Saturday, October 30, 2021


I've made some progress in my living donor search. 

A couple of people that I know of have contacted Duke (for which I am eternally grateful!) but didn't make it past the initial screen (too old and predisposition to cancer). Another person did make it through the initial screening and is undergoing some further testing. But there are additional complications that would come with this particular person's donation that don't make it ideal. 

A good friend of mine made me some business cards that I can give out to refer people to Duke's living donor referral survey and website with information on living donation. The self-referral survey is confidential and is designed to see if donating a kidney would be safe for you, the donor. Please take it now if you are interested in exploring whether or not this may be right for you.

I have a couple of neighbors who have offered to test. This is a little surprising to me since, when this first came up, they were not more than acquaintances (and fellow dog owners). It made me wonder if for some reason it's easier to commit to donating when you actually don't already know the person well. Strange, but maybe there is some truth to it. It's not my way, but it's hard to not feel slighted when people you know and who care about you aren't jumping to get tested. This is my life, people.

I have also tried to be more open and forthcoming about sharing my story. Instead of saying how tired I am or how I'm annoyed by all the headaches I get, I'll work in that actually, I'm in end-stage kidney disease and in need of a living donor.

"But you look so healthy," people say. "I would never have known." I do take decent care of myself, I'm not scrawny or anything, my skin doesn't look sickly. But I am definitely feeling the effects of end-stage disease. And the fact of the matter is that by the time I am looking very sickly, it may well be too late to find a living donor without first going on dialysis. I'm not sure why, but getting dialysis before a living donor transplant isn't as good as not.

I believe that the right donor will come along without guilt, coercion, or obligation. If someone doesn't want to do this, then they are not the right one for me. My job is to spread the message of need for me and all the other patients in need of kidneys.

Health Update

My health has been fairly stable the last couple of months. My kidney numbers are still crap, but the nausea and brain fog have let up a bit. I'm still having frequent headaches, which may or may not be related, and without this little dog of mine, I'd probably spend every night on the couch binge-watching Netflix. Serena has done wonders for my health. Not only does she keep me walking every day, but getting outside is good for my mental health, and I've met a bunch of really great people who live in my neighborhood. My lungs are doing great, but my sinuses have been giving me some problems that I'm trying to address. My ENT wants me to start on Tricafta, the "gene therapy" pill for people with my cystic fibrosis mutation. I'm considering it, but am not thrilled about adding this to my regimen. It is hard on the liver, can be funky with some of the anti-rejection meds, and some people have unpleasant side effects. 

Life Update

Work continues to be very busy, and I love it. My mom's health has continued to decline after her most recent trip to hospital and rehab for her back (first, they thought she had a broken vertebra and then they tied it to severe spinal degeneration and stenosis.) She may have had a fall that set the whole thing off. However, it's honestly hard to tell because her memory is worse than ever. This has been hard on her and us. I am constantly forcing myself to be patient, but it's so hard sometimes. Her caregiver now comes five days per week and I can't see that changing any time soon. Things with Mohammad remain wonderful. Mr Kitty and Serena are great. Serena has gotten some "winter clothing" recently to keep her little body warm on those cold winter morning walks!

Want to help but not sure what to do?

The number one thing you can do is to share my story. Seriously! Tell one person. There are many of us who need living kidney donors, both to stay alive and to have a life that's worth living. Let people know that this need exists and that it can be a wonderful thing to do!

Secondly, I've set up a GoFundMe page to accept donations in anticipation of expenses incurred by those who may go through testing and eventually become my living donor. All medical expenses will be covered by insurance, but things like travel, lodging, meals, and parking costs are not. Not to mention making up for lost wages during recovery! It's my goal that there is no financial barrier for someone who wants to test for me - wherever they are.

Thirdly, if you think you might be a donor for me, read more about the living donor process on Duke's website. And, if that sounds good to you, maybe even fill out the self-referral survey.

That's all for now!


Sunday, September 5, 2021

2018-2021 Interlude

Hello, my friends!

