“Like Yitzchak by the Akeidah!” I thought, and that was the last thing I knew.

Name:

Esther Friedman

Location:

Boro Park, Brooklyn Dream

Dream:

Save a life by donating a kidney

I was born on the Lower East Side, and grew up in Williamsburg. I live in Boro Park now, surrounded by my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I teach sewing in local schools. My real calling, however is doing volunteer work at Maimonides Hospital — both doula services, and providing homemade cholent and freshly cut fruit to patients on Shabbos.

Through my work at the hospital, I befriended a wonderful couple. The gentleman had been a kidney recipient years before, but complex medical issues destroyed the function of his donated kidney. While visiting one day, I heard him refuse dialysis, saying he’d rather die.

I was devastated. Hurrying home, I poured out the story to my daughter, who lives next door.

“So I’ll donate mine,” she said nonchalantly.

“Mindy, never!” I told her, shocked. “I absolutely forbid you to cut up your body for a stranger!”

But days later, visiting my patient friends, I saw that the man looked happy and content. He showed me a childish construction paper card, with a drawing of a kidney, saying “You have a kidney waiting.” Signed: my daughter’s family.

Of course, I pretended I was proud; inside I was livid. I went straight to my daughter. Calmly, respectfully, my daughter insisted that the decision was hers and her husband’s.

Back home, I began to prepare supper. Unseeing, I peeled an entire potato down to nothing. I put down the peeler and came to a conclusion. A parent needs to be better than her children. If my daughter is committed to doing this incredible chesed, I won’t fight her — I’ll join her.

Before I could lose my nerve, I called Renewal, the amazing organization that assists kidney patients, and told them I was willing to donate.

Enormously proud of myself, I waited eagerly for the return call. Two days later, still waiting, I was slightly miffed. Here I was, this incredible person ready to donate an organ to a stranger. Why weren’t they clamoring to speak to me?

Only later did I find out that they proceed slowly, because many people end up having second thoughts.

When I eventually spoke to Rabbi Steinmetz from Renewal, he suggested I attend an upcoming event for donors. Arriving at the Renaissance, I expected to see a group of otherworldly beings, possibly with some disfigurations and unsightly scars. But they all looked so… normal.

An acquaintance, Faigy, noticed me staring.

“You, Faigy?” I asked her. “You donated a kidney? I don’t see any indentation.”

“It’s already filled with kokosh cake,” she assured me.

I left the event ready to go right ahead.

My husband said no way.

The first question they ask potential donors is, “Is your husband on board?”

“He will be,” I answered, more confidently than I felt. I davened nonstop that Hashem should let me go through with it.

I was excited but nervous as I completed the screening process. Along the way, my daughter dropped out, due to her in-laws’ concern for her health and for her young children. The fewer people you tell, the safer you are, I concluded.

Renewal is unbelievable. They made all my appointments, and since I’m a procrastinator by nature, it wouldn’t have happened otherwise. I’m afraid of needles and never had an epidural. With every blood draw, I said, “Hashem, one more needle for You.”

Throughout the months of testing, I was desperate for a sign. Was I doing the right thing by going against my husband’s wishes?

One day, tired and hungry after an appointment, I looked up my neighbor Schwartz’s number. But I called the wrong Schwartz. A different neighbor picked up — a three-time kidney recipient.

I started to cry. “Malky, I don’t believe it. I got my answer.” I told her that I hadn’t meant to call her, but was thinking of donating a kidney. She cried too, telling me about the Gehinnom that is kidney failure, how dialysis is an existence but not a life. She wasn’t even supposed to be home then, but Hashgachah had arranged for her to be there when I needed to hear what she had to say.

As the last step in the process, Renewal asked whom I wanted to designate as the kidney recipient. Personally, I liked the idea of a young mother or father, but how could I choose whose life to save? As per the admorim I consulted, my only stipulation was that the patient be shomer Shabbos. Hashem chose a middle-aged Bucharian man to be the recipient.

My operation took place 11 days before Rosh Hashanah. Afraid they’d dissuade me, I didn’t tell my parents or siblings.

Overcoming a last-minute attack of nerves, I used my moment to plead to Hashem on behalf of all the people I knew who needed yeshuos. The nurses helped me onto the operating table, then bound my legs.

“Like Yitzchak by the Akeidah!” I thought, and that was the last thing I knew.

I woke up in pain, but elated by the knowledge of the Jewish life I’d saved.

Now, my husband is on a high, and couldn’t be prouder. He often accompanies me to visit donors in the hospital. He has no regrets. I have one, though, which is that I can’t donate another kidney. When I see ads seeking donors, I start to cry — I feel I’m used up. Instead, I donate blood every eight weeks. Also, along with fellow kidney donor Malky Weiss, I raise awareness about kidney donation and try to make the process more comfortable for donors.

Donating a kidney was the best thing I ever did in my life. The joy of any new experience gets old and fades, but this shining merit will never lose its luster.

I was born on the Lower East Side, and grew up in Williamsburg. I live in Boro Park now, surrounded by my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I teach sewing in local schools. My real calling, however is doing volunteer work at Maimonides Hospital — both doula services, and providing homemade cholent and freshly cut fruit to patients on Shabbos.

