Last year you wrote a to-do list on your Facebook page. One of the items was “donate a kidney”. I wasn’t sure if you were serious but, knowing you as I do, I should have known immediately that you were. Then at Christmas you told us you were planning to become an altruistic donor, giving a kidney to a stranger on the transplant waiting list. I don’t think you will ever meet the recipient or know his or her identity.
I am proud to say that we have never tried to dissuade you, although we did suggest that you delay until after you have had children. We know that the risks are small, that donors live, on average, longer than the rest of us. But we are your parents. Worrying about you is part of the job description. I am not proud to say that I hoped the NHS would reject you as a donor.
Over the past nine months, we have felt a slow-growing fear, as you passed all the medical and psychological tests. At the same time, our admiration for you has grown as you pursue this goal.
Last weekend we happened to be sitting next to you when the email arrived to confirm the date of your operation. You were elated. You explained the process by which someone would be given the priceless gift of your kidney.
Your mum and I have spent the time since then feeling raw and tearful, leaning on each other for comfort.
I thought of my mum and how she would have reacted. I was glad that she’s not around to worry but sad that she is not here to give me a comforting hug.
On Thursday, completely by chance, I met a lovely man whose wife had given him a kidney. He sat patiently while I fought back tears and told him about you. I showed him your photograph and told him, as best I could, how proud and how worried I am.
He told me how the kidney had transformed his life and that six weeks after the transplant they were out walking the fells together. He said I should be very proud of you and that you are doing a wonderful thing.
Now the operation is four days away. Your mum and I talk about it – and our feelings – every day. She will be with you at the hospital while I wait anxiously and look after home, dog and son, 300 miles away. You will be coming home to us to recover.
I am so proud of you that it hurts. I know the risks are low and that you are probably safer in the operating theatre than on the journey home. But for once I struggle to take a rational view. I spend much of my day feeling close to tears. I feel foolish – after all, you’re the one having the operation.
But this is not just about fear. I know that it will have a permanent effect on you as well as the lucky recipient. However, it’s such a momentous event, such a big, wonderful thing you are doing, provoking such strong feelings of love, admiration and compassion, that it has changed other people too.
With all my love and all my fingers crossed,
Your dad
