I know it’s been a long time since my last post, but unfortunately I’ve been so sick that I haven’t had the energy or the heart to update my blog. However, I know that many folks have been wondering what’s going on, so here’s a brief outline of what happened. I want everyone to know how much I appreciate your prayers and support. While things haven’t turned out like I’d hoped, I am grateful to be alive and to have survived this ordeal.

I don’t know what the future holds in terms of a transplant. Right now, I’m taking one day at a time, with my immediate priority being recovering from the surgery and the blood clot in my leg. Thank you again for all of your support.  

Happy New Year!! Once again, I’ve been bad about updating my blog, and now I have so much news, I don’t know where to begin.

I celebrated New Year’s Eve in the hospital here in Baltimore. I had what I had hoped was going to be my last dialysis treatment, but then the doctors told me about my latest detour on the Yellow Brick Road to Transplant City.

It seems that during the last cross-match with my brother’s blood, they discovered that I have a small level of antibodies in my blood that could possibly lead to my rejecting my brother’s kidney. The doctors recommend that I go through a procedure called plasmapheresis, wherein the antibodies are removed from the blood with a process similar to dialysis. If all goes well, we are hoping to have the surgery on Jan. 9.

I’m trying not to get discouraged, but I am disappointed by the delay. I am so eager to get well and to get back to life.  But I am hopeful that this process will continue to teach me a greater sense of acceptance and patience.  I’m thankful to all of you for your continued support and prayers. And while it’s hard to type with an I.V. in each arm, I’ll try to update this blog as much as possible.

OK - I realize that I have earned the title of worldest least consistent blogger!! Sorry about that. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to write something, it’s just that there’s just enough Irish superstition in my blood to make me afraid to jinx my latest progress down the yellow brick road to a transplant by putting anything about the future in writing.

But being the newswoman that I am, I can’t wait to tell you the latest news that’s happened since my last post. Over the past few weeks, my brother has been given a clean bill of health to be my donor, I’ve been assigned a new transplant coordinator, and (drumroll, please!!) I’m on the calendar at the University of Maryland Transplant Center for surgery on January 2!!!

Woo hoo!!  In case the bold and italics didn’t make it clear enough, the last item on that list is the really BIG news! Unfortunately, it’s not really as big as I’d like it to be, since nothing is ever carved in stone when it comes to transplants.

The biggest variable in the equation is the fact that I am still on blood thinners in the wake of the great pulmonary embolism epidemic of October 2007. While my Florida doctors (bless them!!) have given me clearance to have the surgery in January, my UM surgeon has expressed some reservations. As a result, if I can’t convince him to proceed, I may have to wait another three months.

The good news, however, is that the Emerald City is in sight!! And by a strange twist of fate, my beloved Maryland Terrapins, mascot of all things University of Maryland, are going to the Emerald Bowl in San Francisco on Dec. 28. If all things go as scheduled, I will be at UM Baltimore undergoing pre-operative tests that day. It will be the first time in five years that I haven’t been in the stands cheering on my Terpies to victory at a bowl game.

It’s a big sacrifice for me to miss the game, but something tells me it will be worth it!!

It’s been quite a while since I’ve posted here, but the truth is that after the excitement of my stay at Fort Walton Beach Medical Center Resort and Spa, I’ve been pretty much in “hurry up and wait” mode.

 Dr. Reid has promised to contact my surgeon at the University of Maryland to see what impact my blood thinners will have on scheduling the transplant. In the meantime, my brother is scheduled to have an in-depth physical on Nov. 15. I’m praying that he will get a clean bill of health and we’ll be able to move forward.

In the midst of all this limbo, I had a little excitement on Thursday, when Sheila Nichols at Cox Communications invited me to meet Miss America during her visit to Okaloosa County. I momentarily debated wearing my tiara (yes, I have one of my very own!) for the historic meeting, but I thought better of it. Of course, my dear friend Debi Hausermann was kind enough to take a photo of me doing the “Miss America wave” next to the real Miss America, who didn’t seem particularly amused by the gesture.

Ironically, the very next night I had another opportunity to do the wave. I was sitting at dialysis on Friday when suddenly it seemed like an elephant had entered the room and sat down on my chest. I was having trouble breathing, and when I told my nurse, Delores, she dialed 911. She was being extra cautious because of my pulmonary embolisms, but the whole thing was pretty embarrassing. So as the medics wheeled me out to the ambulance on this giant gurney, I took the opportunity to wave goodbye “Miss America style” to my fellow dialysis denizens.  There’s nothing like a royal wave to get a good laugh and ease the tension.