Through my work at the hospital, I befriended a wonderful couple. The gentleman had been a kidney recipient years before, but complex medical issues destroyed the function of his donated kidney. While visiting one day, I heard him refuse dialysis, saying he’d rather die.

I was devastated. Hurrying home, I poured out the story to my daughter, who lives next door.

“So I’ll donate mine,” she said nonchalantly.

“Mindy, never!” I told her, shocked. “I absolutely forbid you to cut up your body for a stranger!”

But days later, visiting my patient friends, I saw that the man looked happy and content. He showed me a childish construction paper card, with a drawing of a kidney, saying “You have a kidney waiting.” Signed: my daughter’s family.

Of course, I pretended I was proud; inside I was livid. I went straight to my daughter. Calmly, respectfully, my daughter insisted that the decision was hers and her husband’s.

Back home, I began to prepare supper. Unseeing, I peeled an entire potato down to nothing. I put down the peeler and came to a conclusion. A parent needs to be better than her children. If my daughter is committed to doing this incredible chesed, I won’t fight her — I’ll join her.

Before I could lose my nerve, I called Renewal, the amazing organization that assists kidney patients, and told them I was willing to donate.

Enormously proud of myself, I waited eagerly for the return call. Two days later, still waiting, I was slightly miffed. Here I was, this incredible person ready to donate an organ to a stranger. Why weren’t they clamoring to speak to me?

Only later did I find out that they proceed slowly, because many people end up having second thoughts.

When I eventually spoke to Rabbi Steinmetz from Renewal, he suggested I attend an upcoming event for donors. Arriving at the Renaissance, I expected to see a group of otherworldly beings, possibly with some disfigurations and unsightly scars. But they all looked so… normal.

An acquaintance, Faigy, noticed me staring.

“You, Faigy?” I asked her. “You donated a kidney? I don’t see any indentation.”

“It’s already filled with kokosh cake,” she assured me.

I left the event ready to go right ahead.

My husband said no way.

The first question they ask potential donors is, “Is your husband on board?”

“He will be,” I answered, more confidently than I felt. I davened nonstop that Hashem should let me go through with it.

I was excited but nervous as I completed the screening process. Along the way, my daughter dropped out, due to her in-laws’ concern for her health and for her young children. The fewer people you tell, the safer you are, I concluded.

Renewal is unbelievable. They made all my appointments, and since I’m a procrastinator by nature, it wouldn’t have happened otherwise. I’m afraid of needles and never had an epidural. With every blood draw, I said, “Hashem, one more needle for You.”

Throughout the months of testing, I was desperate for a sign. Was I doing the right thing by going against my husband’s wishes?

One day, tired and hungry after an appointment, I looked up my neighbor Schwartz’s number. But I called the wrong Schwartz. A different neighbor picked up — a three-time kidney recipient.

I started to cry. “Malky, I don’t believe it. I got my answer.” I told her that I hadn’t meant to call her, but was thinking of donating a kidney. She cried too, telling me about the Gehinnom that is kidney failure, how dialysis is an existence but not a life. She wasn’t even supposed to be home then, but Hashgachah had arranged for her to be there when I needed to hear what she had to say.

As the last step in the process, Renewal asked whom I wanted to designate as the kidney recipient. Personally, I liked the idea of a young mother or father, but how could I choose whose life to save? As per the admorim I consulted, my only stipulation was that the patient be shomer Shabbos. Hashem chose a middle-aged Bucharian man to be the recipient.

My operation took place 11 days before Rosh Hashanah. Afraid they’d dissuade me, I didn’t tell my parents or siblings.

Overcoming a last-minute attack of nerves, I used my moment to plead to Hashem on behalf of all the people I knew who needed yeshuos. The nurses helped me onto the operating table, then bound my legs.

“Like Yitzchak by the Akeidah!” I thought, and that was the last thing I knew.

I woke up in pain, but elated by the knowledge of the Jewish life I’d saved.

Now, my husband is on a high, and couldn’t be prouder. He often accompanies me to visit donors in the hospital. He has no regrets. I have one, though, which is that I can’t donate another kidney. When I see ads seeking donors, I start to cry — I feel I’m used up. Instead, I donate blood every eight weeks. Also, along with fellow kidney donor Malky Weiss, I raise awareness about kidney donation and try to make the process more comfortable for donors.

Donating a kidney was the best thing I ever did in my life. The joy of any new experience gets old and fades, but this shining merit will never lose its luster.

My earliest dream: My parents were survivors; I was the only girl in my class who had a grandmother. “How much of a mother is a grandmother?” my friends used to ask. “Can she boss you around?” None of them knew what a grandmother did. Well, my grandmother did chesed, and got us to do it, too. As a child, I wanted to teach and do chesed. Now, I teach sewing, and weave chesed into the stories I tell my classes.

If I could visit any person in history: I’d visit Rebbetzin Kanievsky. I toured Israel once, but didn’t get a chance to meet her. She was niftar that year.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 633)