I am in medical books. Many medical students at Columbia University have studied my specific case. Countless doctors probably still view my x-rays during medical presentations. I can be proud of this now, and have a certain claim to fame because of it, but at that time, 18 years ago, my family and I were not proud or excited for my medical rarity. It was a frightening, heart wrenching, and stressful time for us. I could have died easily. My strange congenital malady could not even have been diagnosed a few short years earlier. As it was, it took a year for the doctors to find out exactly what was going on inside my tiny body. All 40 pounds of me was wracked with disease and bacteria because I was somehow born with an extra kidney. Yes, I had three kidneys, but only two functional ones. The extra one had quickly grown diseased, and since it basically became a parasite off my right healthy kidney on which it was growing, there was a threat to my healthy kidney.

I underwent my first surgery in April of 1984 -- a week after my younger brother was born. I was supposed to

go in the day before he was due, but I came down with a bad case of the chicken pox. My mother went into labor the next day, and when she brought her newborn home from the hospital, he caught the chicken pox virus. It is dangerous for such a young child to contract the virus. Therefore, he was on special watch, but I was supposed to go into the hospital for serious kidney surgery. My poor mother, I don’t know how she survived, but we all did, thank God. The first operation seemed to be a success, but after only a month or so the symptoms returned. The doctors were flabbergasted. More tests followed, more doctors to meet.

It was four months after my first surgery and I was back in the hospital for a second time. The top specialists in the country were at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City, and they finally found out the reason for a second attempt at curing me. The culprit was another strange occurrence the doctors had never seen. The ureter, the tube connecting the kidneys to the bladder, of the diseased kidney they removed was still there. They had left a little bit near the bladder because it was dangerous to get too close to that tissue. It was assumed that the bit of ureter left would disintegrate and cause no further problems. However, in my case, it was not the bladder that the ureter emptied into. I still had quite a bit of diseased ureter left in my body, and it led to an area very sensitive and private for a female. The doctors were shocked and stunned. This made my condition even more serious. A procedure like this had never been done before. Would I have side effects or further conditions because of this? Would they be able to remove the tube completely? The most important question my parents had was, “Would she be able to bear children?” All these important questions were driving my parents crazy, but the doctors couldn’t even answer them.

Needless to say, it was a trying time for all of us. However, as much as my family had to go through, their biggest worries were how this time would affect me as I grew up, how much of this would I remember, and how traumatized would it leave me.

There are many stories from that time in my life that I have heard over and over again, but there are only a few

that I remember myself. There are tales of my stubbornness, tenacity and perseverance. The memories I hold reveal more about my true feelings about the unbelievable things happening to me.

I remember the nights my mother would sleep on the floor next to my bed. Our arms were both outstretched—mine through the rails of the child safety bars on the sides of the bed and hers up to reach mine. She would hold my hand all night. I did not want to feel alone for one second, and I knew that if my mother was there with me, even while I slept, I would be all right. I slept extraordinarily well in that strange place I was not used to.

I remember getting out of my bed for the first time in a week. I can still feel the fear and apprehension of that day. I had to be forced out of my bed by my parents and a nurse to go to the hospital’s children’s playroom. I was scared my nine-inch incision would rip open, the stitches popping off with the slightest movement. I was

scared I would not be able to stand, that somehow my body would be so weak it would not be able to support itself. Most of all, I was deathly afraid of seeing other children. I did not feel like socializing as it was, but I also did not know how they would react to me. I was different. There was something wrong with me. I had to stay in a wheelchair. The kids would stare. What if they would not want to be near me? What if they made fun of me? I was convinced I would stand out—look different, seem sicker, weaker and just weirder. Perhaps it was a 3-year-old version of self-pity. I didn’t want to see anyone and I did not want anyone to see me.