Every year on the anniversary of the date of the surgery that I donated a kidney, I post a picture of the scar. You really can't see it any more--it's been six years.
This story began when I was 11 years old (I am now 50) and met a teenager that was on dialysis. (He was living with the family of one of my friends.) He showed me the port in his arm and explained the process of dialysis. He told me he was "waiting on a kidney." When I went home that day, from hanging out with my friend, I told my mom about it, and she explained that when someone is killed in a car wreck or a motorcycle accident, his wait will be over (when it's his turn on the list) and he will get just one kidney, because all you need is one.
And I asked her why we were waiting for someone to die, when we have lots of people alive, with two kidneys that could give one.
I am very grateful that as life proceeded, I was able to donate a kidney. Thanks to all my friends, and kids, and husband, who helped me do it.