I took a few years off from blogging...

At the 2018 Transplant Games of America, I had a revelation. I realized how far I had come since my surgery, and I tapped into a deep desire for change and growth. And, for the first time since my lung transplant in 2014, I felt healthy enough, and brave enough, to explore what exactly this meant. Unfortunately, it ended up being the beginning of the most emotionally difficult months of my life. 

So, I did what many people would do: I found a really great therapist! My therapist helped me to slow down and really evaluate why these feelings were happening, and at the same time to help me realize that for me to come as far as I have after transplant was truly a triumph! And that, if I did not take care of my own feelings, there was no one else who was going to do it for me.

I spent the latter months of 2018 in a state of agony. My self-exploration had led me to see that my husband and I's "perfect" relationship wasn't as perfect as I had thought. While I loved many, many things about him, his family, and our lives together, I began to see that while we had succeeded with love, shared interests, plentitude, and comfort, our communication was broken and we lacked true intimacy between us - the kind where hearts are bonded without layers of skin between them. 

After navigating a plethora of health situations in the four years since transplant, I desired for the part of my life that I did have control over to be different. I wondered what that could look like. If I was able to work, and somehow secure health insurance on my own, I thought, I could practically be independent. The idea was absolutely thrilling! And, simultaneously, terrifying. I had never thought that would be possible, and I wondered what it would be like.

But, to "abandon" someone I loved so much... to hurt someone on whom I had relied so heavily for so many years, and through so many incredibly difficult situations. Not to mention all the other wonderful things that go along with separating from someone. Well, it was the worst. I felt terrible. What kind of person would do that?? The answer was, the kind of person who had been and always will be incredibly, unspeakably grateful for the love, support, and for him even signing up for the journey that we had endured together. And someone who knew that, options exhausted, my obligation was ultimately to myself and my own happiness. Just as he couldn't have supported me through transplant unless he truly wanted to, I couldn't have stayed in the relationship unless I had really wanted to. That is the shitty reality.

So, at the end of 2018, I moved into my mom's place - she was staying in a long-term rehab at the time and her cat was there alone anyway. In January of 2019, I got a part-time job and began working in Durham at Triangle Land Conservancy, where I still work and love love love it! I started dating, including a CF/lung transplant guy in NYC...but it was too soon and ended up a mess. In the summer of 2019, my mom miraculously came home, and I moved to an apartment in Durham. In Dec of 2019, I started dating my current boyfriend, a wonderful man named Mohammad. And, in Dec of 2020, I was able to purchase my first home, a tiny townhome here in Durham, (mostly) all on my own!! It was so amazing, I absolutely never dreamed I would be able to have my own name by itself on a lease. 

And here I am! I picked up a problem cat and an anxious small dog along the way, and life is truly good. I am happy.

Except... I am looking for a living kidney donor because my kidney function is failing. That was the impetus for restarting this blog, because it is absolutely awful telling people about this, asking them to test for me, and I'm hoping this will help more people stay in touch while making the communication process a little easier on me.

Thanks for reading - please subscribe to the right if you would like to receive emails when I post. I promise you I won't be flooding anybody's email boxes. 


pictured: Serena and Mr Kitty looking out the front window

Thursday, October 25, 2018

The Zen of Walking Two Old Dogs

Some of my favorite clouds spotted recently - mare's tails!

Doc and Sam are now on a three walk per day schedule. Three very sloooow walks. In theory, going out with the dogs is a wonderful thing - getting a little exercise, enjoying the "fresh air" and neighborhood nature, and checking out the changes people are making to their houses. In reality, the situation is rarely that pleasant whether it's the constant sniffing stops, fighting the heat and mosquitoes in the summer or picking up a nasty poo.

Since I am on my own with the dogs this week I am walking them more than usual. The weather has finally cooled down into the 60s-70s and leaves are beginning to change color and fall. The dogs are in their golden years, and Doc (entering his 10th month with an aggressive cancer that we thought would have taken him long ago) more than Sam is beginning to wind down in his own way too.


