It was and still is the most surreal moment that I've ever experienced in my life. I can't remember what the nurse behind me was saying. I can't remember each detail of the hospital room. I can't remember whether or not my doctor was present in the room with us. I can't even remember if I was adorned in the usual hospital garb that I had worn so many times prior to this fateful night. However, there are a few significant details that I can still remember as clearly as if the event had just taken place mere hours ago. As my father and I stood together, we gazed out the window and waited. We just waited. The silence seemed to scream out all that I was feeling inside my thirteen year old body. As we patiently waited to hear that all-important sound humming in our eardrums, I couldn't help but internally weigh the gravity of the situation.
On the bright side, I was getting a brand new lease on life. The shortness of breath, the feelings of weakness, of inadequacy, the sudden need to rest, the sense that everyone felt pity for me, the zombie-like paleness of skin, and the ridiculous amount of weight loss were all about to become a thing of the past. No more dialysis. No more days lost to "sleeping off" the devastating effects of a dialysis session. I should be happy. These were all reasons to be happy. Good reasons. I was gaining a whole new lifestyle! But, it all paled in comparison to what I was giving up in the process. I was giving up the one person who had never given up on me.
We could hear it. Faint and distant as it was, we could definitely hear it. The familiar drone of the helicopter grew louder and louder as it drew near until it was so loud that we could barely hear ourselves speak. As the helicopter touched down, we fixed our eyes upon the young man who jumped out of the chopper with an Igloo. It wasn't the kind of igloo that conjures images of eskimos and a fancy hotel in Canada. He carried an Igloo ice chest like the ones construction workers use to house their lunch. Amidst the noise of the rapidly turning helicopter blades, her voice broke through like a baseball shattering a window. It was my nurse and, as long as I live, I will never forget her words. "There it is, Justin... there's your kidney." But, I had yet to accept it. In my heart, that was still my mother's kidney.
The doctors had given my mother six months to live and here she was, still fighting five years later. No cancer, not even brain cancer, was going to beat her. Her hospital bed at Stanford Medical Center lay less than four hundred miles from mine at UCLA. She may as well have been on Mars as far as I was concerned. The fact that we weren't in the same room still haunts me to this day.
On the bright side, I was getting a brand new lease on life. The shortness of breath, the feelings of weakness, of inadequacy, the sudden need to rest, the sense that everyone felt pity for me, the zombie-like paleness of skin, and the ridiculous amount of weight loss were all about to become a thing of the past. No more dialysis. No more days lost to "sleeping off" the devastating effects of a dialysis session. I should be happy. These were all reasons to be happy. Good reasons. I was gaining a whole new lifestyle! But, it all paled in comparison to what I was giving up in the process. I was giving up the one person who had never given up on me.
We could hear it. Faint and distant as it was, we could definitely hear it. The familiar drone of the helicopter grew louder and louder as it drew near until it was so loud that we could barely hear ourselves speak. As the helicopter touched down, we fixed our eyes upon the young man who jumped out of the chopper with an Igloo. It wasn't the kind of igloo that conjures images of eskimos and a fancy hotel in Canada. He carried an Igloo ice chest like the ones construction workers use to house their lunch. Amidst the noise of the rapidly turning helicopter blades, her voice broke through like a baseball shattering a window. It was my nurse and, as long as I live, I will never forget her words. "There it is, Justin... there's your kidney." But, I had yet to accept it. In my heart, that was still my mother's kidney.
The doctors had given my mother six months to live and here she was, still fighting five years later. No cancer, not even brain cancer, was going to beat her. Her hospital bed at Stanford Medical Center lay less than four hundred miles from mine at UCLA. She may as well have been on Mars as far as I was concerned. The fact that we weren't in the same room still haunts me to this day.
The hallways of the hospital seemed strangely still and quiet. Long gone was the piercing sound of the whipping helicopter blades. The day's hustle and bustle had given way to the tranquility of the night. Calm and subdued are the adjectives that would accurately describe those around me. Not me. No one could see that it felt like a circus was parading through my insides, complete with crashing cymbals and the stomping of elephant feet on my heart. I could hear whispers of, "Look at him... He's so brave... He's not scared at all..." I decided to live up to their marvel. Little did they know how much I wanted to jump up and run. I just wanted to run as fast as I could - away from the hospital, away from the impending life waiting for me. I wanted so badly to catch that helicopter and ride back to Stanford, back to my old life, back to my best friend. They couldn't see that I was simply a scared, thirteen year old boy who just wanted his mommy.
The walls of a hospital hallway look very different when they're quickly passing you by. I lay on the gurney and mustered what little courage I had left as they rolled me into the operating room. If the room where I had stood moments ago with my father could be described as warm and inviting, the operating room could be described as its antithesis. Sterile is the word. Sterile and drab. Sterile, drab, and scary. The doctors and nurses all look like characters from a Twilight Zone episode and they talk about you as if you're not laying directly in front of them, as if you're not there at all. From behind me comes a smooth, soothing voice. "Hey, buddy. You doing okay?" I looked up and locked eyes with the smiling Dr. Feelgood himself: the anesthesiologist. Don't let anyone fool you. The anesthesiologist is every surgery patient's best friend. He's the one who slips you the all-important round-trip ticket to La-La Land. After his rehearsed spiel about the risks of being rendered unconscious, I had only one question for him. "Have you sampled any of your goods today?" Smiling, he replied that he hadn't, to which I responded with a smile of my own that seemed to relax my fears a little. Funny the things we remember. I wouldn't recognize that man today if he passed me on the street, yet he played such an important role in the events of that life-altering night.
I could feel the tingling sensation overcome me as the anesthetics began to kick in. I was aware of the room, yet unable to speak. I became strangely resigned and, as I closed my eyes, my thoughts drifted to my mother. I thought of her Godly character. I thought of the life lessons she had instilled in me. To say that she was a special person would be an incredible understatement. She was the beauty queen who actually had brains. While fellow divorcees tried desperately to find a husband, she happily poured all of her time and energy into her only child. While men tossed admiring glances her way, she spent her free time at work reading a dictionary. While others her age were hitting the singles scene, she was tucking me in bed with Bible stories. While other women inherited wrinkles from living it up, hers were a result of incessant smiling. Yes, she was special, indeed.
It felt like mere moments had passed when I awoke in the recovery room. I looked around the room and met my father's eyes. A slow smile crept across his face as he leaned in closer. A nurse came in to check my vitals and as she did so, my father continued to simply stare at me with that smile. As she made her exit, I noticed for the first time that my father's eyes seemed moist and red. His words seemed to struggle to come out. It was clear he had something to say and it wasn't idle chat about the weather. Before I could ask how the surgery went, he blurted out, "Son, your mom has gone to heaven." I've often heard people claim that time stood still for them. I now know what they mean. I'll never forget the special moment that followed. My father was a man of contrasts. He was considered a deadbeat dad by some, yet always came to my games. He struggled with personal issues, yet managed to become one of the most prolific black belt fighters of his time. He struggled privately, yet was heralded in the sports world for winning the World Championships a record eight times. He never showed me preferential treatment at his karate school, yet coached me to world championships. This man of contrasts whom I loved so dearly never left me with any doubt that he was crazy about me. This man who was considered deadly with his skills... laid his head on my chest and wept. Together, in a solitary room of a hospital, we wept. Finally, at that moment, I knew I would be okay.
