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Nurse Lynette Anderson changes the dressing on Rob Mullins' transplant-related wound.

(BRENT WOJAHN)

Before his story unfolds, Rob Mullins has one request:

"I want to thank everyone involved in making this happen," he says, "whoever they are."

A donor. Her family. The woman behind the counter at a small municipal airport in California -- the one, Mullins believes, who saw the desperation in his eyes and made a phone call. The pilot of the jet that descended from the sky less than 30 minutes later and told Mullins he'd give him a lift to Oregon, an unplanned stop and one that would happen in the nick of time.

His thank-you list extends much further, but the mysteries end there.

Mullins mostly knows the names of doctors, nurses, technicians and others who kept him alive through 11 years of dialysis, helped him get on a waiting list and transplanted a new kidney on April 23.

But those strangers who that day wove a chain of generosity to extend his life? The 46-year-old Gladstone man shakes his head in wonder when he speaks of them.

A couple more years on dialysis, he says, and he would have so deteriorated he wouldn't have been eligible for a transplant.

He was 35 and in kidney failure when he got his diagnosis: IgA nephropathy. The disorder occurs when a protein that helps the body fight infections settles in the kidneys, causing them to leak blood and sometimes protein. Symptoms can hide for decades, and doctors told Mullins he may have had the condition since early childhood. Over time, about 25 percent of adults with IgA permanently lose all kidney function, as he did.

"It was heartbreaking and humbling at the same time," he says. "All I could think about was my son and not being able to see him grow up."

His son, Cameron Mullins, now 22 and in the

, wanted to donate one of his kidneys to his father, but he wouldn't hear of it. He couldn't stand the thought of his only child taking such a risk.

ABOUT ORGAN DONATION

According to

:

**

18 people will die today

awaiting organ transplant in the United States.

**

More than 126,000 U.S. men, women and children await an organ transplant

; 3,300 of them live in the Northwest.

**

70 percent of Oregonians 18 and older are registered donors

-- 2,232,552 as of February.

You can register to be an organ and tissue donor when you apply for or renew your license, permit or state identification card at the

, or through

To register by mail, call 503-494-7888 or 800-452-1369 and ask for an application.

His illness and the side effects of dialysis took their toll on his job as a construction company procurement agent and warehouse manager. It chipped away at his marriage, too, he says.

He took a medical retirement and settled into the routine familiar to the approximately 400,000 U.S. patients with end-stage renal disease. Three nights a week he checked into a dialysis center, where he was hooked to machinery that removed wastes and excess fluid from his blood, the job that healthy kidneys perform.

It caused nausea, dizzy spells, low blood pressure. His bones ached and grew weak. Depression set in.

"Dialysis is like a yo-yo," he says. "You get cleaned out ... By the time you've rested and feel good, you have to go the next day and do it over. You're tied to that machine. You can't get away from it."

Early this year, doctors told him if he waited much longer, he might be too ill to qualify for a transplant. He contacted the

and got on the waiting list that in the United States numbers more than 96,000.

Mullins figured he'd have a long wait.

Doctors told him not to leave the Portland area. If a suitable kidney became available, he needed to be nearby.

Yet, he'd missed the homecoming ceremony when his son returned from his first tour of duty in Afghanistan. He didn't want to skip April's ceremony welcoming him back from his second tour, in Asia. Mullins figured he could drive his son's Nissan to

in Southern California and fly back to Portland; he'd only be gone a few days and he arranged for a dialysis session there.

He'd just pulled into a rest area south of Redding, Calif., when his phone rang. Good Samaritan's transplant coordinator told him told him a young woman was about to be removed from life support. Her kidney wouldn't be merely a suitable match for him. It was a perfect match.

When people share the same human leukocyte antigens, a type of protein, they're considered immunologically compatible -- a match.

Six proteins are routinely checked. On average, two or three of the six will match in random, unrelated people, according to Dr. William Bennett, medical director of Legacy Good Samaritan's kidney transplant program.

Chances of all six proteins matching, he says, are one in 10,000.

"It's so unusual," Bennett says, "that the recipient who matches with a donor like that is given priority. That's why the kidney was for Rob, even though he hadn't waited the longest."

Such a match means the kidney will work better and last longer than one less well-matched.

Still, given where Mullins was, Bennett didn't expect he'd be able to make it back to Portland by early evening, the transplant window.

Mullins called his brother, who with his fiance started searching for flights to Portland. Mullins' ex-wife did, too.

The news was bad: None of the commercial flights leaving from nearby airports would arrive in time.

When he realized he might not make it, Mullins says, "fear ran through me like blood."

On his smartphone searching for smaller airports, he spotted a few south of Sacramento. He headed south and pulled in to one of them. It consisted of an airfield and an office building with one woman behind the service counter.

He explained his situation.

She stepped away, made a phone call and reported back.

Maybe.

Five or 10 minutes later, the woman's phone rang. Mullins watched a small jet land and the door open.

The woman told him the plane was for him and the flight wouldn't cost him a cent. "They're more than pleased," he recalls her saying, "to take you to Portland so you can have your surgery."

The pilot greeted him at the door and he boarded the jet. Two men in business attire were the only passengers in the six- or eight-seat plane. He doesn't know if it was a corporate jet or privately owned.

The only request from all involved: that they remain anonymous.

Mullins called Legacy's transplant program.

He'd be there in a few hours.

Katy Muldoon: 503-221-8526; kmuldoon@oregonian.com; twitter.com/katymuldoon