I planned to start a long kayak journey in the fall of 2025, but best friend Evalyn Ormond was hospitalized that August through November, so I delayed the trip for at least a year. Instead, I spent much of last August and September helping out at Union General, the hospital Evalyn led for three decades.

I became friends in that period with Karissa, another member of the UGH team, and she introduced me to two large dialysis clinics in Farmerville, Louisiana.

But two such clinics to serve a parish of just 20,000? The magnitude of those operations alarmed me, given the small population they served. So I did some research and discovered that about 550,000 in the U.S. were on dialysis, and roughly 800,000 of us suffered end-stage kidney disease.

On a national scale, the enormity of those numbers was numbing, but in person — face-to-face — the reality of dialysis was devastating. I was appalled by the ordeal each endured, despite the humor and grace with which they did so.

I contacted the National Kidney Foundation, who introduced me to the nearest specialists, and Ochsner’s New Orleans team was the first to supply concrete information. I’ve since gotten to know the members of that team well and am awed by their dedication, compassion, and skill.

On June 3, 2026, they harvested my left kidney.

I felt a bit off for a few days, while my right kidney adjusted to working solo, and I looked forward to light duty for a month or so after the surgery. Bottom line: I was at no greater risk from the procedure than I was from a routine hernia repair a couple of years earlier.

I did not know the recipient’s identity. When asked whether I wanted to know, I deferred to the recipient. Mine was the minimal-risk side of our connection. It felt fitting to allow the recipient to decide whether to reveal their identity.

My blood type makes me a universal kidney donor, which made it easier for the transplant team to multiply the benefit by orchestrating a chain of exchanges.

My kidney went to a recipient to whom a friend or family member wanted to donate, but was not a match. That donor’s kidney went to a recipient who was a match, and that recipient’s mismatched volunteer donated to a matching recipient, and so on.

If I understand correctly, the last recipient in the chain was one for whom no friend or family member could volunteer a kidney, thus completing the donation circle. The Ochsner team tells me their record is 10 such exchanges in a single chain of donations.

I visited an orthopedic clinic early this year for a torn meniscus, and as a nurse there reviewed my chart, she sobbed then hugged me. Her husband had been on dialysis with a prognosis of surviving less than three years … until he received the gift of a healthy kidney four years ago.

I’ve written elsewhere that whenever I experience what, on surface, would appear misfortune, it is instead the journey delivering another detour leading to yet another magnificent someone — a new connection I would have missed but for the delightful vagaries of wandering.

But for Evalyn’s misfortune, I would have been paddling a kayak that morning, half a continent away, pursuing my latest selfish vanity project. Instead, I met Karissa, yet another magnificent someone, and thus was ridding myself of a spare kidney.

Because Evalyn bore the burden of the misfortune that enabled this series of events, I considered the kidney her gift to its recipient and myself her surrogate.

Our mom raised us on what I now know to be a Mediterranean diet. When I complained, as a child, that I was missing out on all the yumminess my friends enjoyed — fried this, fried that, and everything else dripping with pork fat, sugar, and/or salt — she countered, “We eat this way to care for ourselves, and we care for ourselves so we’re able to care for others. Your friends will need your care someday.”

Prescient, our mom.

Thanks to her, I remain relatively fit for a fellow easing into his eighth decade. Thanks to her, I had two healthy kidneys, thus one to spare.

I was asked repeatedly whether I was sure I wanted to do this, but I needed only to think of that nurse to know. Yes, I was sure.

How could I not be?

The donor screening process included a psychological evaluation, during which I was asked how I would feel if the recipient did not survive. I would grieve, as would you if anyone’s life ended before they were ready.

But the recipient of the kidney that had served me for so many decades did survive. She or he now has a prognosis of full recovery.

Thanks to the Ochsner team, this has been one of the most rewarding adventures of my life. I am a better human for the experience. They also made it easy. I was back at daughter Rachel’s home in New Orleans just 24 hours after coming out of anesthesia.

I had been trying, and failing, to describe what set the Ochsner team apart, but Rachel captured it. “They’re happy in their work, Daddy-O. It fulfills them.”

Just so.

We’re fortunate, you and I, to live in this era of medical miracles. We’re fortunate to be cared for by such dedicated professionals.