How Kidney Donation Intent Rescued My Life from Cancer

When I submitted my living donation application to the National Kidney Registry, my goal was to enhance the life of another individual. Little did I imagine that this choice would ultimately preserve my own life. Greater Good Chronicles A collection of personal essays from individuals incorporating

When I submitted my living donation application to the National Kidney Registry, my goal was to enhance the life of another individual. Little did I imagine that this choice would ultimately preserve my own life.

Greater Good Chronicles

A collection of personal essays from individuals incorporating the principles of a fulfilling life into their everyday routines.

Several years back, the notion of living kidney donation first entered my mind after learning of my aunt's kidney disease diagnosis. The choice seemed straightforward; I hold her in the highest regard and would willingly offer any part of myself if it could aid her. Thankfully, she regained her health without requiring a transplant, yet the concept persisted, resurfacing periodically in my thoughts.

Billboards at a crossroads close to my daughter's high school urged drivers to sign up with the National Kidney Registry to assist a nearby woman desperately needing a kidney. I also came across a video featuring a dedicated husband who paced along the roadside near his residence, sporting a sandwich board sign that read, “NEED KIDNEY 4 WIFE” along with a contact number.

During a flight returning from a speaking engagement, I stumbled upon the documentary Confessions of a Good Samaritan in the in-flight entertainment selection. Directed by Penny Lane, the film delves deeply into the procedures, psychological aspects, and ethical considerations of altruistic kidney donation, all while documenting her own evaluation process and surgical experience.

Whenever the topic of kidney donation slipped from my consciousness, an unexpected reminder would appear, underscoring that although it had receded from my mind, the urgent demand for living donors remained unchanged. At present, more than 90,000 individuals languish on transplant waiting lists, hoping for a donor match. For numerous patients, chronic kidney disease translates to ongoing dialysis treatments, persistent health struggles, and significant economic burdens.

The decisive push came through my TikTok algorithm, which introduced me to Chandler Jackson, known online as @ChandlerTheKidneyGuy. Living with kidney disease, Chandler creates content to illuminate the realities of managing chronic illness as a college student.

Watching his videos educated me on his demanding daily peritoneal dialysis regimen: meticulously cleaning his dormitory and hands, donning gloves and a mask, preparing the dialysis equipment, connecting the cartridges and intricate tubing networks, and heating three large bags of dialysis fluid. He repeats the sanitization, gloving, and masking before linking the full apparatus to the port in his abdomen, initiating a grueling nine-hour cycle where the solution and his peritoneal membrane filter out the toxins his failing kidneys can no longer process.

After exploring Chandler's TikTok content, my determination solidified. I committed to donating one of my kidneys in 2026. Direct donation to him might not be feasible owing to location and compatibility issues, but I could provide a donation voucher to advance his position on the transplant list or initiate a kidney exchange chain in his favor.

In stark contrast to Chandler's challenges, my daily existence feels far simpler. Much of my professional life involves delivering talks at schools and community groups on subjects drawn from my books, including effective learning strategies, boosting student engagement, preventing substance abuse, and effective parenting techniques. When not traveling or writing, I occupy myself with physically demanding garden tasks like removing heavy rocks, caring for my beehives, or preparing firewood for the upcoming winter season. On balance, kidney donation promised only a modest disruption to my routine.

Admittedly, the process would involve a comprehensive medical evaluation, including an intensive day of assessments at the nearest transplant facility, roughly four hours from my home. Should I clear the thorough physical and mental health checks, the procedure itself would be a laparoscopic operation under general anesthesia, followed by a short hospital stay of a couple of days. Full recovery at home would span four to eight weeks, necessitating a temporary pause in my work schedule.

As such, I confided in my speaking agent early on about my donation plans. She expressed her own fascination with the prospect of donating and assured me she would rearrange my booked engagements accordingly. If the timeline aligned, I could potentially proceed with the donation amid Vermont's chilly, shadowy winter months, recuperate cozily by my wood-burning stove with knitting projects, and resume outdoor pursuits in the garden, woods, and apiary come springtime.

