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Anything for Ed
By LISA GREENE, Times Staff Writer He always knew it was there. But he was too busy to pay it any mind. Ed Armstrong had just graduated from law school. He joined the profession he'd wanted to be part of ever since he was a kid, when he just flat liked to argue. With time he began to build a reputation as a Clearwater land-use lawyer and discovered a flair for local politics. He masterminded campaigns and dispensed advice, until he became a force to be reckoned with and it became clear -- if you wanted to play politics in north Pinellas County, you needed to talk to Ed. One day he turned 40. He had a new wife and before long a wide-eyed baby girl, who looks like she'll be tall like her dad. There was the Dunedin house on the sound, where you could hear the palm trees rustle and see dolphins nearby. The golf swing that gave him a 10 handicap. Still, he knew. Had known since he was 25. He went for checkups, and he had been told that one day polycystic kidney disease might give him problems. But he didn't understand the way he does now, the way he can feel it, literally, deep in his gut. The disease that stalked him for 20 years has arrived. Armstrong, now 44, stayed home from work two days last week. One of the cysts crippling his kidneys ruptured, and the pain was unbearable. He leaned back in his chair to talk, grimaced to stand, stooped to walk. Armstrong's kidneys have ballooned to where they now weigh more than 30 pounds together, bloating his belly, pushing into his lungs, his stomach. On Monday, his fight against the disease will reach a new level. Now, he knows. But he's learned something else as well. Something more important. * * * At Clearwater High School, Armstrong was a great pitcher. He likes to say his fastball smoked over home plate upwards of 80 mph. Maybe into the low 90s. Clearwater wasn't good enough. He transferred to Dunedin High so he could be on a better team. "It was purely a calculated move," he laughed. "I was a mercenary." They won the conference title, and Armstrong won a scholarship to the University of Maryland. A torn rotator cuff in his shoulder dimmed his baseball career, but 6-foot-2 Armstrong stayed an athlete: golf, running, basketball. These days he can't manage a bike ride with 3-year-old daughter Lexa. They read books together instead. He can't fix her oatmeal in the morning. It makes him sick. "So much of my identity was wrapped up in being physically capable," he said. "And then to have my body fail so spectacularly." Years ago, he transferred his competitive instincts to the political arena. He has advised winning candidates from Clearwater Mayor Brian Aungst to the city's newest commissioner, Frank Hibbard. In 1998, Armstrong was one of the earliest Republicans to publicly support Democrat Calvin Harris, who went on to become Pinellas' first black elected county commissioner. As his political prowess grew, so did his client base. He has represented some of Clearwater's biggest developers, Florida Power and the Church of Scientology. He spent a year as chairman of the Clearwater Area Chamber of Commerce. Friends from county Commissioner Karen Seel, who has known Armstrong since junior high, to Circuit Judge George Greer, an early mentor, say Armstrong has helped them win. "He's certainly a player," Greer said. Armstrong is known not only for his influence, but also for his easygoing manner, wisecracks and lively language. In his world, powerful politicians slice through Pinellas "like buzz saws," Florida must prove it's not just another banana republic, and he and his friends swap insults. But now Armstrong faces something where influence, smarts and physical strength don't count. "It's a challenge," he said. "I love challenges. I try to view this as a challenge." * * * It was July 2000 and Armstrong's doctor asked Armstrong and his wife, Tara, to come in for a talk. The doctor was blunt. Armstrong felt fine, but test results showed he was going downhill fast. He would need a transplant. "You mean, like 15, 20 years from now?" Armstrong asked. No, came the reply. "I mean two to three years from now." Years of denial were over. Within months, Armstrong's kidneys began to fail. A dozen cysts ruptured, always painful, sometimes dangerous. In July 2001, a cyst bled so much that he became anemic and nearly needed a transfusion. Armstrong began missing meetings and dinners. He moved a couch into his office so he could nap every afternoon. He fought nausea. He would come home and go to bed. His wife put away thoughts of volunteer work and other activities to focus on him. He began seeing doctors at Lifelink Transplant Institute in Tampa, one of the nation's busiest kidney transplant centers. He and Tara began learning about the disease, an attempt to feel more control. Some news was good: Kidney transplant patients have a 94 percent survival rate after one year. But Ed Armstrong learned enough about dialysis, which cleanses the blood mechanically, to know it was something he wanted to avoid. Four exhausting hours