I Donated a Kidney to my Tinder Match (part 1)
Ross and I met on Tinder about five years before I decided to give him a kidney. The “Cleveland transplant” in our bios stuck out like sore Midwest thumbs in the Pacific Northwest, and after learning we’d grown up a short drive up State Route 58 from each other and shared a few mutual friends, I agreed to meet him at a sports bar downtown for the second half of a Cavs game. Kyrie dropped 57 points on the Spurs, beating them in overtime, and Ross and I decided to be friends.
I’d moved to Bend, Oregon a few months earlier after life did its funny shimmy shake thing, offering me my dream job and a divorce in nearly the same breath. I spent those early days exploring the local trails and pubs, making friends and mourning the loss of my past life, doing everything I could to make this new place feel like home. It had potential, but I knew under the shiny — and sweaty — allure of endless recreating, fresh air, and puffy jackets, it was missing something. I just wasn’t really sure what.
Ross and I met up to watch the Cavs whenever we could after that Kyrie game. He’d roll his eyes as my still-sweaty running shorts plopped onto the bar stool just before tipoff that he’d gotten there early to save for me, and knew to order extra veggie sticks with his wings at half time because I’d undoubtedly pick them off his plate despite saying I didn’t want food. Cleveland lost in the Finals that year, a six game heartbreaking series to the pre-dynasty Warriors, and as we quietly pulled the thumbtacks from the team flag that the 10 Barrel bartenders let us hang near the tv I wondered if we’d stay friends now that we didn’t have basketball aligning our social calendars. As we signed our bills one of us — I don’t remember which — asked, “Game of pool?” and we had our answer.
Over the summer we quietly graduated from barstool-friends to friends-friends, but still spent more time yelling or mumbling at tvs than actually talking to each other. In a new state where I still needed to use GPS to get to the other side of town and everyone was either asking my name or “How’re you liking Bend so far?” it was priceless to have something that already felt like home, that was easy. Like sinking into a comfortable chair after a long day.
I’m sure when Ross swiped right on my profile that day in March he wasn’t looking for a sister-like friend eating pizza rolls in a Browns Snuggie while nursing a hangover on his living room floor, but that’s what he got. And I got my feelings of home.
The first time I heard about Ross’s kidney disease, or at least the first time I remembered, was a year after we’d met, during the build up to our second Cavs-Warriors NBA Finals matchup. Between the Cavs inbounding and bringing the ball across half court Ross broke the news that he was moving to Florida. I checked his face to see if he was kidding and then went back to the screen. He’d been offered a job with great benefits, and he’d be a few states away instead of a few flights away from his family, he justified. Plus he’d have access to the Mayo Clinic and their highly respected nephrology department, where he’d start needing treatment soon. I took a swig of my beer and watched Kyrie drive through the lane into traffic for an overly acrobatic layup.
Disease is a wide ranging word, and at the time I just assumed he’d be troubled with having to take a few pills every day and telling the bartender that he should order a salad but will have fries instead. I didn’t realize then that it was something that would eventually kill him.
A few short weeks after breaking the relocation news I dropped him off at the airport with a hug and a tear in his eye. I’d found other things to make Bend feel like home since we’d met, but it was still hard saying goodbye to my early lifeline to those sorely missed Ohio roots. Two weeks later when the Cavs came back from down 3–1, winning Cleveland its first championship in 52 years and the first of our lifetimes, I phoned the other corner of the country from our old perch at the bar. My voice was hoarse and face stained with mascara, and Ross answered on the first ring.
A couple years passed, and though distance did its natural decaying to our friendship, we stayed in touch. Late one October evening, drunk on IPAs and the World Series, Ross texted to casually say he was starting the process to get on the organ transplant list. His kidney function had taken a dive and the need for dialysis was on the horizon, the chance of failure threatening. He’d eventually need a new one, as in a whole ass new organ implanted into his body, though it was hard to know when.
“You can have one of mine,” I texted between innings, “if it’s even any good.” (In the moment I may have had liver and kidney confused.) He sent a link to Mayo’s Donor 101 page, and said while he appreciated the offer, it was a pretty serious ordeal and he would understand if I changed my mind after reading about it, or at least sobering up. Plus his mom had just started the process of testing and they were hopeful she would come back as a match, since closely related DNA increases the transplant’s likelihood of success.
The next morning I watched the informational video while I worked through my hangover, wondering what it’d be like to know your expiration date. We could all die at any time of course, but the reality that a friend my age wasn’t playing with “somewhere between tomorrow and age 100” chips like I’d always thought was sobering. Somewhere between tomorrow and a few years from now? For a thirty year old??