I used to have no tolerance for letting my dogs stop and sniff while out walking: It's letting the pack guide the leader, and I'm not okay with that. As dog parents, Todd and I assert our leader qualities very little with these dogs, and this one thing was important to me. However, old dogs, especially old dogs who have been diagnosed with cancer, are allowed certain sympathies and leniencies - extra hugs, kisses and treats, occasional human food and, yes, an unlimited pass for stopping to sniff on walks.

Occasionally the stopping still drives me crazy, but it is a good time to practice being present in the moment, remembering that I am outside spending quality time with my two dorks! (Affectionate name for 'dogs' in the Smith-Platt house.) We are here and we are happy. This does not come naturally to me, I have to be deliberate: I notice the trees letting go of a leaf, the blue sky as an abstract slow-motion painting, the ambient sounds of tree-top leaves blowing in the wind or little squirrel feet brushing past fallen leaves with a crackle that sneaks up on you.

*     *     *
It's funny to me how dogs always seem to go to the same places to sniff, pee and poo. "That's not weird," said my friend who was walking with Doc and Sam and I last weekend, "we always go to the same places too." Well, maybe that's true.

I have different walking routes with the boys, but more often than not they are always attracted to the same yards. Sometimes I feel a little bad - one of our regular stops is a neighbor with a (formerly) well groomed yard and (now struggling) nice grass. Fortunately that neighbor has two dogs so hopefully he understands. Another neighbor around the corner has a female golden retriever and we can never pass by that house without a massive amount of yard sniffing. (I'm pretty sure Doc and Sam have a crush on her.) But it's not just yards with other dogs that they like, though that seems to help. There are plenty of houses with dogs for which they show no particular interest.

Corners and intersections seem to be universally popular spots for dog sniffing and peeing. This must be ingrained somehow into the dog psyche - I wonder if it's at all similar to how Native Americans made trail trees as signs for others? It's secret dog navigational information.

The number one favorite sniffing spot - which only shows up this time of year - is leaf piles. The bigger, the better! Forget about walking by a pile of leaves with Doc and Sam. (The leaf pile in front of the girl golden retriever's house? Gold!) They will walk straight into a pile that's up to their chest intently following a smell trail oblivious that they're making a complete mess. I have no solid evidence but I suspect that the best leaf piles are those in which reside massive amounts of stranger dog pee, squirrel poo, mold, grass and maybe even a bit of old road kill. As disgusting as that all sounds, you have to admit that it would be pretty cool to stick your head into a pile leaves and be able to smell all those things at once. Maybe the human equivalent of this would be walking into a coffee shop, a bakery, a laundry mat, or spritzing on your favorite cologne - all at the same time.


Thursday, September 20, 2018

Lung Transplant: Just Like a Hurricane

Sunshine before the storm

I sit listening to the gusts of wind outside and the rain drops intermittently hitting the living room window: What at first seemed like a bear approaching has turned out to be a mere fluttering of wind and rain.

I texted with a friend the other day about how things were going in Raleigh, directly in Hurricane Florence's target: "Good news for us but bad news for someone else," I started, before explaining that the forecast had become ever more favorable in the last day or so.

Fortunately we'd had warning of the storm since Monday (or at least that's the first day I started paying attention) - Tuesday was the first day I went out shopping. I had plenty of time to stock up on supplies: I had batteries, water, non-refrigerated food. I'd waited in line for gas, ordered medications and charged all of my electronic devices. The flashlights and emergency radio were out. We'd even gotten doggie Xanex filled for the dogs - but not before the vet had run out of stock and replenished the supply.

Hurricane Flo with Raleigh in its sights

As I was trying to sneak a walk in with the dogs between bands of rain on Friday, that thought returned to me again: Good for us, bad for someone else. Yes, we had been lucky, but we'd also had days to prepare. Then as the storm approached land, its course had started to move toward South Carolina. I thought about those folks who hadn't had as much chance to prepare - enough time for stores to run out of things like bottled water, restock and then run low again. I was thinking what shitty news it would be to have a hurricane unexpectedly on the way. So while the new prediction was good for us, it was bad for others.

