This First Person column is the experience of Shilpa Raju, who lives in Etobicoke, Ont. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
I was lying in the hospital bed when I heard the rolling wheels of an IV pole getting louder as it approached my room. I looked over and saw my husband, Nundhun, in the doorway, hunched over and gripping the pole tightly as he shuffled in. He slipped into the chair next to my bed, out of breath.
“Hi,” I said, thrilled to see him. “How’re you feeling?”
It was the day after our kidney transplant this past December. I say “our” because he gave me one of his kidneys. Mine had been failing for almost three years.
“Like a weight’s been lifted,” he said, jokingly.
I was surprised that we were calmly conversing so soon after the life-saving operation.
This wasn’t the first time I’d received the gift of life. Eleven years prior, I’d had a double lung transplant to replace my lungs, which had been severely damaged by chemotherapy and radiation to treat lymphoma. But as is normal with deceased organ donation, all I knew about the donor of my lungs was that even as their family mourned the imminent loss of a loved one, they chose to save a stranger’s life.
I made it through that transplant surgery, but numerous complications meant the recovery was long and difficult. It was months before I left the hospital, and a couple of years before I was strong enough to pass for almost healthy. I felt lucky to be alive.
I met Nundhun when I was riding that high. We were both in the bridal party for our friends’ wedding in 2015 in Houston. Something clicked, and we started texting right after we returned to our respective homes in Toronto and the U.S.
Early in our relationship, I laid out my complex medical history. I could never capture the gravity of everything I’d lived through or predict what possibly lay ahead, but I needed him to know the challenges we might face and reassure him he didn’t need to sign on. I hadn’t expected anyone to, but he said yes.
A couple more years later, it was my turn to say yes, and with that, we started planning our future together. That included exploring our options for having a family and my transplant team initially referred us to a high-risk pregnancy clinic in 2017.
“Any decision involves a certain degree of risk,” the doctor began.
We were told that my carrying a pregnancy would come with a much higher degree of risk to the health of both myself and a fetus, so we chose the safest option for us: in vitro fertilization with a gestational carrier. We’d produce embryos with my eggs and Nundhun’s sperm, but would ultimately need to find someone else to carry our baby into the world.
Since that decision seven years ago, we got married, created an embryo and planned to start looking for a surrogate in 2020. By then, Nundhun had also moved to Toronto.
The pandemic threw a wrench in our plans to become parents and, in 2021, my kidneys failed. I spent more than two years on overnight home hemodialysis to stay alive until I could receive a new kidney.
Our nights alternated between sleeping in our cozy bedroom and a basement room where I was hooked up to the dialysis machine, but always together. Nundhun said he thought of us as a team. He insisted my health struggles were no longer mine alone to bear.
He came forward as a potential donor the minute we knew I’d need a kidney, and when he was finally cleared as a good candidate and match after a year of testing and evaluation, he remained steadfast in his decision. It’s been four months since the transplant, and so far, his kidney is thriving in its new home.
The gratitude I feel for my organ donors — the unknown one whose lungs live on in me, and the one I sleep and wake up next to every day — is beyond words. I’ve been blown away by the generosity of humans, and also by science to help us do things when our bodies have failed us.
Living organ donors are often called heroes, but what drives them to go through surgery to save someone else’s life? CBC’s Ioanna Roumeliotis explores what science has learned about these extreme acts of kindness and why some people are compelled to help.
It’s said hope begets hope, so while I’m alive because of the sacrifice of two incredible people, I’m again daring to ask and hope for more.
This time, I’m hoping for someone to share their womb for our baby to grow in and do for us what I cannot.
None of it is simple. I still grapple with feelings of inadequacy, frustration and grief. I wonder why my body adheres to a menstrual cycle with unwavering consistency, but allowing my uterus to do what it’s meant to threatens my existence and that of any new life. It’s exhausting to constantly recalibrate life expectations or pursue a plan B, C, D and so on because I have to play whack-a-mole with health factors out of my control.
I’m sad that I won’t ever experience a precious life growing inside me.
But I also know this reality will fade into the background if I’m fortunate enough to become a mother, and so we’ve resumed our search through our social networks for that special person who can help us.
I may not be our child’s first home, but all that matters is for us, they are the gift of hope and love — and that someday, like my transplants, they will be a part of me.
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