To my great disappointment, the ambulance driver chose not to run the siren on our 30-second trip from the dialysis center to the emergency room. After scaring my family to death, I was able to escape another hospitalization since the shortness of breath was deemed not to be as serious as the last time. Thank you, Lord!!

Saturday marked the 18th anniversary of my father’s death back in 1989.

 ”Papa,” as he came to be known after my son was born, is never far from our thoughts. But it’s on special days like his birthday or the anniversary of his passing that his absence is even more keenly felt. And these days, as my family and I prepare for the possibility of my receiving a kidney transplant, I feel his spirit watching over me more than ever.

I was diagnosed with polycystic kidney disease in the summer of 1988, when my sister and I were tested to be possible donors for our dad, who had reached end stage renal disease. My sister was free of the genetic defect, and generously offered to be a donor. Back then, the donor’s surgery was actually more complicated and painful than the organ recipient’s. The doctors broke one of my sister’s ribs, and she still has a massive scar across her side.

The transplant took place in January 1989. At first, everything worked like a dream. My dad and sister both bounced back from the operations, and my father marveled at how much better he felt. But shortly thereafter he began to experience painful side effects from the anti-rejection medication he was taking. He grew weaker and weaker, but the doctors were unable to determine what was wrong. Finally, a mysterious infection spread to his brain, causing him to experience massive seizures. After desperate brain surgery to remove the organism, he went into a coma.

Just when we had come to accept the fact that Daddy would probably never come back to us, he woke up. While he wasn’t his old self, he appeared to recognize us, to understand what we were saying, and to make an effort to communicate. We were overjoyed, and made plans to have him transferred to a rehabilitation center in Pensacola. But the very afternoon that he was to be transferred, he suffered another massive seizure and never fully regained conciousness.

For several agonizing months, he lay in a semi-vegetative state. Then on Friday, October 13, he passed away.

I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit that the specter of my father’s ordeal doesn’t haunt me. I know how frightening it must be for my family to see me in the hospital, fighting the same disease that killed our beloved Papa. I can’t imagine what it must be like for my mother, who was so brave throughout my dad’s illness and through all the years that followed.

In the movie “Yentl,” Barbra Striesand’s character calls out to her dead father, seeking advice. “Papa, can you hear me?” she implores.

These days, as I try my best to be brave, I find myself asking the same question.

I got the good news this morning - my brother and I are a match! After four weeks of waiting, I think I was in a state of shock after he called. I just kept saying, “Thank you, thank you so much!” over and over again. It wasn’t until an hour or so later, when I was driving to work, that the reality really sank in. I sobbed all the way to the office, but quickly dried my eyes when I walked in and saw the Bulletin staff gathered at the door to greet me!

What a wonderful surprise it was to see my office decorated with pink streamers, and flowers and chocolates and a huge plant waiting for me. (The plant, by the way, was from the Crestview Area Chamber of Commerce. What sweet people!)

My brother and I still have a long road ahead of us before the transplant can become a reality. Next week, he goes to Baltimore for a comprehensive physical to make sure he doesn’t have any underlying health problems. I still have a few more tests to complete, and my nephrologist, Dr. Reid, needs to talk to the surgeon to see how my new anti-clotting medication will affect the timetable.

Nevertheless, I have a huge sense of gratitude for how far we’ve come. Could it be that in a few months I will be finished with dialysis, finished with feeling tired, finished with being a person with “health issues”? I can only hope - and pray!

Yes, Dorothy was right. There’s no place like home, especially after you’ve been in the hospital for a week.

I got the good news that I was going home yesterday, and by dinner time I was back in my own bed, with dinner on a tray and my family waiting on me hand and foot (Yes, every cloud has a silver lining!)

I’m going back to work tomorrow (Wednesday). I want to thank the wonderful folks at Fort Walton Beach Medical Center for taking such good care of me, and getting me well again. And now here’s the really big news …

My brother called tonight to say that his coordinator at the University of Maryland called, and left a message that she “had his results.” Unfortunately, she was out when he returned her call, but the good news is that maybe, just maybe, we’ll know tomorrow if he is a good match for me.

And while I might not be able to have the surgery around Thanksgiving like I’d planned, my doctors are now telling me that I might not have to wait too much longer after that!! I am once again filled with hope!!

So tune in tomorrow to see if the news is good. I’ll post the results, good or bad, as soon as I hear something. And while I’ve been making “The Wizard of Oz” allusions since this blog began, allow me to digress and quote from Scarlett O’Hara in another famous movie from 1939: “Gone with the Wind.”

“After all, tomorrow is another day!” 

So I was driving to work on Friday, minding my own business, when I noticed a little shortness of breath. Once upon a time, I would have brushed it off as a sign of my apalling lack of fitness, or blame it on the humidity. But these days, when every little itch can be the sign of a pending health catastrophe, I’m more likely to become alarmed.

