypertension, or high blood pressure.

Your blood pressure should be somewhere around 120/80 to be within the normal range. Even with a battery of medications (and we'll talk more about pills later), mine is running around 135/90, but it's coming down steadily.

An emergency room physician at Providence Hospital in Detroit once explained it to me best, I think. "When your blood pressure is too high," he said, "blood just pounds against your arteries with every beat, as if you kept pounding your fist against a wall. Now, nothing might happen to that wall right away, but over the course of time if you keep pounding away, eventually you're going to damage that wall. Same with your blood pressure. Eventually, something's got to give." For me it was my kidneys, and what a mook I feel like today for not having manned up and dealt with the problem sooner.

People – especially men, especially black men – please do not do as I have done. If you are diagnosed with high blood pressure, do something to control it. Diet, exercise, medication – something. Believe me, ignorance is not bliss. Not forever, anyway.