Luckily Ross’s mom’s initial donor screening came back a match, and they were setting up to go through the next phase of testing. A rigorous round of scans and screens would try to make an educated guess on whether Ross’s body would accept the foreign organ or not, and whether his mom was healthy enough to live with only one.
That’s when they found the cancer in her breast.
Not only was she no longer able to donate, she had a fight of her own ahead, and Ross was back to square one. A few nearby friends and distant relatives lined up for testing while he got a fistula put in his arm for the dialysis that now seemed inevitable.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your mom.” I’d had to pry the news out of him, part of that close-to-the-cuff private nature I’d come to appreciate as an endearingly annoying Midwest quality. “I just had routine blood work done and all my organ function is pretty primo. Even my liver, shockingly… You still want a kidney?”
“Sure.”
SURE.
I offered a life-saving organ and this guy who just had his arm ripped open so they could fuse together a vein and artery to create a place for the machine that would filter his blood for his failing kidneys is all casual like I asked if he wanted to share some of my fries. Come to think of it, I’ve seen him much more excited about a basket of fries, especially if there was ranch on the side.
I rewatched the informational video and reread all the important requirements and recovery protocols. Every medical article to personal video diary to doctor-scribed op-ed on the internet found its way to my screen. The growing seriousness of the situation and Ross’s cavalier attitude about it boiled action into my brain, and I was determined to help. I just needed to know at what cost. How long would I be out of work? Would I be able to ski this season, or ever again? Would I need to be on medication forever, or worse, give up beer?
By the 50th summary landing at “donors typically go on to lead quite normal lives, including playing sports and drinking beer,” I navigated over to the Prospective Living Donor Questionnaire and submitted my information.
When the transplant team called a few days later the coordinator asked poignantly, “Why do you want to donate to your friend, Ross?”
I hadn’t told anyone about my plans and hadn’t even really asked myself that, at least not that directly. Despite the question catching me off guard, an answer came easily.
“If I have two and only need one, and one will make a big difference to him, he can have it.”
The next day I left for a road trip with a guy I’d recently started dating, my first real relationship since the divorce. When we got home, seeped in dirt and feelings stronger than we left with, a small, unlabeled, square package was waiting for me. Inside, a perfectly nested styrofoam container protected six glass vials, all wrapped in bubble wrap and stickered with my name and birthdate.
Before I even finished unpacking I marched into my local hospital’s walk-up lab and plopped down the box. There was no paperwork, no instructions, and I’d forgotten the term the nurse had used over the phone.
“I need… some blood drawn,” I was suddenly very shy at my reason for being there. The young brunette behind the desk took no mind, opening the mailer box and typing on her keyboard. She asked for my basic information, and as she unearthed the prepaid FedEx return label with a Jacksonville address, she finally asked.
“I’m being tested to see if I can be a kidney donor.” I felt my face flush, looked around to see if anyone else had heard. The elderly man to my left was shakily signing paperwork, a woman in a wheelchair to my right looked hopefully asleep, otherwise dead.
“Oh, wow! That’s wonderful.” She continued typing, pausing quickly to meet my eyes, a small comfort in a sterile environment. My body fought itself, wanting to sit tall and proud but also desperate to shrink away from the transparency and attention, even just from this one person. “Is it a family member?” I’d hoped she wouldn’t ask, that HIPAA would prevent her from being allowed, maybe.
“Just a friend,” I begged for the part where she’d be too busy sticking needles in me and sucking out my blood to ask any more questions, “a good friend.”
I passed out somewhere through the fifth vial.
The same donor coordinator who responded to my questionnaire called to read through the results with me a week later. Our blood types were compatible, which we already knew, and the antigens in our bodies — essentially the defenses your immune system has built up over your lifetime — were negative. She listed a few more things and then paused.
“So…” I waited for her punchline, unsure what exactly all of it meant.
“You’re a match! We can proceed to the next round of testing, as long as you still want to.”
My mind flooded with questions, feelings. A tear welled up in the corner of my eye. I asked how common it is for non-family members to match. She gave a vague answer without the stats or percentages I craved, to know if this was a miracle or just Tuesday. I followed up on some questions that had come up since our last call, mostly about the recovery and life after donation. We talked about the next steps — flying to Florida for the whole gamut of in-person testing, the part where Ross’s mom learned of her cancer — and whether or not I wanted to tell Ross or if I’d prefer that she relay the news. I hung up the phone and immediately texted him.
“This is the second time we’ve matched!” I laughed at my own joke, wiping the tear that’d finally crested my eyelid from my cheek before walking back into work.
