The Family Research project Rachel's English teacher assigned is a mammoth effort. Despite all the groaning about essay writing, we are grateful for results like this -- Rachel's essay about her dad:
The Gift of Life
What makes someone a hero? When I am asked this question, I think of Superman. What makes him heroic? He has super strength and he can fly, but ultimately, he is loved and revered because he saves lives. My dad does not have super strength, and he can’t fly without the help of heavy machinery, but he is my hero because he saved my life.
In November of 1994, I contracted a fever that just would not go away. The fever could not be explained and, at numerous doctor visits, my mom got the same response: “It’s just a fever. It will go away soon. Don’t worry.” She did worry though, because the fever – and my crankiness – lingered. Finally, on December 29, 1994, my pediatrician did a comprehensive blood test. The results revealed that something was terribly wrong. Doctors in Laurel sent us immediately to specialists at University Medical Center in Jackson. After blood tests, a bone marrow biopsy, and finally a kidney biopsy, doctors had a name for my problem: crescentic glamerulo nephritis. In this disease, the body’s immune system attacks the kidney. Doctors were baffled because this disease is most often found in young men and old people. I was the youngest recorded patient ever to have this disease. I was going to need a transplant to get better.
Weeks of hospital recovery, minor surgeries and setbacks followed. Finally, doctors said I was ready, but we encountered another problem. I was too small. All transplant centers in the South had a weight requirement of at least 44 pounds before they would operate. That certainly posed a problem, because I weighed less than 20 pounds and, without a kidney, a person does not grow. Our nephrologist in Jackson suggested we try a teaching hospital in Minnesota, so we did.
After several months of nightly dialysis, I travelled to the University of Minnesota Medical Center for the exhaustive pre-transplant evaluation. Every doctor imaginable came into my hospital room. They would poke and prod me until they were satisfied and then another set of physicians would enter. Even dentists were sent in to look at my teeth! Finally, they said I was ready.
After the doctors in Minnesota agreed to do the transplant, they tested each of my parents to see if either was a tissue match. Thankfully, both my parents were matches! My dad immediately decided he would be the one to donate. He knew that if my mom had the surgery he would end up taking care of the both of us. “I knew I could get back on my feet quicker than your mom,” my dad told me. “I could also get back to work faster, because your mom could take care of you.” My mom agreed, and the date for the transplant was set.
On December 13, 1995, my dad and I went into surgery. Dr. John Najarean, the transplant surgeon, carried the kidney himself from my dad’s operating room into my operating room. The transplant lasted 10 hours because they had trouble fitting my dad’s large kidney into such a small body. Both patients came out of the operating room with pain, but no complications. The kidney worked perfectly, and it has continued working well for the past 15 years.
Many people praised my dad. They called his decision heroic and talked about the sacrifice he made. One of his friends even said, “I work so hard for my kids that I would be named father of the year if it wasn’t for Bob Gholson giving his darn kidney to his daughter.” When I asked my dad if he felt heroic he said, “I didn’t even think about it. There was no question. I did what I did, not because I wanted to be ‘heroic.’ My daughter, whom I love, needed me and that was it.” My dad will not admit that he is a hero, but everyone agrees he is. His weakness is not Kryptonite, and he does not change clothes in telephone booths, but Bob Gholson is my very own Superman.
Above left, Nanny's chair recovered with a geometric pattern. Not real comfy ... but real cute!
