Metaphors and the Transplant Experience Madalina Meirosu Fire and ice. I felt so cold. Every evening, I was shivering, and I had no idea why. I was just a kid, twelve years old, and shivering every [End Page E6] night before going to bed, even though it was warm in the house, even though we had plenty of warm blankets. I hated evenings because the cold was unbearable when the sun went down, and I had no way to escape it. It was emanating from my bones. I no longer mentioned it to the adults because the few times I had spoken of it, teeth chattering, I was just told to get under the blankets. Winter was coming from inside my bones, every evening, and I was freezing, and there was nothing I could do about it. And then, one evening, fire broke out inside my body. It was as if my body had had enough of winter and was conjuring up a volcano—the fever was so high that I was delirious, dreaming of fires and bombardments, and fighting on a battlefield where everything spelled doom. It took doctors a long time to figure out what was wrong. Romania had barely emerged from a bloody revolution in 1990, overthrowing a dictatorial regime, and medical equipment and knowledge were limited. Doctors struggled to make sense of my symptoms and tests, and by the time I was diagnosed with obstructive nephropathy and renal failure a few months later, it was clear that there was nothing to be done for me, at least not in Romania. Or as a famous Romanian kidney specialist told my desperate parents, towering over my bed: there is nothing to be done other than find a burial spot. Cold, again, in my bones, day and night. And now the cold took on a different meaning—the prelude to the cold of an open grave in front of me. My parents did not give up, they could not accept that their child would die so young, and a doctor in the capital city suggested that my situation would have been different had I been able to go abroad. Western Europe had the medical resources to treat me, but it was financially impossible for us to afford it. But my parents did not give up, and eventually, after numerous appeals, a miracle took place, and a teaching hospital abroad agreed to treat me. After a couple of surgeries, I gradually emerged from the winter within. I grew in height dramatically, put on weight, and began to thrive, though the occasional cold shivers in the evening reminded me what the doctors had said: the surgeries were a temporary patch. My remaining kidney had very limited functionality and would give out sooner or later, thereby forcing me to be on dialysis or to have a kidney transplant. Just before my 18th birthday, we began to prepare for the worst. The cold had returned in the evening, this time accompanied by nausea. I was asked if I would like to go ahead with the transplantation—I had been on the transplant list, and though nothing had come available, my father was a match—or if I preferred dialysis. I understood the benefits and advantages of both. I also understood that there would be more chances for a kidney from a post-mortem donation if I were on dialysis. I did not want my father to donate. There was shame and stigma in being chronically ill in Romanian culture, a shame that had been a constant reality for me. Especially in families with uneducated backgrounds, deeply steeped in a poor peasant mentality, being ill meant not being useful or worthy. Disability equaled shame. I did not want that for him. From what I understood, his health and ability could have been impacted after the donation. And I did not want that for me; I preferred to finish high school and deal with whatever health challenges I might have after finishing. My doctors suggested that I reconsider—that it would be better for me to receive the transplant as soon as possible. But I stuck to my plan, and my parents went...