And He Was in the Skeet Shooting Hall of Fame, Too

I don't know if it's my stage of life, or just life being life. But for most of 2019, I felt like I was overwhelmed by death.

Celebrities. Sports legends. Relatives. Close friends. Relatives of close friends. Almost every day, it seemed, I was saying goodbye to someone who occupied at least a small corner of my mind and heart. Have you ever felt that way?

A Wide-Screen Tribute to Morrie at a December NKFI Forum.

So rapidly were souls "leaving this Earth," as my mother used to say, that I didn't have time to mourn them individually. It was as if I were in a constant state of grieving. However, since we're in that annual period of "Remembering Those We Lost" in the previous year and starting anew, I didn't want the window to close without acknowledging one loss that hit me particularly hard: Morrie Funkhouser.

After all, how can you not remember a guy named Morrie Funkhouser?

Morrie –– or Morris E. Funkhouser II, if you please –– was one of the first people I met after I was encouraged to join the local transplant support group, hauntingly named "Second Chance," shortly after my kidney transplant in November 2011.

Now Frank Veach, the longtime leader of the group, is a delightfully engaging and salt-of-the-earth fellow, a bit of a goofball, difficult not to like. I accepted his welcome into the fold with gratitude.

However, if memory serves I was the only person of color in the group when I joined. (Dave Freeman and his wife Mara have since come on board to help even the odds.) I had only moved from Detroit to the middle of corn and soybean country a year or so before, and most of my time in my new prairie home was consumed by medical appointments, surgery and recuperation. I really didn't know the lay of my land very well.

I think most black people know that feeling of being the only in the room. Stranger in a strange land, I had no idea what to expect.

Then I see Morrie: older, weathered, a factory machinist all his life. The guy at the end of the bar. I stereotyped his gruff exterior the moment I saw him, I'm sure.

Morrie, in a Glamor Shot.

And I could not have been more wrong. In how many situations could an African American writer from Detroit and an instrument maker from central Illinois become chuckle buddies?

Morrie was warm, wonderful and wise. He was the longest surviving kidney transplant recipient in our little band, 27 years and counting before other causes took him from us last June at the age of 72. He was afflicted with polycystic kidney disease, a genetic disorder in which fluid-filled sacs, or cysts, grow in the kidneys and disrupt their ability to do their job in filtering waste products from the blood. About one in 1,000 people worldwide have the condition, including Morrie's son, Anthony, who inherited it.

In most kidney transplants, the failing kidneys are left inside the body because, hey, they still may have some function left, and what could it hurt? In Morrie's case, his cyst-covered kidneys became so huge and invasive –– nearly 13 pounds each –– that both organs had to be extracted.

He never complained, and almost never said no to an opportunity to serve, inform or assist in some organ donation drive or renal-related campaign on behalf of the National Kidney Foundation of Illinois (NKFI), Gift of Hope, or Illinois Secretary of State Jesse White's Life Goes On crusade.

I remember spending many delightful hours chatting with Morrie under a canopy or in a tent somewhere in the region, encouraging people to become donors and answering their questions as living examples of what transplants can mean to people's lives. He was an outstanding ambassador for the cause, and at an NKFI "Living With Kidney Disease" seminar last month in Champaign, a moment was set aside to honor his life and dedication. Class move.

My Friend, the Hall of Famer.

And yet, as is sadly the case with even our closest friends, there were several things about him I did not know until I read his obituary. For example, even though we talked about music, I had no idea he was a talented, longtime musician who played more than a quarter century in a band called The Variations. And he never once mentioned to me his gift for skeet shooting, a  passion that led to his induction into the Illinois Skeet Shooting Association Hall of Fame in 2011.

Glad he liked me; he probably could have picked me off at 1,000 feet.

He was blessed to find love again after his first wife, Ann, died in 2005. I did not know Ann, of course, but his second wife, Sandy, was something special. Bubbly, blonde and vivacious, she's the kind of person who brightens a room just by entering it.

She clearly loved Morrie very much and they planned to care for each other well into their golden years, a scenario that tragically was cut short far too soon. Morrie's health declined so rapidly that by the time I heard he was hospitalized and hurried home from my summer vacation, he was gone.

I understand Sandy has since relocated out of state. Good for her, bad for us. I got to visit with her at his visitation, but she often accompanied Morrie to our monthly support meetings and I miss her. She is quite a lady.

Strangely, Funkhouser was the second "Maurice" who had a seminal impact on my life. The late Maury DeJonge (say "DeYoung") was a legendary political reporter for the Grand Rapids Press who later went on to become the county clerk for Kent County in West Michigan.

