Transplant Casita Living

I have a friend in S. Korea that jokingly told me his country's medical practice encourages hospital stays as a way of generating revenue.  Although we muse at the goals of modern medicine, at Mayo Clinic Hospital, after a transplant you are released as soon as possible.  There are sick people there and even though you just went through a major surgery, you are healing and can't afford to become ill.  Immediately after surgery your immune system is suppressed.  So a simple illness like the cold or the flu can be catastrophic. Mayo has on-campus healing homes for transplant patients.  They are designed to get you up and around emulating normal living as soon as possible.  The facility is called the Help In Healing Home.

Help in Healing Home is an affordable place to stay, near Mayo Campus and with recuperation in mind.  You have your own room and bath, but meal preparation, eating and living areas are common.  This is because the designers of the facility want you to get back to a normal routine as soon as possible. They don't want you sitting in your room, watching television and snacking on potato chips in bed.  Each patient is required to have a full-time caregiver and it must be somebody you know like a spouse, sibling or good friend.  No food is allowed and there is no television in the room.  They want you to get out of bed, eat, and if you desire, to watch television with others.  Patients here have been given the gift of life via a transplant or other restorative treatment.  Routines have been disrupted and casita living is now the new norm.  Transplant patients stay here for five to six weeks.  Cleanliness is essential.  Everybody is required to contribute.  You cook and clean likely better than you would at home.  Cloth hand towels are banned in common areas as they can spread infection.  Antibacterial soap and hand sanitizer is everywhere.  No alcohol or illicit drugs, and outsiders are not allowed in the casita, not even in the common areas.  This home away from home was designed with the patient and healing in-mind.

It's peaceful here.  Casitas although very close to the main hospital campus, are perched on the edge of the Sonoran desert.  Large picture windows adorn the living spaces where coyotes, roadrunners and desert cottontail rabbit sightings are frequent.  Comfortable tables and chairs lure us outdoors to enjoy the fresh desert air.  Although the mid-January crisp air can be a little too fresh for most.  A fireplace sits in the communal living room inviting late-night chats when sleep is fleeting due to immunosuppressant side effects or post-operative incision pain.

Disease does not prejudice.  Cancer, liver and kidney failure don't care if you are Bill Gates or Mother Theresa.  Folks come from all over the world to stay here and from all walks of life.  Our youngest resident is 19 while the oldest is - well let's say older than me.  Like immigrants from a distant land, people here arrive scared and weary.  Scared because the future is unknown and weary due to surgery followed by a hospital stay of sleepless nights, midnight meds, bells, whistles and vampire visits at two o'clock in the morning for vital blood tests.

Although the casitas are designed to mimic home life, it is a bit different.  Life here is similar in the sense you or your caregiver must take care of you and the household. But at the same time, it's like living with a constant stream of houseguests.  You can't get up and make coffee in your underwear, nor can you watch television till dawn during those sleepless nights.  But at the same time there is always somebody to talk to.  Casita residents share space, but also a common bond of healing.  Living with other residents near the end of their tenure here give new residents hope for a healthy future.  We talk about things you would never bring up during normal conversation.  How much are you peeing now? we ask as a barometer of understanding where we are in our own process.  After comparing urine output, the conversation slips into learning about the picture of another's home life.  People who feel ill want to get better and sometimes a discussion with a person in the same situation is helpful.  You make friends here.  You listen to each others stories and what life was like leading-up to "the call."  Everybody's routine was rapidly disrupted and what they want most now is to get back to their own home, family, children and pets.  They want to make life as if nothing ever happened other than having an organ transplant.

Patients here only have half a face.  Masks are prevalent and touching is discouraged to avoid the spread of infection.  If you can't contain yourself and really need a hug, it is followed-up by huge doses of hand sanitizer.  Food safety is mandatory.  Kitchens are kept squeaky clean and residents are expected to maintain sanitary conditions.  No more dishes soaking in the sink.  No sooner than you have finished your last bite, dishes are rinsed and summoned to the hollows of the dishwashed where they are cleaned and sanitized like surgical tools, ready for next use.  Like a college dorm sans beer, each refrigerator shelf is assigned to a resident and expiry dates watched like a hawk surveying its prey. Offending morsels are whisked off to the refuse bin avoiding a potential refrigerator contagion.  Residents clean countertops and sinks with anti-bacterial sprays, plates and utensils are single use only.

As we sit and count the remaining weeks and miss our dogs. I mean really miss our dogs.  We understand this is temporary.  We count our blessings, put life in perspective and set priorities.  In between testing and doctor visits we have time to talk about what matters.  Plans for the future once stifled by kidney disease are now breathing with new life.  We discuss how we will celebrate our 30 year anniversary in 2023, places we will visit in 2020 and give thanks for a future free of dialysis.

Life is good.