In the same way, receiving a transplant from a deceased donor is an amazing thing for a recipient - literally a second chance at life - and is a terrible thing for the donor's family. Even more so than a regular death, transplant donor deaths often involve tragedy like car accidents, overdoses and other freak accidents of those who's time is far from seeming over. It's incredibly sad, and I think that organ donation often helps donor families find some peace with their loved ones death. I hope that my donor family has found peace.

New lungs have allowed me to hike to beautiful vistas such as this off the Blue Ridge Parkway in the NC mountains

It's always been a difficult thing for me to think about my donor family. Some people claim to think of and thank their donors every day. I've never been like that. I'm a little ashamed to say it for fear of seeming ungrateful.

It's not that I am not thankful - of course I am. When I think of my donor family it's more periodically, like when something happens to remind me that I'm not just a normal person now, which is how I feel most of the time, but that I am living on "borrowed" or "extra" time. You only live twice, I like to say. (Credit to Ian Flemming...although under that logic I know some people who have lived three times or more.)

I am grateful for time I've used to travel, lust after hockey players, see my nephews grow up and much more. I just don't feel I owe anybody anything for that. Is that so terrible?

The truth is, I think being an organ donor is the right thing to do, just as it is the right thing to file taxes, drive on the correct side of the road and not cut in line at the grocery store. These are all things that make society work smoothly. So everyone has to wait their turn to check out, and people who would otherwise die without organ transplants receive them without the "luck" of waiting for a perfect match. Makes perfect sense to me!

These may seem like loose analogies, but I also think it's the right thing for people to give blood, bone marrow or even a kidney to someone in need - as long as it doesn't put the donor in any kind of jeopardy. And when it likely comes time for me to need a kidney, I will not feel bad about asking everyone I've ever known to get themselves tested.

Why do I feel so entitled to this? My life has been hard. I don't remember a time when CF or diabetes did not affect my every day until my lung transplant. When I was a child, it was bronchitis and submitting myself to percussive therapy (which I rarely did without a fight); in high school it was being chronically late to school because my sleep extended into the morning hours as I tried to live the life of a "normal" high school kid; as I started into early adulthood, I dealt with coughing fits in public, coughing up blood, coughing so hard I peed myself...and then eventually I was on oxygen, not able to physically keep up with friends and not able to work at a job that I loved. After all of that, I feel like I've paid my dues.

 Spending time in MI with my nephew Simon has been one of the best ways I've spent my second life

Has everyone who's needed a transplant "paid their dues" in this same way? Absolutely not. Some lung transplant candidates smoked, some liver recipients drank. Many have not lived lives of chronic illness, but rather had acute incidents later in life that led to organ failure.

But I believe everyone deserves to live twice - at least, regardless of bad choices took place in the past. Lord knows I've done my share of irresponsible things. That seems fair to me. I don't want to live in a society in which someone may die because another believes that a doctor may not try to save their life if they have a little red heart on their drivers license. (Not true!)

So I will end with some numbers.

Approximately 20 people die every day waiting for organ transplants.

Currently 115,000 people are on the list waiting.

Only 45% of Americans are registered as organ donors, on average, though it varies widely by state.

And perhaps the most poignant: one organ donor can save eight lives, and enhance the lives of countless others with their corneas, tissue, bone and bone marrow.

Are you registered? Do your loved ones and people you care about deserve the chance for a second life too?

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Part IV: The Scare and The Dénouement (Resolution)

If you're just seeing this, I encourage you to start with Part I. Also, here's a link to a short video I made while in house.

Toward the end of the second night with my angelic nurse, I finally got a few hours of GOOD sleep. I can't tell you how amazing this was! My nurse and I had made an earnest attempt to line up all my bedtime medications to preempt pain, nausea and fever, but it was the ear plugs and sleeping mask she dug up for me - plus a good dose of sleeping medicine - that really did the trick.

