In 1968, I was 2 years old and living in Las Vegas. I was suffering from bloating and uncontrollable high fevers, and the doctors had no idea what was wrong with me. They suggested that my parents rush me to Children's Hospital Los Angeles.
After a battery of tests, the specialists at Children's pinpointed the problem: complete kidney failure. At the time, the cause was a mystery, but I was later diagnosed with hemolytic uremic syndrome, a disease brought on by Escherichia coli O157:H7. The doctors hooked my 22-pound body up to a dialysis machine, which looked like a modified washing machine. The treatment kept me going for several weeks—until the day the tubing burst, and I nearly bled to death. I received immediate blood transfusions.
Ironically, this mishap saved my life. As the blood drained out of me, so did the E. coli, relieving the stress on my kidneys and enabling them to function again.
Although my diseased kidneys fought off dialysis for 10 years, they wreaked havoc on my body in other ways. Mainly, they caused my blood pressure to rise uncontrollably. New medications and a low-sodium diet controlled my blood pressure until I was 12 years old. By then, my kidneys were barely functioning, and I had to go on hemodialysis right away. Shortly afterward, they removed both of my native kidneys.
I didn't do well on hemodialysis because of crashing, cramping, and seizures, so Dr. Richard Fine wanted to try a new therapy called peritoneal dialysis. I was the first child to use this therapy in California. After a couple of weeks, I started to feel better. Peritoneal dialysis gave me a new lease on life and much-needed freedom.
A couple of years later, I was offered a peritoneal dialysis cycler machine so that I could do dialysis during the night and alleviate the burden of repeated exchanges during the day. I started ice-skating a couple of times a week and enjoying more daily activities.
During the next several years, I was fortunate enough to receive a donor kidney not once, but twice—and unfortunate enough to reject both of them almost immediately.
The final blow came when my doctors told me that my chances of undergoing a successful transplant were “slim to none.” I had 98% antibodies and type O blood. During my lifetime, I had received more than 150 units of blood, plus two unsuccessful kidney transplants, and this made finding a negative cross-match almost impossible.
By this time, I was in my late teens and felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under me. Was this the way I was going to spend the rest of my life?
What does the future hold? Using stem cells to grow your own kidneys? Fooling the body's immune system into accepting a transplanted kidney? A mechanical kidney that can be implanted or worn on the body so you don't have to be hooked up to a machine? So much hope!
One day in 1990, however, I received life-changing news. I had been on the transplant