Completing the kidney donor registration form proved straightforward. I finished it on my smartphone in less than ten minutes while awaiting a flight after a speaking gig. Shortly thereafter, a nurse navigator from Mass General Brigham in Boston—my nearest transplant center—contacted me to review altruistic kidney transplantation details and gather an in-depth medical history. Deeming me a promising candidate, she coordinated my initial round of blood and urine analyses at a nearby lab and recommended accelerating routine screenings such as my mammogram and colonoscopy.

For the initial 55 years of my life, my kidneys merited scant attention beyond occasional checkups, but as testing commenced, they dominated my thoughts. Were they in optimal condition? Suitable for donation? I knew the transplant team would assess both and allow me to retain the healthier, more resilient one—right or left? I even pondered naming them. Increasingly, I viewed my kidneys as communal assets, stewarded temporarily for an unknown recipient, making their maintenance a central focus.

One week on, having surrendered numerous blood samples and gathered a full 24-hour urine collection in a sizable orange container, I headed to my local medical facility for the mammogram. In a lighthearted moment, I snapped a cheerful selfie in the dressing room mirror for Instagram, captioning it with an upbeat reminder like, “Ladies, prioritize your mammograms!”

The breast care clinic soon notified me of the need for a follow-up mammogram, potentially with an ultrasound, but I remained unperturbed. Previous instances had revealed only benign variations in breast tissue density, resolving without issue. I returned to the University of Vermont Breast Care Center, donning yet another gown, enduring another wait, and undergoing the repeat imaging.

Typically, these follow-ups ended with dismissal (“All clear, just density irregularities—take care!”), so the request to remain for an ultrasound sparked initial unease. I concealed it by conversing amiably with the technician about our children as she meticulously examined my left breast and lymph nodes.

Directed to a compact consultation area, I awaited results. The radiologist's entry, bearing that familiar blend of concern and compassion, unleashed my anxiety into outright dread. I messaged my husband, who was attending patients in his clinic several floors above, urging him to join me for a composed, objective perspective on the impending, transformative diagnosis.

While awaiting Tim, I fidgeted with my cuticles and surveyed the modest room. That's when the conspicuously placed tissue box on the adjacent table caught my eye, signaling gravity. Tim spotted it upon arrival as well.

The radiologist explained a mass in my left breast, highly likely invasive given its irregular, spiculated contours. A prompt biopsy was essential. Following confirmation, she noted, discussions with a breast surgeon could outline surgical paths.

Internally, I recoiled—no, this was a mistake. My role was to bestow life upon another, not to deliberate lumpectomy versus mastectomy survival odds.

Echoing a ultrasound from three decades prior, when we learned our unborn child had no heartbeat, a surreal denial washed over me. Everything's okay, I rationalized; the baby would manage heartlessly—we'd adapt.

Reality dawns gradually in such moments. Tim and I clasped hands, conversed, probed, investigated. Eventually, I confronted the diagnosis's ramifications and my altered path ahead. Surgery loomed, along with those four-to-eight recovery weeks, but absent the fulfillment of gifting life to another.

Devastation struck—for my own sake and the anonymous claimant I'd already mentally assigned to my body.

And yet.

And yet.

That proactive mammogram, unscheduled for another half-year, detected my cancer at an early, treatable stage. Diagnosed with invasive lobular breast cancer—a form notoriously elusive in initial phases—the timing proved lifesaving.

Indeed, I underwent surgery—a bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction—through Vermont's bleak winter, passing December and January fireside, crafting an imperfect, uneven shawl. As spring arrives, thawing soil and drying paths, I'll be sufficiently recovered for trail runs, firewood chopping, and wrestling boulders from my garden beds.

Remarkably, Chandler secured his kidney transplant this winter too. As I withdrew, another donor emerged promptly. She registered, endured stringent evaluations, and donated successfully. Integrated into a transplant chain, her gift advanced her recipient and offered Chandler a disease-free future.

Though my kidney donation pursuit stemmed from pure altruism, in a twist as predictable as it is profound, I received precisely what I sought to bestow—life itself, in its fullest measure.