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I realized that it has been over a month since the surgery, and I have yet to write down my experiences or thoughts. I suppose it never happened because I was afraid to type it out. Maybe even to relive the experience. What was I afraid of? I have no idea, but the fear was there.

Recently, I've become acquainted through email with another young kidney donor, like myself. His name is Josh, and he donated to his father only a few weeks after myself. It's nice having that experienced friend, even if I have so many people I am surrounded by that are willing to listen. He can understand.

So recently, he sent me an link from the kidney website that talked about this book. It was a woman and her experiences with the three transplants she has gone through, since her body constantly rejects her kidney. Feeling the rejection of a kidney, in this case, is just as bad as feeling the rejection of one's heart. Maybe worse. With the rejected kidney, your hopes and wants seem to have floated away into oblivion, and so with the remorse of this loss, you now have to deal with physical aspect of it. It's something that I think about every day, something that I constantly fear. I just hope my kidney is strong enough for him.

Back to my point; in this email, I sort of ranted to him, the way I do to Blake or Emily or any close friend of mine. This is what I told him, "...I love my brother, and I am sure you love your father, no doubt. But most people, not even the recipients will understand what it is like for us. Yes, what they have to do is much harder to deal with, but the fact that we have absolutely nothing wrong with us and we went through a surgery that was not needed for our bodies. My brother and your father needed the surgery, but we didn't. When they made me get up from the stretcher to the hospital bed, I couldn't move at all. I had no muscle strength, so they pulled me across the bed and into the other. I've never felt pain like that before, and I remember literally screaming out. Just trying to sit up for the first time, I had to wrap myself around the siding of the bed and use my arms to pull myself up. It's like starting all over, you know? You feel like some helpless infant that can't even sit up, and slowly, you build up your strength. I probably took 3 naps a day, and I was still able to fall asleep at night. You know what was the worst part of it? Having to wake up in the middle of the night to eat a thing of chocolate pudding, just so that I could take pain medication. I remember my aunts came to visit me during one of the days, and I just remember feeling nauseous. They all took me up to the room, and before I passed out, I probably threw up two or three times. I felt awful, but in the end, when I cried, it was for my brother. He was stuck in his room with a needle in his neck that he probably still doesn't realize how long it was. He lay there pitifully. I teased him about him needing to get up and walk to my room every once in a while, as if I was tired of doing all the work. Truth is, I didn't want him to move. I was afraid he would break; I still am. This surgery is the worst and best thing that has ever happened to me. I can go through life helping others, but this is the one thing that I hope defines me, or better yet, defines my brother and me."

I wanted to treat Jon as if he were a porcelain doll, but I felt that if I let me guard down, I would lose the strength for both of us. So I stayed strong, I acted as if nothing bothered me, as if seeing him constantly in pain, constantly going back and forth with pessimistic outcomes, really didn't tear me up inside.

I have never cried so much in my entire life, than I did before this surgery. Hell, I am crying as I write this. There were moments when I was scared to death of all of the possibilities, but when they took Jon and me back into the pre-op area, all I wanted to do was to just give him a hug. Such a simple act, and I never did. I regret never doing it, but I felt that even though it was so simple, I thought that the single gesture of acknowledging what we were about to do would ruin it. So Jon, if you are reading this, this is me reaching out to you. You have all rights to tease me about this, I am prepared, but I needed to get this out. (By the way, you and Hope still owe me an icee and some tea.) We were in separate little rooms, side by side. I waited in my gown patiently as they hooked the IV's up, and when I was free, I walked with my IV stand to his room, just to make sure he was okay. I was as calm as can be before that surgery. I didn't fret, I didn't care, I was ready to do it. I was relaxed. After in the recovery room, I remember being in and out of it. I have no idea if I even muttered Jon's name, but all I remember thinking was "is he okay? did it work? when can I seem him?" no matter the condition I was in.

So here I am on the eve of my first college orientation at 1 o'clock in the morning, typing as fast as I possibly can. My emotions are all over the place, I am thinking as clear as I ever have, and I just hope that my story or others have possibly inspired you just for a little while. It's Donation Awareness month, people. I am not saying go donate, but just be aware that maybe, just maybe the receptionist at your dentist, your neighbor, the kid that sits across from you in class, may possibly have done this for someone.