11 ~ Let the Games Begin

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As you already know, my bread-and-butter job was working for a branch of the world’s largest flooring company located in Aurora, Colorado. My job was fully remote, traveling from job site to job site, working with project managers, builders, and warranty managers in new-construction homes along the I-25 corridor from Aurora to Northern Fort Collins. My “office” was a 2016 4x4 crew cab F-150, so navigating the multiple trips to the PSL transplant center for the pre-op test between job sites would be no problem, but how do you drop this kind of information on your employer? I rehearsed it a few times in my mind, “Hey boss, I’m trying to donate a kidney to a random guy from my church. I don’t know if it will work out, but I’ll be in and out of quite a bit of testing over the next few weeks if that’s cool.” Eddie, my direct manager, and Steve, our VP of operations, are both Christian men. They responded about like everyone to whom I mentioned the possible transplant. “Wait, what?” “You’re doing what!?” Usually followed by a hefty “Why?” or “How do you know this guy again?” After the initial shock, Eddie and Steve were both super supportive, and I am filled with gratitude for their part in this story.

Part of being involved with the largest flooring company on the globe was being involved during this time in a massive merger. Through some twist of fate or poor record-keeping during the merger, I ended up with 80 hours of sick leave on top of my paid vacation time. I questioned the apparent mishap with Jessie in HR, and everything seemed to be on the up and up. Here I was stepping out in faith on a journey to give one of my internal organs to a guy who I barely knew and suddenly there were two weeks of paid recovery dropped in my lap. How wonderful that God was laying out this provision as I stepped out in faith. I was still pretty sure that Julia was going to be the one going under the knife, but wow, here was the ram in the thicket provision for time off during the process.

The testing began, and for this portion, I need to let you in on a little secret, and probably the largest mental block convincing me that this would be Julia’s journey. I don’t like needles. At all. Not even a little bit. You know that John Wayne complex I mentioned in chapter one with the whole chivalry bit? Well, that ends at the phlebotomist station. I would walk through hell over broken and molten glass for my sweet wife, but she can take her own needles. I don’t like them, and I never have. I don’t plan to change either. I am learning to submit the Spirit as it relates to talking to folks in corporate worship settings, and I am learning to share for the sake of the health of the body of believers, but I don’t feel the Spirit needs me to submit to my distaste of needles. Something about watching that razor-thin needle slowly disappear below the surface of my skin makes me go pale. Donating blood is a very unpleasant situation for me. I am 35 years old at this point in the story, and I have never donated without having to lay back in the chair and recover on juice boxes and cookies for no less than 30 minutes. The only thing that makes the experience almost bearable is watching the attending nurse or phlebotomist’s varied reactions when the color drains from my face. I always give them a heads-up, but I don’t think they ever really believe me. Here's a representative example:

“Ma’am, I can’t watch the needle, so I would appreciate a heads-up so I can look away, and I’ll likely get pretty pale.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine, honey. You’re in great shape.”

Ha! They have no idea what’s coming. Maybe skip to the next paragraph if you are a kindred needle-hating spirit.

“Go ahead and pull up those sleeves for me.”

“Ma’am, I’m a little light-headed. Do you have a fan and maybe a coke?”

“Oh, you’ll be fine, look at these veins! Wowzers, this will be so fast you won’t even know I was here.”

By this time, my heart is racing, and I am doing mental Yoga, going full Zen mode to try and keep it all under control. “Ma’am, I’m really not doing well here. May I please get some air.”

*Ties rubber band thing under my bicep. *Snap!

“You just relax, hon.” *Tears off a few pieces of tape and drapes the line to the donation bag over my arm.

My stomach usually flips quickly here in hot anticipation of the coming events.

“Now you’re going to going to feel a little pinch here.”

By now, I am doing my deepest breathing exercises and getting as far away mentally from the looming carnage to my left arm as possible.

“You’re doing so good.” She rehearses dutifully as the needle breaks the surface of my skin and starts its descent into my veins, without even looking up as though she has said the same line 100 times every day for a year.

