Polycsytic kidney disease causes cysts to grow, continually, throughout my kidneys. It will eventually clog them, and they'll stop working. PKD affects 600,000 Americans and costs taxpayers more than $2 billion per year. It also occupies an estimated 5,000 spaces on the kidney transplant waiting list. In late August, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration announced that it would not approve tolvaptan—the only PKD treatment that has been shown to work.
The decision deeply upset many Americans with PKD. But another, very small group of people—those who sought to prevent tolvaptan's approval—must have felt some kind of satisfaction.
I inherited the gene for PKD from my dad, who dreaded it for most of his brief life. PKD had killed his own father at 44, and then his aunt in her early fifties. PKD killed my cousin Mike at 35, leaving two very young children to grow up without him. Then it killed Mike's own dad, Poppy, nine years after a kidney transplant had extended Poppy's life.
When I was diagnosed with PKD in 1986 as a freshman at Harvard, I thought my life was half over. I walked back to my dorm room from the doctor's office numb. Staring out the window at tourists and fellow students, I imagined them all living on for many enjoyable decades without me.
A genetics counselor at Mass General suggested I might not want to have children. With no treatment on the horizon, I thought he might be right.
In 2004, I was thrilled to learn about a promising experimental drug that needed human volunteers. A normal kidney is the size of a fist. Many PKD kidneys grow to the size of footballs. I didn't want to depend on cyst-riddled 40-pound footballs to filter my blood. So I got locked up for nine days in the Orlando Clinical Research Center with twenty other PKD patients. We padded around in scrubs and slippers, took the pills twice a day, and collected our urine in jugs.
The alternative? Wait for our cysts to get bigger each year until they overwhelmed our kidneys, forcing a choice: the enervation of dialysis, the transplantation and subsequent medication to maintain a third kidney if we could find one (average wait: three to five years), or death.
Otsuka America Pharmaceutical told us that in gratitude for our sacrifice, it would give our little group this promising medication open-label when we got home. We got the real drug, not a placebo.
Photos of tolvaptan's effect on the kidneys of mice suggested I could have children after all. After three years on the drug, I married happily. Our toddler daughters each have a 50 percent chance of developing PKD, but approval felt so likely that my wife and I found the risk acceptable.
Last November, Otsuka showed that in a three-year double-blind study, tolvaptan had slowed both the increase in total kidney volume and the decline in kidney function in PKD patients. My family and I cried for joy.
In Silver Spring, Maryland, on August 5, along with four other PKD volunteers, two PKD Foundation staffers, and letters from 159 who could not be there, I asked the Cardiovascular and Renal Drugs Advisory Committee to please approve tolvaptan.
Instead, some members of the panel claimed that the observed decrease in the growth of kidney volume—it slowed by an average of 51 percent—was "not significant." They seemed not to understand that such a slowdown would buy us many years of healthy life.