Diary of a Kidney Donor: After a successful surgery, I go home
In Part 4, Cynthia McReynolds undergoes surgery to have her kidney removed, which is then transplanted into Wee Simla, and she goes home the next day.
Remarkably, Cynthia McReynolds, a 74-year-old Sebastopol psychotherapist, donated her kidney on Tuesday November 12 to a 52-year old Sebastopol man, Wee Simla. Cynthia had responded to an email from Michael Fels that described the condition of his life partner, Wee. This is Part 4 of the series, and you can catch up on Parts 1, 2 and 3, which were published last week. The words below are written by Cynthia.
November 11, 2024
We headed up to Sacramento on Monday, November 11, Veteran’s Day, which seemed like a fitting day, given that my donation is a vastly smaller and safer version of the enormous generosity of enlisting for the sake of the country.
In the evening, the four of us went out for a meal. When we asked a nearby diner to take our picture, I told him we were celebrating because one of my kidneys was going into Wee’s body the next day – and of course I choked up. I am deeply moved by how profound this is.
People have asked me if I’m nervous or scared about donating a kidney. I don’t feel that way. My core feeling is 100% commitment and determination. However, I didn’t sleep well the night before surgery, and it made me recall experiences in my teens when I rode horses in rodeo and show jumping events. As we would wait outside the arena, my horse and I would be keyed up and hyper-focused to tackle the challenge ahead of us. The night before surgery, my nervous system felt like one of my prancing, fired-up horses, eager to get in the arena and DO IT.
November 12, 2024
I was awake well before our 6:00 am check-in at the Pavilion Hospital, a quarter mile stroll from the Courtyard Marriott where we were staying in a room paid for by UC Davis. In short order Michael and I were taken to a pre-op bay where an inflated warm cover awaited me.
Then a parade of helpful, friendly nurses, doctors, and anesthesiologists came by to answer questions, start IV’s, and reassure me. What a kind, great team! All along the way, hospital staff have been intensely thanking me for being a kidney donor, perhaps because they have such vivid, up-close knowledge of the difference a healthy kidney can bring to someone’s life. It made all of us happy when I showed them photos of my recipient, Wee. One of the docs told me, “This will go great. We’ve done it thousands of times.”
After a few hours, I was taken to the Operating Room, which was bustling with intention and organization. I felt secure there. I couldn’t help but notice the quiet giant standing to the side: the Da Vinci surgical robot. It was towering and white with a cluster of arms quietly folded in, like a mammoth, sci-fi praying mantis crossed with an octopus. It was waiting to do delicate, minimally invasive, laparoscopic work in my body. One pre-op nurse explained to me that some of Da Vinci’s development came from battlefield needs, because it made it possible for important medical procedures to happen even when the surgeon was far away.
A lot happened next, but I missed everything in the hours from about 9:00am to 1:30pm. Once I began coming to, I was wheeled to a room on the eighth floor. My surgery took approximately 4 hours. A couple of hours later, Wee’s surgery began. He and I received surgery in one of fourteen OR’s that were in use that day. Wee’s partner, Michael, was the last person waiting in the large surgical waiting area that evening, when the doctor came out after 9:00pm and assured him that everything had gone very well. The hospital kept both waiting partners well-informed. Here’s what came through on my husband’s phone.
Sleeping in a hospital is a euphemistic oxymoron. And definitely NOT my experience. I was still in the limbo of anesthesia, the weakness of no food, and the grogginess of body trauma. Happily, I had no particular pain. But I just felt woozy, weak, and sore. Broth helped. Lying still helped. Something else that helped quite a bit was a tight, rigid elastic cummerbund which was Velcro-ed around my torso. It physically held me together so that coughing or rolling to get out of bed was less painful or worrisome.
November 13, 2024
About 4:00am, I got up and made a couple of circumambulations around the unit, wheeling my attached fluids on one of those rolling bag-hangers. Later, Michael brought me a smoothie for breakfast, and I went for another walk, this time unhooked from the bags. I was gaining strength. And I became very eager to depart. Happily, the wonderful staff pushed hard on those stubborn wheels of bureaucracy, and all my discharge necessities got handled by 1:30pm. Our kind friend, Robin, who brought us to Sacramento on Monday, drove back up and delivered us back home on Wednesday afternoon. Whew! Monday to Wednesday – felt like a lot had happened!
