Why I donated my kidney to a stranger

I was on a flight home from Canada and I just knew something was wrong. It was April 2009 and I’d been in Vancouver visiting my sister, Sue, who was having treatment for breast cancer. But at around 35,000 feet, I was overcome by a sense that I needed to get home.

I abandoned my plans to stay the night with my other sister, Debbie, in Marlow, Bucks and drove straight home to Doveridge, the village in Derby where we lived. I arrived and my worst fears were realised when my husband, Cliff, sat me down and told me that my youngest son, Ollie, (from my first marriage) had been admitted to Hull Royal Infirmary with acute renal failure.

It was incomprehensible to me: my robust 27-year-old was now critically ill. But it was true. Before I’d left for Canada, he’d been suffering from what we thought was 'flu, complaining of muscle pains and sickness. By the time I returned, his kidneys were at just three percent of normal function. Doctors did not know why but said it was likely his kidneys had been failing for the past 10 to 15 years. By the time he was diagnosed the damage was so far gone that the priority was to save his life. I struggled hard not to cry in front of him as a tube was inserted into his neck and he was placed on dialysis.

After two weeks in hospital, Ollie returned to his home in Hull. Determined to carry on as normal, he arranged to have dialysis in the evenings, so he could carry on working as a computer trainer. He needed three sessions a week, each of which lasted three hours, to keep functioning. Dialysis saved his life but left him drained and exhausted.

Ollie’s only chance of leading a normal life again was a transplant. Naturally, I offered to give him one of my kidneys, as did his father and brother Caspar, 29. I had an initial blood test and the sense of failure at discovering I wasn’t a good match was crushing. As a mother, my raison d’etre was to protect my children whatever their age. Being unable to help was the hardest thing to cope with.

Fortunately, my older son proved to be a perfect match. He was also close in height to Ollie which meant his kidneys were likely to be a similar size. He did not hesitate. He insisted on being his brother’s donor.

Months of interviews and tests followed to make sure he was physically and psychologically fit to go through with the procedure and wasn’t being pressured into it by the family. He was made aware that, while it was perfectly possible to live with one kidney, it was pretty crucial that the organ stayed healthy.

Caspar lost weight and gave up smoking to prove his commitment. He was supported by his wife Kerry, while his sons Taylor, then seven, and Lucas, one, were told that Daddy was going to help make Uncle Ollie better.

It was during this time of Ollie’s bravery and Caspar’s selflessness that I too felt compelled to step outside my comfort zone. I decided to become a regular blood donor – a small gesture in an ocean of need, but not one I took on lightly, due to a lifelong phobia of needles. But if Caspar could give a kidney, it was the least I could do: our hospitals have a huge shortage of blood, with some 204,000 new donors annually needed to cope with demand.

In March 2010, we were told Ollie’s transplant could go ahead. Although fantastic news, it meant now I had Caspar as well as Ollie to worry about. Seeing my two sons channelled into separate operating theatres at St James’s Hospital in Leeds was the most frightening day of my life.

Caspar’s kidney was removed through keyhole surgery and quickly taken to the adjacent operating theatre, where Ollie was waiting to be anaesthetised. The organ was inserted through an incision just under his ribs and connected to his blood vessels and bladder; his own failing kidneys were left in place. Both operations lasted over two hours.

Incongruous as it sounds, while they went under the knife, I went shopping. It felt surreal, but was better than sitting on a plastic chair staring at public health posters.

Ollie was the first to come round. From the moment he woke up, the transformation was clear. His eyes shone in a way I hadn’t seen for months. Even with machines still throbbing around him, there was a new vigour about him that made my heart sing. Caspar’s kidney had started working straightaway.

Like all transplant patients, Ollie had to take powerful immunosuppressant drugs to help prevent his body rejecting the new kidney. But he recovered with remarkable speed and was back at work two weeks later.

Caspar was slower to recover, needing three months off his job in the steel industry. Although there were no serious complications, the surgery is more traumatic for the donor, who loses, rather than gains, a perfectly healthy organ. It was a big sacrifice for him (and Kerry) to make and I was immensely proud.

The transformation in Ollie was both joyous and incredible. It was like watching the life flow back into him. It was lovely to see their brotherly bond deepen, too, although, despite inheriting one of his kidneys, Ollie failed to adopt Caspar’s love of beer.

Slowly, our lives returned to normal. Around 18 months later I heard a woman on the radio talking about altruistic kidney donation – where someone donates a kidney to a stranger. I also found out that around 5,600 people are on the NHS waiting list for a kidney transplant – and that 300 die every year before a suitable donor is found. What if I could give another family hope by becoming a donor? Once the thought had entered my brain, there was no dislodging it.

Naturally, my family were apprehensive about the idea. Caspar told me I was nuts; although he had brushed off his own donation, it seemed he wanted to protect me from going through any pain myself. But none of us could look at Ollie without wishing the same for someone else, and soon my family gave me their blessing.

I had no idea how to go about relinquishing a kidney and went to see my GP, who had no idea either. So I contacted to my sons’ renal co‑ordinators, based at the University Hospital of North Staffordshire.

A succession of tests to assess my suitability followed: X-rays, ECGs, ultrasounds, a radioactive tracer, a full body scan, and a barrage of urine and blood tests. The final hurdle was a lengthy interview with an independent assessor from the Human Tissue Authority, which regulates the use of transplant organs, to determine my mental state. When I finally received a letter to say that I had passed all the tests and was eligible to donate a kidney, I felt as if I’d been awarded a degree certificate.

Towards the end of last year, I was told doctors had found a suitable match for my tissue type and I was admitted to hospital for the surgery. The staff thanked me profusely and I felt enormously humble. Cliff and I exchanged “I love yous”, before I succumbed to the anaesthetic with thoughts of a few days welcome bed rest and no cooking or housework.

Although the two-hour keyhole operation to remove my kidney went smoothly, afterwards I was incredibly sick. The vomiting was such that I had to be fitted with an anti-sickness line. However, a few days later I was well enough to go home; three months after that, I was completely better. Apart from a small scar, I honestly don’t feel any different for being one kidney down.

I don’t know who received my kidney, as it’s kept strictly confidential. All I know is that he was a 40-year-old man. Recipients are encouraged to write their donors a thank-you letter, but I didn’t receive one. Anyway, I didn’t do it for thanks, but to offer someone the chance of a normal life.

I’m not a hero. I just did what my heart told me to, and I feel fortunate that I was healthy enough to go through with it.