While we hold our secrets close to our hearts, sometimes they slip out. Five stories

Almost 49 years ago, I was privileged to participate as a donor in a sibling kidney transplant. Today, these transplants happen often. Then, it had all the elements of a good sci-fi movie.

Our situation had the component of additional stress because at the same time, our father was hospitalized with a life-threatening health crisis.

There we were, three family members in the same hospital, each on a different floor. Our remaining sister worked in the hospital and our mother was torn between the loyalties to each individual family member; the challenge of yet another litmus test in our Holocaust survivors parents’ lives.

A powerful scene, if you can possibly imagine it.

We told no one about our surgery until the last possible moment. Even telling our other family members was difficult.

Reaction was swift and the news of what was about to transpire spread even faster. That’s the thing about secrets — they don’t stay that way long. Though we knew I was going to do this, I waited until after the final test results to tell anyone. After we told my mother-in-law, I suddenly began to hear from family and friends from all over the United States who called and stumbled their way through conversations. This kind of procedure was unheard of (our insurance company actually initially deemed it elective, the same way they would a nose job!). No one knew what to say.

Perhaps the most trying incident that occurred happened the night before surgery when a well-meaning friend called me to ask if I’d conferred with any rabbinic authority in regard to what was about to happen. I said that I hadn’t. They inquired as to why, and I assured her that I didn’t ask a she’ilah because I didn’t have one.

I was later told that the leading Rosh Yeshivah in our city felt relieved that he hadn’t been consulted. He remarked that he honestly didn’t know what he would have answered.