10/09/2025
AN UPDATE
At the end of September, I was given a miracle — the kind that rearranges your soul and humbles you to your knees. I received a kidney from a 48-year-old man in Manhattan. I never met him, but his kindness is literally keeping me alive. His generosity flows through my veins with every heartbeat, every laugh, every breath. I think about him all the time — a stranger who decided that someone else’s tomorrow was worth his today. If that isn’t love in its purest form, I don’t know what is.
When I tell you this kidney is working overtime, I mean it. My creatinine dropped from 12 to 1.5 (medical folks, pick your jaws up off the floor), and I am making more urine than I ever thought possible. Let me tell you, I’ve never been more proud of bodily fluids in my entire life. P*e has never been so poetic. Life — even in the smallest, strangest ways — is flowing again.
But because apparently my life decided to take a sharp turn into the “Are You Kidding Me?” section of Netflix, just one week after surgery I stood up to go to the bathroom, my blood pressure plummeted, and down I went — headfirst, lights out. I woke up not knowing my name, where I was, or what year it was. I couldn’t even tell you who the president was (and honestly, maybe that’s the one mercy in this story).
I woke up in an ICU, the second of two ambulance trips that I don’t remember. Apparently, I was so out of control that I was pulling tubes and ports and assistive devices from my arms and legs. I was tied down and I wasn’t even allowed to a drop of water. Then somewhere in the middle of that chaos, my heart had stopped beating. That ‘ look ‘ swept over my face as I begun the business of my dying. Stopped heart. As in done. Really done. But fate — or God, or luck, or maybe just the universe refusing to be done with me yet — placed a doctor in that room who didn’t hesitate for a second. He jumped on me — literally — and within four minutes had my heart beating again. Four minutes between this world and a few broken ribs and whatever comes next. Four minutes that changed everything.
It turns out a simple urinary tract infection had gone septic and spread into my blood/brain barriers and my brain short-circuited. I wasn’t myself for days. The perfectionist was missing. The control freak was not to be found anywhere. I was lost. Lost in plain sight — And then — like the flip of a switch — I came back. Just like that. I woke up and recognized the world again. I knew who I was. I knew what I had to do: live.
So here I am — alive. I am home from the hospital, still fighting to stay home, but I’m alive. And with every breath I take, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. For modern medicine. For nurses who treated me with tenderness even when I’m not my best self. For doctors who refused to give up. For friends who send prayers, jokes, and love when I need them most. For my family, who never once stopped believing that I would come back from wherever I was. I, and we, have so much more to do.
And above all — for that man in Manhattan. My kidney donor. My unknown hero You didn’t just save my life; you changed the way I understand it. Every sunrise now feels like a gift we share. I carry you with me — your kindness, your courage, your heartbeat that echoes in mine.
Life is fragile. Terrifyingly so. But it’s also strong and beautiful and funny and breathtakingly generous. I’ve been to the edge — and somehow, I’m still here. And if you’re reading this, I want you to know: I see you. The ones who are scared. The ones who are tired. The ones who are fighting battles nobody else can see. You’re not alone. I get it. I know you.
If you’re the praying kind, please keep me in yours. Pray that my kidney keeps thriving, that the tests continue to run smoothly, and that I can make a significant difference in the world during the last part of my life. Pray for the man who gave me this new chance at an old life. Pray for the doctor who jumped into action and restarted my heart. Pray for every person waiting for a miracle of their own.
Because miracles are real. I’m living proof.
And after all that’s happened, I can tell you one thing with absolute certainty: being here — just being here — is everything.
