• April 12, 1976
• Vol. 5
• No. 14

'Dr. Spare Part' Is Really Wes Dixon, Lifesaver

Look, we used 10 units of blood trying to save your child's life," Wes Dixon will say gently to the parents of a dying boy or girl. "Someone had to donate that blood. Now, it's a matter of saving someone else's life. You could give the gift of life to two people with your child's kidneys."

In four years as "transplantation coordinator" for the Kidney Disease Foundation and the Society for Prevention of Blindness in Illinois, Dixon's job has often been heartbreaking. While many families thank him for lending some meaning to the death of their loved ones, others, realizing for the first time that hope is gone, are overcome. "I've had 6'4" men collapse in my arms," he says sadly.

Dixon, 34, works out the complicated logistics of transporting parts of the body as well as finding potential donors. Raised on a 300-acre dairy farm in Saunemin, 90 miles southwest of Chicago, Dixon spent four years as a corpsman in the Navy. After discharge, he completed premed studies at the University of Illinois, but by then, he says, "I felt I was too old to start medical school." He was working in the university's hemodialysis unit when he was recruited for his current job. Last year he collected 180 kidneys, 150 corneas—80 of which he surgically removed himself—25 skin patches, 12 pancreas glands and four livers.

Overcoming families' resistance to signing the consent form for dying relatives is only one of his problems. Doctors are increasingly fearful of malpractice suits in transplant cases and are worried about the confusion over the legal definition of death—that is, when they can legally remove organs. His colleagues understand the tension in which Dixon operates and try to relieve it by teasing him with names like "Igor" and "Dr. Spare Part."

When he needs inspiration, though, Dixon says he remembers the 1,500 kidney disease victims in Illinois still waiting for donors, such as the 13-year-old boy who has depended on a dialysis machine since he was 5. He thinks of the 22-year-old Vietnam veteran who lost most of his liver to shrapnel and hopes for a transplant. Or he dwells upon the donors' survivors.

"I have one mother who lost her only daughter," Dixon says. "She calls every six months or so to see if her daughter's kidneys are still keeping the two recipients alive. It's really a good feeling to be able to tell her yes."