I fight back thoughts of, “Well, yeah, of course, you think I’m fine. You haven’t started to drain gallons of life-giving blood out of my average size body yet, have you? No, you haven’t.”

This is generally about the time where they grab that little rubber band thing and untie your arm, thus breaking the vein dam and opening the gateway for every ounce of color that God put in my face to drain into that stupid baggy thing. This is both miserable and incredibly entertaining. Miserable because I go from a comfortable 98.6º to approximately 31º in about 2 seconds flat. With the flow of blood from above my elbow to the bag, I can literally feel the color drain from my face as I go ice cold. This is about the time that the attending nurse decides to take action. You basically get two personality types here in my experience. The most entertaining phlebotomist or nurse is the one who, upon witnessing said traumatic event, jumps into action, screaming for a fan, a coke or juice box, and vomit bag just to cover all the basics. She is usually apologetic, a little frantic, very attentive, and keeps a safe distance from my vomit hole just in case. The other personality type, though not as entertaining, is actually my favorite. This nurse is less inclined to snap her fingers gathering remedies for my distress. This nurse seems to enjoy the fast decline in my John Wayne persona. As the color drains from my face, I can usually catch a stifled laugh in my periphery. To add insult to injury, if my wife is present, they, suddenly best friends now, look on like two friends at a comedy club with nothing better to do than be entertained by the poor fool on stage. Only this fool’s act happens to be me basically dying. Thanks for the support, babe. Really great.

All that to simply walk down the hallway of your mind and hang one prominent portrait on the wall: I do not do well in the presence of blood or needles. I am the last guy that should be cut open and gutted for the benefit of another.

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I knew there would be needles during the test, so when I sat down in the phlebotomist’s chair for my blood draw and saw the 28 vials, I assumed this was her stockpile from which she would fill 2 or 3 for various blood tests. Out of foolish curiosity, I asked my phlebotomist that day, “How many of these will you need?” Without looking up, she replied blandly, “These are all yours.” You’ll get a break halfway through to go get a drink or some food.” This is about the time you start asking how badly Loren really needs a kidney and if dialysis maybe isn’t such a bad plan for the rest of his life.

The process, however, surprised me. I don’t know if it was how slowly the draws went one vial at a time, thus avoiding the massive fluid dump I usually experience during the donation, or if the Lord was just extra gracious to me that day, but I left that room like a champ. They took so many samples that day. I truly never would have imagined that I could have endured that with my own personal oddities and consistent inability to cope with blood donation. Once again, God came to me in a very uncomfortable and terrifying time for me. His grace was more than sufficient. His kindness was effervescent.

The second half of that day was quite odd. I was given a little plastic sealed cup with brown liquid to drink. After I chugged it, I asked the nurse what I had just drunk. “Iodine,” she replied casually. Iodine? Iodine! I drank Iodine!? What on earth? This was clearly getting out of hand. “What was that for?” A question that I should probably have asked prior to gulping it down like a parched desert nomad. We are going to do three additional blood draws on you at spaced intervals to see how quickly your kidneys clean it out of your blood. Mind-blowing, I was certain that I was going to be the one needing a new kidney after the day’s abusive events.

