Gurgle, gurgle, groannnn.

The laxative-laced Gatorade had offered an insistent though delayed effect, kickstarting the thematic soundtrack of gastrointestinal clicks, groans and glugs that would accompany my positional changes for the next four days. This evening’s guttural performance was punctuated by the soundless stickiness of pajamas on skin made tacky by the antiseptic-wipe birdbath the night previous. Each toss and turn was followed closely by the percussion section turning out an emphatic drum roll from the orchestra pit.

I woke before my pre-dawn alarm, listening to the too-familiar sounds of my mother sequencing her daily disconnection from the peritoneal dialysis cycler machine. Final cycle, I mused, a smile cracking my groggy features. Not one of us would miss that nightly companion, Mom’s life-saving treatment for the past 4.5 years.

Our hotel was just a 5 minute drive from the hospital, and I gazed upward at skyscrapers bathed in the warm peach, lavender, and rose hues of sunrise. We arrived early for our 6:30am appointment, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth as I reported that my last sip of water had come as prescribed at midnight, trying to act nonchalant as I fought the desperate desire to begin panting. I was hoping that surgery would be easier than the pre-operative steps: my gurgling gut, itchy skin, and scratchy throat were tossed in with the ubiquitous butterflies in my stomach to form a most memorable sensory smorgasbord.

Tuesday, April 23 was finally here. I barely eked out the required urine sample (the instructions to withhold liquids, then demanding urine was an unfair request), contemplating absently that this was likely the last time I’d have urine output from my left kidney. A nurse showed me to a room full of things wrapped in plastic and gave instructions for my wardrobe change. The blue headnet and seafoam non-skid socks were paired with the plastic-lined lavender gown for a striking jewel-toned runway look.

Upstairs in pre-op, I learned why the gown was lined with plastic. A nurse attached a NASA-reminiscent air hose to a port near my right hip and the gown began to lift away from my torso, my eyebrows raising as I feared a Marilyn Monroe “dress up” look. Neither I nor the gown took flight, so I relaxed back with the thermostat control as I settled in to the center of attention, meeting Dr. Engel and Jana of anesthesiology, Drs. Hill, Richardson, and Stahler of surgery, and visiting with donor coordinator Jenny and my sister Julie.

The gurgle-gurgle Gatorade continued to work its magic, so with the help of another nurse to manage my IV and guard my bare back, I padded to a toilet to allay some fears of soiling the gurney in my medicated sleep (they never told me I didn’t, so who’s to know?). With my new-found freedom, I shuffled over to the neighboring patient’s waiting area for some photo ops. I assume this isn’t common protocol, but mother-daughter photos with our twinning outfits and matching genetics were hard to resist.

Around 9:00a, it was my turn for a ride through the hallways to the surgical suite. Scrub techs smiled at me as they bustled about with metal skewers – long enough to pin me to the table, I thought – as I was transferred to a narrow table under the spotlight.

Not my usual performance attire, but here goes…

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It took a herculean effort to open one heavy-lidded eye to peer out into a fluorescent corridor. Sunflowers decorated the desk, and the clock on the wall read 1:15. That was a good nap. I blinked slowly, methodically. I looked down and realized my gown had changed color and style in my sleep; my bed had grown wider, too. Must have been some pixie dust.

After 30 minutes of waking up, I was transported to a small room with a view of low-hanging clouds and a flag flapping furiously atop a multi-story building in downtown Minneapolis. My floor nurse, Hannah, was cheery and efficient taking vitals and managing my pain. Soon the surgical resident was in, the first of many asking to see my belly and its new piercings.

Four small incisions formed a rough diamond below my rib cage to my groin; portal sites for the laparoscopic dissection and stabilization of my left kidney, selected for its lengthy vein and double artery supply. Below these port sites spanned a larger Pfannenstiel (C-section) incision where they “pulled the kidney out in a bag”. My research into pictures of this bag suggest that it may have also been used to extract the butterflies in my stomach, given its appearance familiar to tools of my naturalist aspirations.

I forced myself to take deep, slow breaths, though they exacerbated the pain in my ribs and shoulders. This was mostly pain referred from my diaphragm, thanks to my torso serving as a pop bottle pumped full of CO2, shaken up, skewered, and left to off-gas over the next 2-3 days. I could feel a vacant, kidney-shaped space on the left side of my torso… or maybe that was just the nerve block. 😉

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A clear liquid diet of cranberry juice and vegetable broth was set on a tray that felt oh-so-far away from my reclined bed. I dutifully sipped at the juice and spooned the briny broth with my non-dominant hand due to the finicky IV that squawked every time I bent my elbow – a real feat when I couldn’t effectively lean forward over my bowl. I overheard voices in the corridor:

“How is the kidney donor doing? Do you think she’d be up for a visit to her mom?”

I turned to slurping my broth at a rate sufficient to quick pickle my tonsils. The nurse poked her head into the room – “Are you up for a wheelchair ride?” I grinned and shuffled my way to the edge of the bed.

I visited with Mom, Dad, and sisters for an hour before my aching shoulders suggested it was time to lie up (lying down hurt more than resting in bed with the head fully elevated). I accepted help being tucked in with no fewer than five pillows supporting limbs and torso, settling in to dozing between vitals checks, beyond grateful for the opportunity to be cared for by a competent, caring community.

(*Thanks to MB for the title suggestion)