The Lemonade Stand

This story has so much bearing on my own mindset, that it is only fair to share my version of it with you.

Fifty years ago, with a young daughter and a new born son, blood in the urine was the first sign Ron had of any sort of problem. How the doctor came to the conclusion that the cause was Polycystic Kidney Disease without today’s modern tests is still a bit of a mystery, but so was the disease itself at that time.

Backyard BBQ in 1957 San Antonio

Uncertain what PKD would mean for the future of the young family, Ron chose to ignore it and go on with his rising career in the newly started Computer department of an international oil company. His wife, Elizabeth, worried about his health far more than he did, but they lived in the era where “don’t ask, don’t tell” had a very different meaning. Men not only did not eat quiche, but they didn’t discuss their worries about health/money/the future with family members. That type of conversation was most likely saved for late-night whiskey and cigar discussions with his close friend and former roommate, who would never think of sharing those secrets with anyone else.

After twenty years, thirteen company-sponsored moves (including two stints overseas), and reaching a plateau in his career, the disease demanded Ron’s attention again. During a routine company physical, the doctor heard a “thrill” in one of the carotid arteries. It was loud enough that Ron was sent immediately for further testing. In one of the finest medical centers in the U.S. it was discovered that the blocked carotid was the least of Ron’s vascular worries; he had a cerebral aneurysm that had ballooned to the size of a dime and required immediate surgery.

These aneurysms are just another of the possible complications that go along with PKD. In Ron’s case, they decided to go in and clip the balloon to prevent the major brain damage he would suffer if the thing decided to rupture. Although the doctors had explained possible problems, no one, least of all Ron, was prepared for the effects left by the surgery. Because of the location of the aneurysm his speech center had been affected and he had to go to speech therapy twice a week for several months. In addition, he suffered seizures similar to petit mal for the rest of his life. The only bright point for him at this time was to realize how much worse the damage would have been if the balloon had ruptured.

Shortly after the bandages had been removed from the brain surgery, he was back in the hospital for a “roto-rooter” job on the blocked carotid. Fortunately, none of the microscopic fragments seemed to do any damage to his brain, but during the surgery his vocal cords were affected. More speech therapy was in order, and by this time it was wearing him down. Loyal to his employer for over 25 years, Ron kept going to work and trying to make a difference in Life. He suffered the ignominy of co-workers not being able to understand his occasionally garbled speech and carried a small notepad so he could write down what he was trying to say. His dreams of a long and happy retirement were beginning to wane, and he could feel the PKD encroaching on his daily life. Nausea was a constant companion, as was terrible itching all over. He was constantly tired; he would come home from work, sit down to have a ritual glass of sherry with his wife, and be asleep before the second sip. Trying to keep up with two college-age kids was not easy either, and none of it made any easier by the family rule of “don’t talk about things that are bothering you.”

(To be continued…)

Fast-forward a few months, and we find Ron at his nephrologist’s office. The itching, nausea, over-all feeling of illness, had finally gotten to the point that he was ready to try whatever remedy the doctor suggested. “Dialysis” was the answer, which meant surgery to create an access point for the needles that would transfer Ron’s blood through the life-giving machine.

Fistulas (surgically joining an artery and a vein) were not common 30 years ago, so Ron was given a graft (an artificial joining of an artery and a vein) for hemodialysis access. Being right-handed, the graft was put in his left arm, very close to the surface on the inside of his lower arm. The surgery went well, but it took several months for the graft to “mature” to the point it could be used as an access point. No respecter of time, Ron’s kidneys continued to decline leaving him weaker and more ill day by day.

Finally he was able to start hemodialysis. The center used by his nephrologist was on the opposite side of the city, a 17 mile drive (according to Google maps) that involved crossing rush hour traffic and took far more than the predicted 25 minutes. Ron tried one time to drive himself to and from treatment. The after-effects of dialysis left him so debillitated that the drive home was an accident waiting to happen. He swallowed his pride and asked his wife to help with the driving. Since Elizabeth was not comfortable driving on freeways, particularly not during rush hour, their daughter was drafted to help with the driving. It was a friendly family outing, three times a week. Ron would be picked up from work, dropped off at the clinic, and wife and daughter would spend the next four hours wandering around a local mall. Wandering. For four hours. Three times a week. Yes, it got old for all of them very quickly.