After a few hours and three additional blood draws while I metabolized the iodine, I was handed some orders and sent up to radiology. I was met by two very polite college-age ladies. They greeted me with warm smiles and asked if I was donating to a friend or altruistically. Altruistically? More on that later, but I had never heard the term. They gushed with appreciation for my heroic act as they walked me over to a machine somewhat resembling something from Tony Stark’s basement. It had a black table to lie on that was surrounded by a massive cylindrical wheel. Above where my head would be lying was a flatscreen monitor, and flanked on either side were two good size beaker-looking vials. One was filled with clear liquid and the other with neon yellow liquid. “What is that?” I asked, expecting a somewhat humane answer. “Well, the clear stuff,” she began, “is just saline, and the yellow stuff is a tracer. The wheel that you’ll lay under here will be able to read that as it flows through your kidneys, and we can see how fast your kidneys metabolize it.” As a former oilfield guy who has sent radioactive tracers down a wellbore and monitored said tracers with a radioactive densimeter, I was pretty shell shocked. That massive wheel had to be radioactive. “Is this thing radioactive? I asked. “Well, a little.” She said politely. While I was trying to get this all right in my mind, I tuned back in just in time to hear this young tech saying, “So you can just leave your pants and shirt over there and come lay down on the table.” What did I take from that conversation? “Please go take your clothes off so we can use radiation to watch you light up like a glow stick at a birthday party.” Perhaps as a way to keep myself cool under this new pressure I was under, I stood there in my undies, folding my clothes neatly before walking over to the Stark Industries table. I can’t really explain why I stood there in front of those techs folding my clothes that day, but it seemed right. I was completely freaking out, and this exercise kept me calm. The grace of God can be manifest in many ways, and to this day it was manifest in the order found in folding my clothes.

Once situated below that giant circular wheel with a saline vial on my left and radioactive neon yellow tracer on my right, one of the techs, kind enough to cover me in a blanket, started hooking my veins up to the various fluids. “We are going to push these pretty fast,” she explained almost apologetically, “You’ll taste the saline, and the yellow stuff is going to burn like fire. Your whole body is going to get really hot, and you’re going to have a sensation that you need to pee yourself.” This day couldn’t get any better. I have had 28 vials of blood drawn, I drank iodine, I’m lying on a multi-million-dollar piece of equipment in my skivvies, and I’m about to be injected with a neon yellow radioactive tracer that is going to make me feel the need to relieve myself in front of two young ladies. Incredible. The techs finished hooking me up to this machine and then stepped behind a radioactivity protection wall. “Must be nice,” I was thinking. The machine started whirring, and I wasn’t sure if I should be freaked out or amazed at the technology about to push fluids and track them through my body.

When she mentioned that they were going to push the fluids fast, I’m not really sure what I expected, but let me tell you what I got. This was basically a mash-up of all the transformation scenes from the Hulk, Wolverine, and Captain America. They pushed those fluids so fast that to this day, I still check the mirror in the mornings to see if I’ve begun my transformation to the all-American hero, Steve Rogers, the big angry green guy, or if I have metallic adamantium spikes coming out of my knuckles like The Wolverine. They. Pushed. Those. Fluids. FAST. So, with a whirling, whirring radioactive machine spinning overhead there I lay, burning up with an incredible sensation that I may not make it off of that table with any more dignity than a toddler who drank too much juice on a long car ride. I laid there and watched the screen as it relayed the passage of said neon fluids through my veins and into my kidneys, where I was able to watch how the Creator designed our bodies to clear contaminants almost instantly from our system. My kidneys lit up on the screen with the fluids, and I was able to watch the blood flow out my kidneys free of the neon gunk. I laid there with no pride left but in awe of our Creator.

For many years, Psalm 139 has been a favorite comforter of mine. If you would, would you consider your own plight, current or past, and picture yourself as the subject of these words? The one who comforted David is the one who comforts us.

Psalm 139 

To the choirmaster. A Psalm of David.

1  O Lord, you have searched me and known me!

2  You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from afar.

3  You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways.

4  Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.

5  You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.

6  Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high; I cannot attain it.

7  Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence?

8  If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!

9  If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,

10  even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.

11  If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,”

12  even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with you.

13  For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb.

14  I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.

15  My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

16  Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.

17  How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!

18  If I would count them, they are more than the sand. I awake, and I am still with you.

19  Oh that you would slay the wicked, O God! O men of blood, depart from me!

20  They speak against you with malicious intent; your enemies take your name in vain.

21  Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord? And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?

22  I hate them with complete hatred; I count them my enemies. 23  Search me, O God, and know my heart! Try me and know my thoughts!