My first job out of college was at the Press, and I was given the desk directly across from his. He was a close personal friend of Gerald R. Ford, knew everything taking place in local government almost before it happened, and it was a revelation for this cub reporter to watch him work.

What a Handsome Young Morrie! 

For reasons I never understood, DeJonge took a liking to me and placed me under his wing. I'll never forget the day we were walking out of the newsroom together to our separate assignments and I happened to glance at the wall clock. "Looking at that clock?" he intoned. "Forget it. The news doesn't keep a 9-to-5 schedule."

I have been truly blessed. The Morrie the merrier, I guess.

We will gather in January for our next "Second Chance" group meeting, and undoubtedly we will miss Morrie again. I'm not certain when, or if, we will ever stop.

Memorial contributions may be made in Morrie Funkhouser's name to the Polycystic Kidney Foundation at https://pkdcure.org/tribute-donation, or at 1001 E. 101st Terrace, Suite 220, Kansas City, MO 64131.

Give the Gift of a Kidney This Holiday Season

Hey, 'tis the season of giving, right? And what better gift could one give to anybody than a better quality of life?

Or for that matter, life itself?

This could be an appeal to you, Dear Reader, to become an organ donor. But knowing you I'm sure you've done that already.

Instead, you may remember earlier this year I introduced you here to my dear friend Lana Schmidt, one of America's great kidney crusaders and a woman badly in need of a kidney herself. (Look up "Lana Needs Your Love...and a Little Bit of Your Money" from May 25 on this blog.)

In the 12 years since a rare disease called Goodpasture's syndrome robbed her of her kidney function, Lana has been on every form of dialysis known to man. And as anyone who's been through it will tell you, getting dialysis three or more times a week, every week, can exact a tremendous toll on one's body.

Lana Schmidt, on a Kidney Crusade.

Lana is prepared, mentally and emotionally, for the kidney transplant that will dramatically improve her day-to-day living. Physically? That's the catch. She has undergone so many blood transfusions over the years that the antibodies in her system likely will reject any foreign visitor like a healthy new kidney.

The good news: there is a surgeon at the University of Illinois Chicago, Dr. Enrico Benedetti, who is willing to perform Lana's transplant with the aid of a drug called Soliris. The drug, which will block the antibodies and should allow her body to accept the kidney, has been used successfully on highly sensitized transplant candidates in clinical trials. It's estimated that one out of every three dialysis patients are similarly sensitized to transplants and could benefit greatly from this drug.

The bad, really bad, disheartening news: It will cost approximately (deep breath here) $110,000 to administer the series of Soliris treatments Lana needs prior to her transplant, and Medicare won't cover the cost because it and the FDA have approved the drug only to treat rare blood and kidney diseases. Gack.

She has appealed to her congressman and other governmental officials – no help – and pleaded with the maker of Soliris, Alexion Pharmaceuticals, who says its hands are tied. They claim they can't give free patient support with their drug for uses other than those approved by the FDA. It's a kidney Catch-.22.

Now, this is one resourceful lady. It was Lana Schmidt who had the genius moment to reach out to the nursing program at her local college and solicit students to assist her with her home dialysis treatments, giving them hands-on experience while making her daily burden easier. But Lana has run out of bright ideas for this challenge.

Now she feels she has no other option than to raise the money herself, or give up any hope of a lifesaving transplant.

Lana says she needs to set up 501c(3) tax-exempt status to collect the funds, but even that process costs about $400 she doesn't have. (Being sick for a dozen years ain't cheap, folks.) If she can't find the money to file the paperwork herself, she's hoping that an existing nonprofit group – maybe one with pro-kidney leanings – might see fit to take on her short-term cause under its umbrella.

She has even developed a text-message marketing campaign she calls "Tag, You're It!" to help spread the word about organ donation in general and her plight in particular (I told you she was resourceful). She hopes it might catch viral fire in the same way The Ice Bucket Challenge became a worldwide phenomenon earlier this year for ALS.

What she needs now, Lana figures, is to attract the interest of someone like Illinois Secretary of State Jesse White, a longtime advocate and spokesman for organ donation, or an organization such as the National Kidney Foundation of Illinois or Gift of Hope to partner with her in the effort. Whaddaya think? Anybody out there know somebody who knows somebody who might get involved?

Look at it this way: If Lana could get 10,000 people to donate $11 each, she could reach her goal. It's not impossible, or insurmountable. Even raising the 400 bucks to file the 501c(3) would be a great help.

For more information about Lana, or to make a donation, visit her website at www.lanakidneytransplant.com. She's an amazing lady, and she can use our help.


And While We're Thinking About Others: When you hit your knees tonight, I'd like to ask you to ask God to bless two other good people as well.

One is my dear friend Dave, whom I've never met. He's the cousin of one of my former editors, he lives in Idaho and we are brothers through bad kidneys who "met" by this blog.

