Diary
Paula Byrne author
I recently moved from the hot, dusty Arizona desert to Seaport on Manhattan’s East River to take care of my adult daughter, who was awaiting a kidney transplant at nearby NYU Langone hospital. Our apartment looked out at a majestic tall ship, built of wrought iron in the 19th century for a Liverpool company and named Wavertree—a welcome reminder of Merseyside, where I was born and raised. Watching the boats sail by was a soothing distraction while we waited for news.
My husband had hoped to donate his kidney, but it proved to be incompatible with the now-failing one that our daughter received as a child 17 years ago. We were therefore introduced to the United States’s unique “Advanced Donation” scheme, whereby he donated to a stranger with a match, having surgery at 4am to allow the kidney to be flown cross-country to its recipient. In return, our daughter got a voucher (so American!) that bumped her up the list, giving a typical wait time of six months as opposed to several years.