HAPPY FATHER'S DAY.... and....

Happy ONE YEAR Kidney Kronikles!

Interesting that it's been only a year with so many things happening in just about 365 days! It's of double interest that it's Father's Day!

If you read back over all these posts through the year, one thing you might recall is the fact that PKD is a genetic disease, and it came to me through my paternal side of the family.

Grandpa was about 34, as I recall, and Dad was 36 when PKD took them. I was six years old and my dad was 12 when we both became what some called "the man of the family" I remember being told this at 6 "Now YOU are the man of the family!"

It's certainly a good opportunity for me to step way outside my privacy curtain and comfort zone and give you readers a snapshot of dad.

I'm told that it's pretty much impossible that I have any recollections from 6 years or before, but impossible things happen - don't I know that! I actually DO have clear memories that are etched indelibly on my mind's eye, along with emotion that is as fresh and raw as it was almost 50 years ago.

Dad, in contrast to me, was a quiet, contemplative man who I remember exiting the back door when neighbor ladies came into the front door. He would say very little unless pressed to talk and was well respected among his friends and workers. I have memories of all of them simply saying that he was a "good man".

He and my mother had been married almost 11 years before I was born. He was 30 and relatives recalled that he was so proud to hold me and was the one who carried me from the hospital, with mother's blessing. Recently, someone who remembered my birth asked about my strong memories when I was young. "Who do you remember more from the beginning of your memories to when you were six?" Instantly, I said "DAD"! "I'm not surprised" came the response "because he was the one who took care of you the most when you were small"

I was intrigued but not surprised. There's the key that explains my memories!

I remember warm summer nights after my bath, when, dressed in pajamas and with bare feet, dad would drive me in his blue and white '56 Chevy into Spring Hill to the Esso gas station right across the railroad tracks for ice cream.

I remember being his right-hand kid and "helping" him wash and wax the car. I got the bright (for a child) idea that the silver polish under the kitchen sink would make a great polish for the "silver" bumper of the car, pulled close to the garage doors at the front of the house. GREAT idea! It worked! At least it appeared to work to my 4-year-old eyes. Hey, if that worked so well to make the bumper look great, then it probably will do the same to the garage doors!

I liberally applied the silver polish from the heavy can to the garage doors as high as I could reach. I remember being euphoric as I was helping dad!

It took him about 4 hours to clean the polish off the doors and then repaint them to their original white. It seems that the silver polish worked well as a paint remover!

Recollections flood in like welcome guests as a party; putting up the new picket fence to surround the front yard, driving to the airport in Charleston to watch the planes land and take off (interestingly the very same airport that I now do the majority of my flights from), nights in a rowboat going to the hunting lodge in Pocahontas County where dad was born, excursions and short jaunts in the '56 chevy, including a nice trip to Myrtle Beach.

Dad wanted me to see the ocean, which he loved. He was a Navy man from WWII and, in that one trip, he passed that love of the ocean on to me! There is a calm and peace that never fails to permeate every fiber of my being when I'm near an ocean, and I know that is a gift that he gave me.

He decided that we had to go to the ocean in the summer of 1959. He wanted to be there to see me experience the ocean for the first time. By 1959 he knew.

He knew that he had PKD. The first diagnosis was Bright's Disease, an early name for PKD. The doctors went through all kinds of tests and diagnosis in the mid-'50's when technology and transplant were theoretical dreams. Finally the conclusion was confirmed with PKD.

I still find it hard to imagine what it would be like to be 33 years old with a wife and three-year-old son and to be told that you have a disease for which there is no cure. He experienced pain so severe that he could not stand. Fingernails turned blue and headaches beyond belief with the accompanying stomach distress precluded any activities for 2-3 days. When they would let up, at least a day or two of total exhaustion followed - and absolutely *nothing* could be done to reduce the blood pressure. Pain medications only dulled the brain so it would not register the extreme pain which was still hitting the back and lower waist with a vengeance.

He never complained. Not once. Not ever.

Unbelievable. Most people can only imagine what that must feel like. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

On a sunny August Friday, with the Kennedy-Nixon debate anticipated in just over a month, he lost his battle with PKD. It happened quickly. The failing kidneys had flooded the system with kenin, which controls blood pressure. The mega-release of kenin drove the blood pressure to astronomical heights of 200/280. Veins and arteries just aren't made to withstand that kind of pressure and one, in the very center of his brain, burst. It was over fast.

Battles and struggles come and go, with wins and losses. Some continue for generations.

HEY DAD! WE WON!! HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!