He's been on in-center dialysis many years, and last week the technicians told him they could not perform his regular treatment: his veins have built up so much scar tissue from frequent injections that they could not gain access.

If you want to terrify someone who needs dialysis three times a week in order to live, that could do it.

Ultimately, a doctor performed an angioplasty on two spots in his shoulder and ordered special balloons that he'll place into Dave's veins in an attempt to open them up. If that fails, they may have to insert a stint. Either way, it's scary business and something no dialysis patient should have to face on top of all his other challenges. Pray for him, please.

Lisa Goich Andreadis.

Also ask for healing for another wonderful (and very funny) friend, Lisa Goich Andreadis. Lisa, whom I got to know well when we were regulars on the same Detroit radio show some years back, is a former standup comedian who also knows well life's serious side: her next book, "14 Days – A Memoir," the poignant story of the last two weeks Lisa spent with her mother prior to her death, is due out next Christmas, 2015.

Some strange malady has been affecting Lisa for well over a month. She's been sick every day. And on her last frantic trip to the ER for assistance – well, let's just say she encountered a level of cruelty and degradation no sick person ever should have to face from a staff of self-proclaimed medical healers.

I won't go into details here – not my place, not my case – but if she ever writes about it I certainly will reprint it here. For now, please just pray she gets well very soon. The world needs a healthy Lisa.

It's Like a River

I took advantage of a rare and delightful opportunity this week. As a freelance writer I probably interview well over 100 people a year, but because the assignments come so fast and feverishly I almost never have the chance to meet face to face with the disembodied voices I talk to on the phone.

However, earlier this year I participated in a tremendous project called "30 Stories in 30 Days" through the Illinois-based organization Gift of Hope. Every day in April – national Donate Life Month – Gift of Hope hosts a blog spotlighting one person or family whose life has been forever changed through the miracle of organ donation.

I wrote a half-dozen of the blog entries, and while each story was moving and inspiring in its own right, one really resonated with me. I was assigned to interview a thriving liver transplant recipient from suburban Chicago named Brian Brandt, and we truly seemed to click.

Brian and his daughter, Bernadette. (Gift of Hope)

He was a retired advertising and marketing executive, an industry in which I spent a sliver of my career. He was upbeat, funny and personable, qualities that always make an interviewer's life easier. He knew exactly how blessed he was to be given a second chance at life, as do I. And during his salad days in the ad game, he left the business to spend nearly a decade teaching in the Chicago Public Schools system.

Wow. Hokey mokey. That's a pure act of courage as far as I'm concerned, and one I deeply admire! (You can read Brian's Gift of Hope profile right here.)

So as it happened, I was in Chicago on business this week and my conversation with Brian drifted back to mind. I emailed. He was available, and willing. We agreed to meet for breakfast near his home, in Wilmette, Ill.

What a treat for me to place an actual face with a name and phone call. Brian is a really interesting and passionate fellow, and our encounter went even better than I could have hoped – so much so that we agreed to get together again for dinner, this time with our spouses.

But I have a true fear of driving in Chicago's morning commute. It's like NASCAR, only with pedestrians. Since I never had been to Wilmette before and my GPS said it would take me a half hour from the Loop, I added another 30 minutes to my travel time and left the hotel an hour early.

I made it to our appointed breakfast spot with 15 minutes to spare (after getting lost twice!), and what a relaxing feeling that is. As I leisurely waited for Brian to arrive, I took a few moments to contemplate.

There was a period, when I was much younger, that I didn't value my own time, much less anyone else's. When I was arrogant and self-consumed, I would go so far as to schedule multiple appointments at the same time: I'd make one person extremely happy by being on time, apologize to the second and blow off the rest. Hey, I was worth the wait!

Now, in this phase of my life, my perspective has taken a complete 180. "Better an hour early than a minute late" is the code I live by. I don't mind waiting for others. There isn't an excuse I can think of that justifies wasting someone else's precious time.

I wonder whether my kidney transplant and the remarkable years I've been blessed to enjoy thereafter play any part in my revolutionary thinking. I suspect it does. We're all living on borrowed time, but that fact becomes infinitely more tangible when you've survived organ failure and been able to talk about it on the other side.

Brian knows. For every person who's received a successful transplant, there are so many others for whom the life-saving replacement part arrived too late, or not at all.

I'm old enough that the words of MacDonald Carey's soap-opera admonishment often ring in my brain: "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives." My birthday was in mid-June. I yawned and went to the bathroom and it's July already. Tempus is fugiting.

Time doesn't flow at this stage of life. It gushes. I refuse to get caught in the undertow. I plan to savor every nanosecond.