I’d like you to meet my son Matthew’s most faithful friend – his right kidney.  

Mr. Kidney is single, having lost his mate in 2004.  In spite of this regrettable personal loss, Right (- his first name) has soldiered on valiantly for the past 18 years, and, if you ask me, deserves a biological medal of honor. 

Mr. Kidney isn’t impressive in body size: he’s only about the size of your cell phone, weighs only 4 or 5 ounces, and is shaped like a kidney bean (or maybe it’s the other way around. Possibly the bean is shaped like Mr. Kidney). But, of course, he’s very attractive – especially to his owner/landlord – Matthew – who has genuine respect for the little guy’s heroism, quiet charm, and amazing work ethic.

Don’t underestimate this amazing little guy. He’s not just Matt’s live-in janitor. He serves as his on-site chemist, lab technician, bodyguard, and private investigator. Any Big Mac with fries and tartar sauce that Matt tries to sneak in is thoroughly appraised, analyzed, and filtered of poisons within an inch of its deep-fried life. 

In spite of his diminutive size, Mr. Kidney is not a wimp. He’s actually composed of over one million itty-bitty bytes called nephrons which give him his powerful muscular and analytical abilities.  If laid end-to-end, these nephrons would be 5 miles long. All of Matt’s other organs may be too jealous to admit it, but they have to rely on Right’s faithful policing of their environment or else it can mean “curtains” for them. As in “Time to kick the bucket, kiddo”.

But here’s the problem. Matthew’s Mr. Kidney is now 68 years old and he’s thinking about going into semi-retirement. And who can blame him? He seems willing to carry on with his garbage disposal activities part-time, but he’d really like to cut back on some of his other online battlefield action. Enough with the endless grind of filtering the toxins from those barbecue ribs and generously buttered salted popcorn, guys! In other words, it’s time to assign Right to some well-deserved R and R.

That’s where Matt’s sister Susy enters on stage Right. And me too, sort of. 

One day in July, Matt’s nephrologist, Dr. B. gave us a call. “Okay, Matt, it’s time now. For dialysis. But you get to pick a card. You can either go to the kidney center 3 times a week for hemodialysis through the blood, or you can have peritoneal dialysis through the abdomen at home in bed while you’re sleeping for 8 to 12 hours every night. Either method will take over the overwork your “trying-to-retire” kidney has been trying to avoid. Take your pick.”

So he did. One month later, following surgery, and an estimated $65,000 in medical costs (no kidding – thank you, United Healthcare, Medicare and the federal government!), Matthew’s body was prepped to begin assisting Mr. Kidney with some of his fearsome responsibilities.

On Thursday, after 3 weeks of intensive one-on-one training with a kindly and brainy peritoneal dialysis nurse named Jen, we were shoved out of the Kidney Center nest to administer dialysis to Matthew on our own. (Shudder, shake, shiver!)

We are scheduled – for one long, endless week – to deliver to Matt the manual version of dialysis so we know how to do it in case of any future power outages.

It’s been 3 days now. I sure wish I could tell you what an easy transition it’s been, but I’m too exhausted to think up any such lies that could be even remotely plausible.

Because Susy and I had both undergone the detailed training we were offered, our plan was that we would alternate administering the four treatments per day. Susy, was first, and performed with her usual flying colors. Then it was my turn. An occasion we now describe as “when the ax falls”.

I thought I was performing beautifully – always a trap – when it happened. Protruding from Matthew’s abdomen is a plumbing connection called a “transfer set”. During the procedure I was supposed to pretend like I knew what I was doing and join the sterile male end of the transfer set to a sterile female connector leading to another kind of tubing. But then, it happened! Oh, no! 

Due, no doubt, to my sexual lack of proficiency, the male end didn’t go in right. It missed by just a microscopic hair, and touched the rim of the female connection. Definitely a misfire! A drop of bentadine on the rim proved my sorry error. If there was one thing our training had imprinted on our brains, it was that THE MALE CONNECTION CANNOT TOUCH ANY PART OF THE EXTERIOR OF THE FEMALE CONNECTION. Foreplay is not only not permitted – it is condemned.

According to nurse Jen, if such a misfire should occur, we were to immediately halt the dialysis, and call her or whichever nurse was on call for emergency instruction.

So we did. Jen told us to conclude the procedure, and immediately bring Matthew back to the kidney center (a 26 mile roundtrip jaunt) where the transfer set that had been installed by the surgeon in July had to be replaced with a pristine new male connection, untouched by any unsanitary female connections perpetrated by any incompetent dialysis-givers.

It was downright embarrassing, I’ll tell you that. So now we have a new game plan. Susy is doing all the actual dialysis and I am providing the “consulting”, sanitising, supplies set-up, and doing the cleanup afterwards. But if you’re thinking this sounds like my inept life in a nutshell, it isn’t. I’m relieved. If there is one thing I’ve learned in the last 90 years, it’s how to stay out of trouble. Mostly.

We can only guess at what Mr. Kidney thinks of our erring efforts to supplement or replace his outstanding talent. After all, let’s face it. Lately, he himself hasn’t been performing all that perfectly either! We still like him though, and semi-retired or not, we hope he hangs around as long as possible.