The next morning I was temporarily elated by my few hours of good sleep. My fever was low-grade. While some of my symptoms were being better controlled with meds, I had a couple of new issues: The bruise from the insertion of my Hickman Catheter and that whole general area hurt, and  shook every time I coughed; Also, the IV antibiotics were "working their magic" on my bowels. Having killed all my good intestinal bacteria, everything was liquidized. I can't tell you how much fun that is when you are forced to capture all of your urine into a "pee hat" - which covers up a huge portion of the front of the toilet - when you go to the restroom. On top of that, I had started my period. It was a hot mess.

After a few hours of energy, I spent the rest of the day feeling hot and grumpy. I did manage a walk when Todd came to visit, and I did a bunch of stretches and light core exercises in an attempt to help my back. I tried not sitting in bed as much. Overall, I was feeling pretty bad but stable.

As bedtime drew nearer, I tried coordinating all my night time meds with my nurse as I'd done the night before. I was armed with my sleeping mask and ear plugs (unfortunately, I found that most people who come into your room when you're sleeping like this still just start talking to you as if you were sitting there awake, only slower and more articulated: "Miss Smiiiith, I'm here to draw your blood.") There is no peace in the hospital.

Anyway, I kind of tanked that night. My bedtime meds never seemed to get ahead of my fever or my pain. I was waking up every couple of hours from fever hotness, pain, and having to go to the bathroom. I also had a lot of interruptions - from the nurse (he did his best), the nurse assistant (blood sugars at 3am every night!) and, in the morning, the EKG technician and phlebotomist.

This turned out to be a good indication of what was to come that morning. Having gotten wind of my rough night, and concerned about the worsening fevers, the doctors ordered a barrage of tests. In addition to my morning labs and EKG, I had the pleasure of getting more blood cultures drawn, and urine and sputum were requested. They also ordered a CT scan.

The Scary Day

The doctors came to my room early on that morning. This was the day that things got scary for me. First of all, an xray I had had done the day before sadly showed no improvement in the pneumonia. Though no worsening either. Furthermore, they were concerned about some thickening of my plural lining and thought that it might be fluid that would need to be drained with a chest tube. Lastly, they thought they might be able to see some damage to my lung tissue. (Yikes, yikes, and more yikes!!) A more detailed CT scan of my lungs was ordered to answer these questions.

The doctor was also worried about my worsening fevers from the night before, which could be part of the process of the pneumonia clearing up or could be a sign that infection not being treated adequately. "You have a very good pneumonia," he said, which took me aback as I ran through the many definitions of "good." He emphasized that this infection would be a slow one to get over, that I might be recovering for up to a month.

Fortunately, the antibiotic cultures from my bronch had also come back, and it was determined to switch me onto another IV antibiotic which would better target the type of staph I had growing.

With my new lab tests cooking and the new antibiotic in me, I spent the day nervously optimistic about what might happen next. I got in for the CT scan early and Todd and I killed time all afternoon waiting for the results. I finally decided to read up on chest tubes, which is something I know very little about in this situation. I did know that the experience was supposed to be a pretty unpleasant one.


Later that afternoon, the resident doctor came in to tell us the results of the CT scan. The fluid in my plural lining was not enough to drain. Also, the location was bad for getting a chest tube in (right behind my shoulder blade.) (Yay!) The areas the doctor had seen that might be damaged lung tissue in fact were not (Super yay!!) She again emphasized the long, slow recovery ahead, but commended my efforts at activity thus far (I had run into her on a Starbucks run the day before.) "You have a good pneumonia," she said. "It would set anyone back."

I know Todd and I both slept better that night with our worst fears subsided. And I also felt good about going forward with the switch to the new antibiotic.

I had no fevers overnight, and none the next morning. I still felt a bit weak from the past days, like I needed a lot of rest. But I was better than I had been. When the doctors came around, they asked me if I felt ready to go home. I had mixed feelings, but they seemed to think I was on the right track and could leave. I decided to trust their judgment. So, home I went!


