Happy Birthday to My Failed Pancreas

You’ve been in there 15 years today.  What an amazing time it has been.  You worked hard, keeping my glucose normal until a year ago.  That’s longer than the average transplanted pancreas lasts.  During that time I never had a single problem with you.  You went to work as soon as you were stitched in place.  By the end of the day, a nurse in ICU would tell me those four words I never thought I’d hear, “You’re not diabetic anymore.”  I drifted off to sleep feeling more free than I’d felt in 21 years, in spite of all the tubes and wires that tethered me to all sorts of medical equipment. 

You worked beautifully every day, right up until you stopped making insulin altogether.  I gave you quite a workout in those first few months, eating sweets to my heart’s content, just because I could.

You held up in spite of all the harsh chemicals in my bloodstream keeping my immune system from attacking you.  You held up after the kidney failed and I had to get another.  You held up when I had cancer and my body was flooded with toxic chemotherapy. 

You gave me 14 years of a life I bid farewell to when I was only twelve.  At that ender age I had to accept that I would be diabetic for the rest of my life along with the insulin shots, a strict diet, and a long list of possible (and scary) health problems that went with it.  After several years with the disease, some of those scary health issues began.  It looked like my life was on a long downhill slide.  After doing peritoneal dialysis for 9 months and waiting for a kidney, I discovered a pancreas could be transplanted.

Just like that, I had to rewrite reality.  The impossible was possible after all.

I wasn’t the only one praying for your arrival.  Hundreds of people held fund-raising events to raise the $50,000 I needed to pay for you.  Insurance paid for the kidney, but not you.  I’m not exaggerating when I say you were much-anticipated by many.

You reminded me and so many others miracles do happen.  Some of them have never met me in person.  Who knew one small organ no larger than a deck of cards could impact so many? 

Of course, it wouldn’t have happened without the surgeons, the young man whose life ended the day before, and his family who allowed you to be donated to me.  Because of that, my relationship with you was bittersweet right from the beginning.  This is the first “re-birthday” I’ve celebrated since your retirement last year.  Now it’s more bittersweet than ever.  Yesterday, the anniversary of my donor’s death, I lit a white candle in his honor just as I’ve always done.

The kidney I received the same day I welcomed you to my body has been replaced and one day you will be as well.  Then there won’t be any part of that young man who saved my life in there anymore.

But the impact of that day—the most life-altering event of my life—will live on for the rest of my life.

Visit my web page JimFairbanks.net

Why I Talk About It

This coming weekend, I’ll be competing in a speech competition.  I’ve given this particular speech twice already, with some refinement between the first and second time.  The topic: organ donation—from the viewpoint of someone who was lucky enough to receive one.

Actually, I received two.  Maybe I should have titled this post Why I Talk about Them.  But "it" is my personal experience of being a transplant recipient.

One of the main reasons I started writing my memoir was to raise awareness about diabetes, visual impairment, and organ donation in general and pancreas transplants in particular.  Most people still don’t know one can be transplanted.  Some of them are diabetics who could possibly benefit from one.

While reading a book about how to write a non-fiction book proposal for a publisher or agent, I ran across an interesting bit of advice for building a platform—that all-important built-in audience of potential buyers.  It suggested doing speaking engagements.  That made sense.  It went on to suggest joining Toastmasters to improve your speaking skills so you don’t fall flat on your face at those speaking engagements. 

An organization that could teach me how to be a more dynamic speaker?  That sounded like a good idea.  I joined and started getting comfortable talking about myself for a few minutes at a time in front of a room full of people.

It’s a surreal experience, standing up and speaking in front of a bunch of people with normal vision when you can’t see their faces clearly.  They say public speaking is one of the most common fears people have.  I don’t think they polled legally blind ex-diabetic organ recipient cancer survivors.  After all that, it doesn’t frighten me.  Few things do anymore.  But, like so many things I experience, it’s surreal. 

Fast forward a couple of years to last month, when I spoke about what it’s like to go from being diabetic and doing dialysis to suddenly being free from both.  Later, a few people commented that they were going to have the “talk” with their family to let them know they wanted to be a donor if something happened to them.

My first taste of success in this new realm. 

I had given other speeches about interesting or funny things I’ve experienced.  The one about being a legally blind substitute teacher got plenty of laughs.  The objective was vocal variety, which any substitute (or regular) teacher knows something about.

One speech objective was to use my body.  I talked about the day George H.W. Bush flew into our little airport in 1988 to campaign for president.  I worked at Drake Field at the time and ended up being the one to flag in the last plane before he landed—the one that would be parked closest to his.  It had to be just right.  Airport employees were allowed to be closer to where he was than the general public.  We also got to board Air Force II for a quick look while he was out campaigning.

Then I was ready for my speech about organ donation.  The objective was persuasion.  Not surprisingly, it’s a topic I feel very strongly about.  This was my chance to inspire and motivate.  It brought me full circle to when I first started writing my story.

It’s hard to describe the feeling of fulfilling your purpose in life.  It’s sort of a heady, tingly, warm sensation with a sense of powerful intuition—the kind you know in your gut.  It’s being swept up and carried aloft by it without having to struggle.

I already knew my story was meant to be told in writing.  Talking about it and putting some emotion in my words and voice is a different level of intensity.  This rounds out the picture.  It gives a face—a healthy one—to something still shrouded in mystery by most Americans. 

It will be a larger audience this weekend.  Some of them will be competing against me.  I’m going to do my best, but even if I don’t win the contest, I will have won anyway.