every other day. Needles and blood. "And you are literally dependent on that machine to live," he said. "It just makes me feel so vulnerable." Worst of all is the 50-50 chance that Lexa has the genetic disease. The Armstrongs haven't tested her. They hope that by the time she's older, science will have found a cure. Despite his declining health, few people knew anything was wrong. Most days, Armstrong looked fine. He made it a point to keep his condition quiet. Armstrong had told Tara soon after they began dating in 1993. But even Tim Johnson, his law partner and the man who hired him 20 years ago, didn't find out until about four years ago. And that was by accident. "He kept it very much a secret," Seel said. "I don't think he wanted to be perceived as weak, and he wanted to keep an active business." As the disease consumed his life, Armstrong began to tell close friends. And something began to happen. * * * An only child, Armstrong had no siblings who could donate a kidney. His father is too old, his wife, also an attorney, too tiny. He wouldn't dream of asking anyone to donate. One by one, friends began coming forward. Eventually, there were five or six who told him they would donate a kidney if they matched. "I never expected that," Armstrong said tearfully. Blood relatives and spouses give most of the kidneys that come from live donors. "It's very unusual for a friend to do this," said Dr. Samuel Weinstein, Armstrong's nephrologist. "It's a tribute to Ed, and his personality, his role in the community and the way people feel about him. And it's a tribute to these people. They're very remarkable individuals." * * * Six months ago, one friend stopped by Armstrong's office, unannounced and matter-of-fact. He wanted to donate his kidney. "I've been pretty fortunate. I've led a good life," said the man, who asks that his name not be used. "This is something I can do to help out a friend. Not only his quality of life, but for Tara's and Lexa's as well." Armstrong tried to explain to his daughter the importance of the gift. "Daddy," she asked. "Why is he doing that?" That made him cry, too. "My family and my friends have never meant more to me than they do now," Armstrong said. "I'm so blessed in so many ways." He says he always knew this but sometimes -- sometimes he would lose focus. "Politics is a very competitive world," Armstrong said. "It's very easy to get caught up in the competitive aspect." Now, he tries to think more about the big picture. More about his spiritual self. "I really feel that someone's been looking out for me," he said. Tears flowed again. Seel has seen a change. Armstrong is "even more connected" to his family, she said. "I think he's more understanding of other's shortcomings," she said. "That the world is not a perfect place, and neither are the people in it, and all we can do is the best we can." Armstrong plans to recover. He plans to remember. He plans to keep asking himself: "Is it really that important?" * * * When most people get a kidney transplant, surgeons do not remove the damaged organs. The patients just get an extra one. Two weeks ago, Weinstein gave Armstrong some bad news. His kidneys were so big that they had to be removed. It's a "bilateral nephrectomy," Armstrong said with a smile, showing off his medical knowledge. The operation is more complicated than the transplant itself, one that Lifelink surgeons perform only about once a year. He and Weinstein worked out a schedule: On Monday, the kidneys will be removed. Armstrong would be given six weeks to recover. And, provided his donor passed his last medical test, he would get his new kidney. It would mean six weeks of what he wanted to avoid: dialysis. But Armstrong was trying to stay positive. Most dialysis patients are in limbo, waiting for months or years, chained to a beeper, hoping against hope that one of the short supply of kidneys will become theirs. "I'm probably the luckiest guy in the room," he said. * * * By Thursday morning, Armstrong was at work, sitting at a zoning board hearing in North Redington Beach, the only one in the audience wearing a suit. It was to be Armstrong's last hearing before the surgery, and he was looking forward to the fight. But it wasn't to be his battle after all. One board member didn't show up, so the chairwoman said the hearing had to be rescheduled. How about next week, she asked. Armstrong simply said he would be "unavailable," called law partner Tim Johnson from the boardroom and, with the entire board listening in, told Johnson they were a "very friendly group." The old Armstrong would have been irritated. The new Armstrong shrugged it off. "A year ago, I would have taken that differently," he said. Later, Armstrong stopped by his house. As he and Tara talked, the phone rang. A Lifelink nurse told him his donor had passed his final test. The surgery could go ahead as planned. And they gave him another date: May 28, his birthday. "Last year, you were so sick on your birthday," Tara said. This year, he will get his new kidney.
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