2001

On Tuesday, October 9th, my wife accompanied me to Somerset Nephrology Associates in New Jersey for a consultation. I carried a sealed envelope with my medical reports, unwilling to let her see the abnormal results I had already noticed. I handed the envelope to the nephrologist, who reviewed it quietly and then said, “Kidney function is worsening—and it’s progressive.”

Three weeks later, I underwent a full round of blood tests again. I carefully noted the readings myself. The numbers were alarming. My blood creatinine level was 5.4 mg/dL—a clear indication of chronic kidney failure.

Dr. Mehta examined the reports. My wife sat beside me, her eyes full of hope. But there was no good news to offer. The doctor explained that my kidney function was not improving. He recommended kidney transplantation as the next step. He urged us to register my name on the transplant recipient list and advised that we undergo counselling at Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital.

My wife couldn’t process it. She was stunned—shocked beyond words. We took the doctor’s advice, but half-heartedly. We asked no questions, offered no reactions. We simply nodded, numb with disbelief. It was an unspeakable moment. I had “ants in my pants” ever since—restless, anxious, and emotionally scattered.

Eight days later—on November 8th—we visited Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital and met the transplant coordinator. We spoke with a team that included a nephrologist, a vascular surgeon, a social worker, and a counselling panel. They guided us through the donor program—explaining how the transplant waiting list worked, the distinction between deceased and living donors, the intricacies of donor-recipient matching, and histocompatibility testing.

“Transplant is a permanent cure,” I thought to myself.

Sensing my thoughts, the panel corrected me gently:

“Kidney transplantation is not a cure—it is a treatment choice. It requires a lifelong commitment to care for both the patient and the donated kidney.”

We met an Indian nephrologist on the team. After reviewing my records, he understood the terminal nature of my illness. Observing my wife’s emotional and physical condition—six months pregnant—he suggested we consider continuing treatment at Christian Medical College (CMC), Vellore, India. He then referred us to a vascular surgeon.

The vascular surgeon discussed different forms of dialysis and urged us to proceed with a fistula surgery, which would prepare my body for dialysis. My wife was overwhelmed. Her voice trembled, emotions tightly held back. She wasn’t in a mental or physical state to accept the idea of vascular surgery at that point.

Understanding the gravity of our situation, I quickly formulated a plan. I addressed the panel with measured calm:

“We will return with clarity after making a proper decision.”

We left the hospital in a rush—conflicted, unsure if we had made the right call. I was trying to escape the idea of surgery. She silently stood by me. We were on the same page—a blend of sadness and quiet, unsatisfied relief.

“As we make decisions according to His Word…” (Psalm 119:9)
We are reminded that God’s Word is the best and only perfect guide for decision-making. Even amid turmoil, it gives us reason to rejoice.