In June of 1999, after several years of unrelenting decline in my kidney function, I had hit complete renal failure. Unfortunately, I had to depend on the Veteran’s Affairs for my health care. They are every bit as neglectful as the media portrays. Adequate health care for me was delayed and, in some cases, non-existent, despite being a veteran with a 100% disability rating.
Later that year, my physician sat across from me in his office and matter-of-factly and quite unceremoniously told me that it was time to start making my final arrangements. I will remember his exact words for as long as I live: “The VA will not consider you for a transplant because it would be a waste of a good kidney.”
 
I was a 27 year-old mother to a very precocious little boy that needed me to be healthy. So I did what most strong-headed women would do – I got angry! I told the doctor that I wasn’t giving up and I would be damned if I let anyone else! I began the fight of my life, starting with getting a better quality of health care. 
My mother said that attitude was typical of me. She would brag that her daughter was always the type to “take the bull by the horns.” I loved that analogy so much that it became, and still remains, my personal mantra. During all of the health related hurdles I had to jump over the next year, I would envision fighting the biggest, meanest bull that I could imagine. I would grab the bull’s horns, dig my heels in, grit my teeth, and fight! There were days when I was victorious and days when I wasn’t. But I kept going. My greatest fear was that I would not be around to see my son grow up.
 
On November 2, 2000, my phone rang at 11 p.m.  I remember being upset that someone was calling so late at night, potentially waking my young son. I snatched the phone up and, in a very nasty tone, said hello. It was my transplant nurse. I was so taken aback; I don’t think I ever apologized for my attitude. She told me that they had a possible kidney for me and that I needed to be at the hospital by 7 a.m. the next morning. She cautioned me to not get my hopes up because two other people were called for the same kidney. It is the normal protocol as there was a very small window of opportunity to perform a transplant. Two people would face a shattering disappointment.
 
My mother, son, and I made the 2 hour trip to The University of South Alabama Transplant Center, after getting stuck in a ten-car pile-up on I-10. Luck did not appear to be on our side.
 
My transplant physician came to speak with us while the nurse was drawing blood for a final cross-match with the donor. As I watched my blood fill the vial, my doctor explained that the gentleman passed away from a stroke at the age of 59. He was an adamant organ donor, a Texan lawyer, and a retired bull-rider. In shocked disbelief, my mother and I looked at each other. I said that kidney was mine. As it turned out, it was an identical match.
 
This November, my family and I will celebrate the extra 15 years (and counting) that my donor has so graciously donated to me. Like most recipients, there isn’t a day that goes by that I do not send up a prayer of gratitude for him and his family. I had the distinct honor of meeting them this past April. It was every bit as amazing as I imagined it would be.
 
More than the gratitude that I feel for my donor, I carry with me a deep sense of an emotion that I cannot quite explain; not guilt, exactly, but not relief either. It is the memory of the two people and their families that were called for the life-saving gift that I was chosen to receive. I often wonder who they were and if they were ever given their second chance. Was it someone’s mother, like me? Could it have been someone’s child, the same age of my son? It is a question that often humbles me to my knees. It is the thought of them that drives me to advocate so passionately for the need for more organ donation heroes. It is my way of paying it forward.