I was wiped out. I got in bed by 7:30pm and slept 11 hours. On Thursday my mind and body seemed to find each other and reconnect. I cuddled cats, took a shower until the hot water ran out, had tiny bits of good food including a yummy fish taco at a peaceful nearby café, made a slow amble up the road from our house during a sun-spangled break in the rainy day, enjoyed a novel, and returned to reading and listening to smart people who help me think through America’s trauma and recovery processes.
As an extra blessing, my deeply talented bodyworker friend, Carol, came by and gave me a massage. Just as the Donor Center predicted, one of my prime discomforts is aching in my shoulders and neck from lingering carbon dioxide (from abdominal inflation that made room for Da Vinci to see and move) floating upward within my body. The will move out of my body as I walk and breathe. Carol’s touch also gave me relief!
Once I was home, I could also see what actually happened to my body. I have three smallish holes (maybe 3/8”) on the left front of my torso and a half-size c-section incision very low on my abdomen (maybe 3” or less). At this point, it’s a bit of a subtle Mona Lisa smile. That works for me. All the incisions have a glue band-aid over them, which is super easy and protective. It will wear off over time. Meanwhile, I’m sticking with a regimen of Tylenol and not feeling any pain.
November 15, 2024
Now it’s Friday, and I feel like I’ve landed all the way back in my body. At this point, I’m just tired and very, very low on energy. Having a big expanse of open time ahead of me, seeing sunshine on trees outside my window, watching my cat model Deep Rest right here next to me, drinking tea, and writing to you – this is exactly right: it’s all I want and just what I need.
But I have to tell you one more glorious detail. In the hospital, Wee was recovering in the room next to mine, and I visited him a couple of times on Wednesday before I left. He left the hospital on Thursday and is also doing very well! But here’s a beautiful thing he told me on Wednesday. When he came out of surgery, the first thing he remembers is people calling his name, “Wee, wake up, wake up!” He opened his eyes and saw a group of doctors and nurses standing around the foot of his bed, smiling at him. Then the doctor told him, “We want you to know that we have put a plump, pink, juicy kidney into your body.” As I sat on Wee’s bed and he recounted this to me, we both cried again. There is a goodness in this connection that is hard to put into words.
One of the doctors who talked with me before the surgery was going to be assisting during the procedure. I asked him to take a photo of my kidney as it was resting between our bodies. The doctor did what I wished, and a two days later, I got the photo. It was astonishing to see the radiant little powerhouse at the center of the whole saga. A kidney is not very big, but it’s absolutely vital. Soon after the photo was taken, that glistening organ was nestled into Wee’s body and voilà! Miracle accomplished!
It is such an honor for me to get to make this huge contribution to such a dear person. Although he was just an acquaintance 8 months ago when I learned of his situation in the email detailing his hope for a living donor, the two of us definitely have a lifetime bond of beloved-ness now. Kismet!
Michael Fels shared this photo of Wee walking.
November 19, 2024
Thank you so much for sharing our emails in the Sebastopol Times!! Several people have reached out to me.
Several months ago, when I was in the thick of testing to see if I qualified to give a kidney, I saw a car in Sebastopol with this sign on the side. It made me burst into tears because by that time, I knew how deep the need can be and how hard years of hoping and waiting can be for someone whose kidneys have failed.
Today I called that number and found out that Cathy’s circumstances are much like that of my recipient, Wee. Cathy lives in Windsor, has been on dialysis for years, and although several family members have tried to give her a kidney, none have quite qualified. She is on the list, but still years away from receiving a deceased donor's kidney.
It would be a miraculous boon if her family could find a living donor. If anyone reads this narrative and feels moved to help, I want them to know about Cathy. Being able to give such an enormous gift has enriched my life wonderfully. Surgery was only one week ago today and I’m feeling great. (And all my costs have been covered, including hotel, gas, food, and missed wages for recovery time.) There is still some healing for my incision, but I’ve got energy and I’m walking with totally normal ease.
Kidney donation will turn out to be no medical detriment to me at all, but a life-giving transformation for Wee. Giving my kidney to someone who needed it has been heartening and strengthening for me. I’m so grateful that I had the health and felt the call to do this. Who knows? You might be able to do it as well!
Go to Part 5 of Diary of a Kidney Donor: Thanksgiving.
Thank you for sharing this inspiring diary! Goodness does still live in humans.