2001

My kidneys had been failing slowly, quietly—until mid-July, when everything accelerated. Renal insufficiency. The diagnosis alone felt like a sentence, forcing me to live against the natural rhythm of life. Medications came and went, each leaving me dizzy, disoriented. Dosages changed, but nothing helped. My legs swelled. My blood pressure spiraled out of control.

I was trapped.

No escape, no relief—just the crushing weight of exhaustion. Death whispered to me like a promise of peace. No one can share this burden, I thought. So I carried it silently, telling no one how close I was to breaking.

It was a battle against an invisible enemy. And I was losing.

The Biopsy: A Hammer to the Back

My nephrologist needed answers—what was destroying my kidneys? A biopsy was the only way.

My wife and I arrived at Somerset Nephrology Associates before dawn, reporting at 6 AM. The risks were laid out plainly: bleeding, pain, complications. But what choice did I have? My wife signed the consent form without hesitation.

Inside the operating room, I lay on my stomach, my kidneys exposed. The ultrasound wand glided over my skin, the doctor marking the entry point. A needle pricked my back—local anesthesia, cold and sharp. Then, the real pain came.

A hammer struck the biopsy needle deep into my kidney.

I cried out. The medical team murmured reassurances as they extracted tissue samples. The wound was bandaged, and I was ordered to lie still for hours, nurses monitoring my blood pressure, watching for internal bleeding.

By evening, I was sent home—only for the real fear to set in.

Blood in the Urine, Fear in the Heart

For two days, my urine ran red. Panicked, my wife called the doctor. “Rest,” he said. “It will pass.”

But the diagnosis didn’t.

The biopsy samples went to Columbia University’s College of Physicians and Surgeons. The verdict returned:

“Diffuse endo-capillary proliferative and sclerosing glomerulonephritis, consistent with IgA nephropathy.”

One kidney had been ravaged by inflammation, the other crippled in response.

It made sense now—the protein loss, the swollen legs. IgA nephropathy often meant blood in the urine. For me, it was a flood of protein slipping away, my body failing piece by piece.

There was no turning back.

I had reached end-stage renal disease.