It has been a slow recovery, but nothing I'm not accustomed to from years of cystic fibrosis exacerbations. It does suck though, being back to that place, that sick place. So sick you are useless some days and need a lot of help (thanks, friends!!)

I will be on IV antibiotics for a total of four weeks. I return to the doctor about a week later for a recheck. The docs want to do another broncoscopy to ensure that the infection I had hasn't caused an episode of rejection, which often happens. Wish me luck with that. In the mean time, I'll be doing nothing.

Part III: Night Sweats

If you're just tuning in, check out Part I and Part II before reading this.

After 17 hours in the ED, at around 8:30pm, I finally got assigned a room on the transplant floor, 7800.

By morning on Feb 1st, I was actually feeling a bit better after fluids and my first doses of antibiotics and Tamiflu in the ED. I had a fever that morning but then it let up for most of the rest of the day. I was still having intermittent nausea but they give me meds to help with that. I still had a fever. The pain in my lung is a little better, but I feel like I'm wheezing and have a productive cough. Back pain is still an issue.

I'm anxious to hear about any results from my bronch when the doctor rounds. Fortunately there isn't much to report. The bronch went smoothly and there wasn't much remarkable to see. My right bronchus has a narrowing in it - this is just the way this pair of lungs came to me - and the pneumonia has settled in my middle lobe comfortably underneath that. It's also infiltrated the plural lining of my lungs though we don't know the extent. We will have to wait a few days to get back any results from the bronch.

In the meantime, my original sputum sample has come back with an overgrowth of staph. With that information, we continue on with the antibiotics I was already on. I spend the first part of the day sleeping on and off. I wasn't hungry but forced myself to eat at each meal - protein, if possible, and fruits and vegetables. (My first tray contained an honest-to-god unidentifiable meat source that I forced myself to eat, along with green beans and potatoes.) 

Todd came to visit in the afternoon and I changed from PJs to pants and walked down to Starbucks and the cafeteria for coffee and a snack. I didn't realize it at the time, but these heroics of making myself walk and eat were the result of something inside of me that saw dormancy as the enemy: A belief that to be still, to become passive, to do nothing would lead only to the ground floor, not the exit door.

That night, I again did not sleep well. My fever came on in the evening and worsened over night. My back hurts up and down, not just the usual low back pain, and is not at all helped by the amount of time I'm spending in bed. Along with my head hurting, my neck was sore and my lung pain bothered me more and less - worse when I slept on my right side or when I coughed a lot. Or when I haven't been coughing and then I need to, as when I first wake up.

In addition to fevered sleep, pain, and overall feeling awfulness that first night in my room, I also had an episode of phantom itching on my upper chest. This is old transplant nerve pain that happens from time to time. I was a sweaty mess, tossing and turning in pain trying to get comfortable and on top of that my chest was itching almost to the point of making me insane.

When the itching happens at home, I have a pill that I take. But since this happened in the middle of the night at the hospital and the once-in-a-while medicine I use was not on my med list, all the night doctor was willing to do was prescribe me strong hydro-cortisone ointment - showing a complete lack of understanding about the cause of the issue - which the nurse then spread on generously. It didn't do a bit of good as a medicine, but it was so gross and goopy that it did eventually get me to stop physically itching, which did probably help.

The night nurse I had my second night, and then again my third, was an angel. Never before have I rang my call bell so many times during the night with so many continuing and new problems. Is it time for this? Can I have some of THAT?? She brought me heat for my back when the pain meds weren't working, cool packs for my head when my fever was raging, she paged the docs to see what more we could do when options seemed exhausted. I've never had a more caring, sympathetic nurse willing to keep trying things to help. She was amazing and I made sure every body knew it.

On my second full day in the hospital, I had a Hickman line placed. A Hickman is a type of central catheter similar to a PICC line except that instead of being placed in the arm, it is placed in a large vein near the heart. This was my first time having a Hickman, which overall seems to carry fewer risks and restrictions than a PICC line. (Actually, they are kind of amazing and I've become a big fan.) The Hickman was placed in preparation for going home on IVs. It was Friday and I'd hoped that I would be able to go home sometime that weekend.