So when I got to dialysis that afternoon, I mentioned it to my nurse, who listened to my lungs and couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. My treatment went fine, and while the shortness of breath continued on Saturday, I wasn’t really concerned. But then on Sunday, I began to feel lightheaded, my shoulder, neck and arm began to ache, and I was really short of breath. My family begged me to go to the emergency room, but since I equate the ER with life or death, I refused. After all, I was going to dialysis on Monday, and I knew my nephrologist, Dr. Chris Reid, would be making rounds.

Thank God, I was right.

By the time I got to dialysis on Monday, I was feeling really puny. Dr. Reid took one look at me and knew something was wrong. He sent me over to the ER at Fort Walton Beach Medical Center, where they ran the drill of every possible test. Around midnight, the attending physician, Dr. Kelly, told me they couldn’t find anything wrong with me.

“There is one more test we can do,” he said. “It’s to check for a pulmonary embolism.”

I didn’t want to do it. I was exhausted, and I just wanted to go home. But John convinced me to go ahead.

Although the first test was inconclusive, there was evidence that I might indeed have a blood clot in my lung. They admitted me to the hospital in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, where I’m now holding court and getting all kinds of attention from every possible health care provider.

After several tests, the experts now agree: I have blood clots in both lungs. So I get to have some really fun shots in my stomach for the next couple of days, and I’ve started a regimen of blood thinners. The bottom line is that until this little drama is cleared up (in about six months or so) I probably won’t be able to plan on a transplant.

Oh well. Dorothy had the her flying monkeys, and I’ve got my embolisms. And if it hadn’t been for Dr. Reid and Dr. Kelly and my sweet husband, those little monsters might have killed me.

So I’m going to click my ruby slippers and continue to believe that there’s no place like the University of Maryland Transplant Center. I’m going to get there eventually, even if it is a long and bumpy yellow brick road.

OK - let me start this post by making one thing clear. I admit that I am quite possibly the western world’s greatest prude, so it’s taking all of the gumption I can muster to address today’s topic. Yes, we’re going to talk about mammograms, so any of you boys who are reading this might want to abandon ship right now.

I’ve decided to tackle this touchy subject because we are almost in October, and everyone knows that October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Well, that’s my official reason. The real reason is because I had my first mamogram yesterday, so it’s on my mind.

Some of you may be thinking, “Wait a minute, Kelly. You’ve already told us that you’re 45. Aren’t you supposed to get your first mammogram when you turn 40?”

Yes, oh observant ones, you are, and I didn’t. Like many women, I had heard so many horror stories about mammograms, I was reluctant to go through with it. But since the test was one of my “must-dos” on my transplant list, I made the appointment and actually showed up.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I can tell you that the experience wasn’t nearly as horrible as I’d been led to believe. Sure, it hurts a bit, but let’s face it, it’s nothing compared to the pain associated with childbirth or even with wearing some of my favorite shoes. And it’s over in just a couple of minutes, unlike some tests I’ve had to undergo.

So please, ladies, don’t be a dodo like I was. Make an appointment and keep it!!

Exactly two weeks ago today, my brother, Jay, had his bloodwork drawn to see if he would be  a good match as a kidney donor for me. I know this for a fact because it was Sept. 11, and I remember thinking how wonderful it would be if something nice could happen on that sad day.

Before John and I left the hospital in Baltimore, I asked my transplant coordinator how long it usually takes to determine if a potential donor is a good match. She told me “about two weeks,” so of course I took that to mean that exactly two weeks from the moment my brother’s blood was drawn, they’d hunt me down like a dog to give me the news. Obviously, that’s not exactly how it works.

Last week, I called the hospital and asked how they would inform me about my brother’s suitability.

 ”We send you a letter,” Miss Beverly, the transplant coordinator, said.

“Oh,” I said quietly, while inside I was thinking, “A letter? Are you kidding me? Don’t y’all have phones? Of course you have phones! I’m talking to you on one now!”

I expressed these sentiments to my boss last week, and she gently reminded me that I needed to be patient. But those of you who know me well know that patience isn’t exactly at the top of my list of virtues. Nevertheless, I’ve decided to wait until the end of this week before I call and bug Miss Beverly again.

Part of the reason for my impatience is the fact that many people will be affected by my ability (or lack thereof) to schedule my surgery rather than having to wait on a list for a cadaver donor. All the wonderful folks at the Bulletin who’ve been holding down the fort are probably wondering if I’m ever going to be back to normal, and so I’m eager to move forward.

St. Therese reportedly prayed, “Give me patience, Lord, and give it to me right now!!”

I’m no saint, but I know how she felt.