Seven-and-a-half hours.

That’s how much time I’ve invested packing one duffel bag. And that doesn’t even tally the number of hours I’ve mentally hemmed and hawed over what makes the cut.

For months, the gaping yellow maw of an off-brand waterproof duffel has been making wide-mouthed jabs at my inability to curate a shortlist of needs. It has haunted me from the corner of my bedroom, swallowing items piecemeal as I decide I need this pair of socks, this neck pillow, that long sleeve T-shirt. The gluttonous duffel grew until it was finally time for me to wrangle its contents (for 7.5 hours) and to zip its lip, once and for all.

…Or twice and for all. Actually, I opened and shut that yellow duffel about 37 times. Fitting – one time for each year of my indecisive life.

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The email reached my inbox last May. I was in a hotel in Hiroshima, Japan, intoxicated by travel and Wanderlust (though that is no different than how I feel in Chattanooga or Madison or Duluth). An invitation to join living kidney donors on a climb of Mt. Kilimanjaro – the “Roof of Africa” – to showcase what one kidney can do, dispelling the myth that living donation hampers a full life.

I did some calendar crunching: World Kidney Day, the planned summit day, fell a week before spring break. I’d have to take two weeks off of work. It felt irresponsible, until I realized that showcasing what a donor can do is exactly what I should be teaching. I couldn’t convince myself to say no.

So I got a big-mouthed, yellow-bellied roommate.

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“You pack your fears in your pack,” the backpacking experts say. Fear of cold manifests as an extra sweater; fear of boredom shows up as an extra book. I pack more what ifs than any other item. But more than anything, I’m grateful for what I get to carry…

I’m carrying what I need for my physical safety: clothes, snacks, water; a warm sleeping quilt and pad; communication devices and power banks to keep them charged.

I’m carrying fears and joys; memories, sorrows; challenges and failures, successes and growth. 

I’m carrying one kidney, but also the memory of another kidney half a world away. (Hi Mom! 👋🏼🫘)

I’m carrying myself. That in itself is an immeasurable gift.

But the biggest and longest tally of things I’m  carrying is a list of names and faces. Memoirs of people who believe in this cause, who have invested their thoughts, prayers, time, and even dollars into my journey, empowering me to shout from a mountaintop that one person can make a difference.

I’ve pulled the shade down over my office window to let salty tears track down my cheeks as I read messages of encouragement and belief in what I can achieve. I’ve been overwhelmed by the support of my fellow faculty, stepping in to cover missed classes and labs. My heart has been warmed by students’ attention to my ramblings on respiratory physiology and the response to high altitude, and a rapt audience with insightful questions as I shared my kidney donation story with a room of college freshmen.

I’m simply inundated with gratitude for the privilege it is to carry these names, the banner of this department, and to bear the logo of other kidney donors who inspire me.

I’m so grateful for what I get to carry. Climbing to 19,300 feet won’t be easy, but it won’t be impossible. It will be challenging, but it won’t be insurmountable. Every step I take up that mountainside will be buoyed by the names I carry, the names of those who care.

The carers become my carriers.

It turns out what I’m carrying isn’t heavy at all.

See you in Tanzania!