But Saturday and Sunday had other plans in store for me.

At home -and feeling better - with my Hickman Catheter

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Part II: Middle-of-Night Trip to ED

Missed Part I? Read it here.

I woke up at 2 am with a pain in my right lung: I could feel it when I breathed in. Prior to transplant, this would not have been a big deal - I had all kinds of lung pain, mostly the result of infections or small blockages in my airways.

But these were my new lungs, and this, therefore, was something different. I hardly hesitated before waking up Todd. I packed a bag (one for a long wait and another of overnight hospital essentials) while Todd tried his best to wake up mid-sleep, and we arrived at the Duke Emergency Department about 3 am.

I checked in and was lucky to be called back into triage quickly - lord only knows what kind of microscopic organisms I escaped crawling around the front waiting room. We were taken back to room #42, my private ER room.

It didn't take long for things to get rolling...the dreaded blood cultures (4 sample liquor bottle-size containers of blood, necessarily drawn twice from two different needle sticks); another flu swab and a more comprehensive viral panel, looking for a short list of the most commonly harmful viruses; more labs, an xray, urine sample and an EKG. I felt I could cough up a sputum sample and along with the mucus I coughed up was blood! Another scary thing to happen with these new lungs, though not at all uncommon for me before transplant. This was when the flashbacks of "living life with end stage lung disease" really began.

I had a throbbing headache, my back hurt, my BODY hurt. I felt nauseous and got sick to my stomach. The nurses, techs and doctors came in and out; I made them shut out the lights and grabbed naps in between. Fortunately the docs gave me Tramadol and Soma for my aches. It was a small victory considering how difficult it is to get docs to prescribe pain meds. Nothing touched my headache, though. It went from the throbbing/light sensitive type to a general ache and finally to a more mild pain with an uncomfortable head rush when I stood up over those first few days.

Sometime before the 7am shift change, we knew I would be admitted. By that time, my xray had come back with a sizable pneumonia in my right, middle lobe - right where my pain was - some of my labs were wacky and obviously I looked and felt like shit. The doctor suspected a viral component (or instigation) to my illness and wanted to keep an eye on that though nothing ever showed up on the viral panel. I had already been started on a couple of broad-spectrum IV antibiotics to cover whatever might be growing in my lungs.

One early thought the team had was that I might have a pulmonary embolism, which would explain the pain and the blood. Since I have had a blood clot before, I am technically more likely to develop another one (a PE is a blood clot that's in your lungs.) But before they could get too far with that, my kidney function labs came back elevated and they didn't want to add stress  by giving me a CT scan with contrast dye to confirm that. Instead, they ran a blood test which showed them it was unlikely to have happened.

The team also wanted to do a bronchoscopy ASAP. As tired and worn out as Todd was, half-sleeping through the early morning sitting upright in the chair next to the wall in my room (and as much as he wanted/needed to get home to feed the dogs breakfast and let them out), I wanted him to stay for the bronch. I was nervous about what it might show. And who knows, maybe I would even get taken up to the floor after my bronch (my earliest teases at getting a room) and Todd could go home knowing I was situated for the time being?

I had the bronch around noon. Coincidentally it was also done by the ED doctor I had seen. It was not a typical bronch, which checks for infection as well as rejection by taking lung biopsies. This was a "wash out" bronch in which saline was sprayed into my lower lobes, sucked out and then analyzed for goodies.

Turned out the goodies were neither of the usual suspects, Pseudomonas or burkoldaria - both harmful, resistant bacteria that I carried in my old lungs and which have managed to stick around (so far harmlessly) in my new lungs. It was plain old staph! This was good, it meant that there were lots of antibiotic options to treat it, unlike my super antibiotic-resistant old bacteria.

It wasn't until 8:30 pm - long past many promises of rooms and another shift change - that I finally got into a regular room on the 7800 transplant floor.

Stay tuned for my early adventures on 7800.