The steady thwump, thwump, thwump was strangely soothing – like the heartbeat of Mother Earth. I slowed my breathing as I was swallowed by the sound, the clumsy embrace of walls pressing against my sides. I opened my eyes only to quickly shut them from the ceiling four inches above my nose.

It’s not too small. Your feet are still outside. You are not trapped. It’s just like tunneling through snow banks.

Placing myself inside a snowbank required some imagination. I shivered, rueing my outfit of a hospital gown and comically oversized cotton pants that required my full wingspan to pull the waist drawstring closed. The unmistakable scent of snow – if you know, you know – was replaced by the astringent odor of metal and disinfectant.

My skin prickled, sensation on hyperdrive as its sister senses of sight and hearing were obscured. Did I imagine the warmth cascading along my back with each buzzing whir, synchronized to my breath? Was the sensation of water running along my elbow a phantom? I squeezed the panic button when I realized the watery sensation was only on the arm with a coiled tube piped into my veins. 

I was trundled in and out of the MRI tunnel a half-dozen times to adjust that fickle IV, sopping up a puddle of saline that was intended to arrive in my bloodstream. An hour of Lamaze-reminiscent breathing exercises later, I could finally stretch my cold, numb arms and legs back into my sweater and slacks. 

---

Two weeks earlier it was quieter, but my nerves were just as edgy. I had over 3 liters of urine sitting in a bag at my feet, my stomach an echoing hollow, my veins shaking in anticipation of the 12 vials of blood to be drained from them. The venipuncturist’s proffering of graham crackers and orange juice was gladly accepted in exchange for my urine (what a strange transaction) before I navigated the multilevel labyrinth of medical suites and exam rooms to find the next of my half-dozen appointments.

By mid-afternoon, I’d been prodded, squeezed, bled (an additional 8 vials!), interrogated, educated, and photographed inside and out. I congratulated myself on finding my car after navigating over 6,000 steps in an internal maze. 

Now, to wait.

---

The journey started in late October when an anticipated kidney transplant for my mom was cancelled just five days before the scheduled surgery date. Disconsolate, I emailed the donor evaluation team, groveling for a chance to be tested as a potential match. A lab test days later confirmed that my blood gets along with Mom’s, and I was scheduled to return on Thanksgiving Eve for the standard battery of donor tests.

Those initial tests set off a cascade of come back orders: the first for the snow-tunnel MRI, partnered with a consultation from the infectious disease specialist. Infectious disease informed me that I had gathered a travel souvenir: an exposure to tuberculosis, likely from my time in the Andes. A negative chest X-ray indicated that my immune system had done its job in protecting me from active disease, but the recommendation was to begin a 4-month course of antibiotics to prevent the TB bugs from waking up in the future. My keepsake from this medical visit was a prescription that turns body fluids reddish orange; seeing Orange Glo when I flushed every morning never grew less unnerving. 

Come back.

A month later, the cardiologist told me that my EKG abnormalities weren’t concerning; but just to be safe, another picture of my insides would be best. 

Come back.

Three weeks after that, the endocrinologist suggested that my borderline abnormal blood tests from the Day of 20 Vials in November were likely a variation from my normal values rather than a genetic defect, and gave orders for another blood draw – just four vials this time. 

Thankfully, he didn’t ask me to come back.

My final test (or so I hoped) was scheduled and rescheduled for the next available opening – in two months. 

Come back. Come back. Come back!

With each new consultation, imaging exam, and phone call, my heart constricted at the thought that I might have to give up. That I wouldn’t be allowed to move forward as a kidney donor, able to give back what Mom gifted me to begin with: a small token that has been tucked safely away, stored for a rainy day such as this. And so each come back turned into a swell on the roller coaster, a hiccup that threatened to turn my insides out before dropping down again to let me breathe a sigh of relief that I was still on the ride. Each interruption served to galvanize my resolve that this was a choice I would make again, and again, and again. 

---

My final come back for an echocardiogram – an ultrasonic image of the heart – was finally to arrive on the morning of March 19. I’d let my job lapse and had put all other plans on hold pending this test, this very important fork in the road; the hinge on which the next 3 months and beyond would pivot. The evening before, I bent in a private prayer vigil behind closed doors. 

“Lord,” I prayed. “Examine my heart in advance of the medical team. Root out any unwanted part. I believe that I have searched my heart and it has been tested, and I know that I wish to move forward. Help me to accept whatever You have planned.”

I didn’t need the alarm clock to wake me on the morning of March 19.