24  And see if there be any grievous way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting!

Last and possibly more painful than all prior tests was the psychological exam from my living donor advocate, Marita. Marita is a sweet, sweet lady whose only concern in this world is that living donors aren’t donating out of fear, obligation, religious, or family pressure, for financial compensation, or other outside unwelcome or inappropriate situations. Due to my aversion to sharing anything personal with strangers in a small talk setting, I’m afraid I didn’t make things very easy for poor Marita. She kept digging, and I kept on with the one-word answers and polite smile. I knew why I was there, and I was fine with it. She wanted to be sure of why I was helping Loren, and I wasn’t helping her at all. I gave her just enough to assure her that I was of a sound mind and emotionally well, but not an ounce more. My attitude was wrong on sharing with people, and I was taking it out on her. I didn’t want to talk, and I wasn’t going to let her make me. I may be an introvert, but I am also a self-professed master communicator. I knew I could give her just enough not to get disqualified while also not really sharing anything personal that I didn’t want her poking around in.

Praise God for sweet Marita. Her patience and kindness with me allowed her and me to get through that interview. At the end of that painful exchange, she added her initials to my emotional health testing, and I moved on to the next step. I clashed with Marita time and again as she prodded in on my well-being and health. To this day, she has never stopped asking me about my yearly physicals and emotional health. It wouldn’t be until the end of this book that I saw Marita for who she truly is.

Marita,

if you’re reading this, thank you. Thank you for putting up with stubborn jerks like me who don’t want to let you in. Thank you for being the best donor advocate on the face of the planet. Every donor should have the opportunity to have a teammate like you who has their back like you have mine. This was one of the biggest decisions of my life, and you cared for me every step of the way. Thank you for caring and for putting my well-being above everything else.

It was just a few days later that I received a call from my new friend, Kathryn, at PSL, with news that I did not expect, “Well, Dave, you’re a perfect match.” I was a perfect match? Me, not my universal donor, O+ wife, but me? I hadn’t been eliminated. I had been accepted. I had been accepted, and she now wanted to know if I wanted to move forward. She was very clear that my acceptance in the donor program in no way obligated me to donate. She would not tell the recipient about my approval status. She and her team would wait on me to do that. It was important for her to know that I understood that I could walk away for any reason, and she would just tell Loren that I was no longer a candidate. She asked me to take some time with Julia to review the decision and then let her know if we wanted to move forward. So, what now? SEO Type jargon. Move along ... Hello, and welcome to my not a blog blog! So, I wrote a book, and I want the message of that book to get out regardless of whether or not anyone buys a copy of the book. A blog, so I hear, is a great way to take advantage of SEO and make sure that people who WANT to find content that my book covers will have a clear path to it’s happy little home in the Amazon marketplace and should then be able to walk away with a hard copy, kindle version, or Audible copy of said book. To that end, I will be releasing sneak previews and portions to each chapter over the next several weeks. Can I buy the book today? No, sorry. While it is completed, edited, and proofed, the audio version is currently being recorded by a guy with a much better voice than my own. I have no idea what I am doing in publishing, but I think I want to release it all at once. How did you get your book on Amazon? Well, I am a brilliant author, but I also used Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) that allows me to manage and upload my own manuscript(s), audio, and artwork. So what is the book about? Sovereign and Gentle is a window into my happy little family for those of you who don’t know us as well as a deeper look for those who do. The book will even be informative to some of my closest friends, as I don’t talk about much of this content often. The book opens with the prospect of either Julia or myself donating a Kidney, follows that painful journey, and then backtracks to cover some of our struggles with infertility, multiple miscarriages, foster care, and adoption. I even sprinkled in some real estate investing horror stories for you guys. The story is framed by key passages from Scripture that have been especially meaningful to me, and the climax of the book seeks to honor and praise God, who has gifted us in all things to be able to serve him in and through our struggles. Did I discuss the big church from college days that laid me off on multiple occasions and kicked us out of a house after the pastor went up the river? I did, and I don’t think I’m bitter… I think... I’m a work in progress there, but I hope that I framed that experience in such a manner that others who have been beaten up by institutions can find comfort in the one who is sovereign over all things and in His ultimate plan.