Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Call number two happened. Not in a bowel sense, I mean a second transplant call. It was 9.03 am on Sunday 7th June and Tim had just got back from dropping Adam off at work. I was busy laughing to myself at the fact my teenager had to be up and out of the house on a Sunday morning as I was starting on my first cup of tea of the day in bed. Then due to my smugness my transplant phone started ringing. Tim handed me the phone and because the number wasn't withheld like last time, I immediately thought it was a PPI cold caller (which has happened before on that phone and I had a fit of the vapours). Immediately, I was fuming. FUMING. How dare I get a PPI call on my transplant phone, especially on a Sunday morning and spoiling my smugness. Bastards. I said 'HELLO' in my most mean and sternest voice which Tim pointed out is my usual voice. So here we are.
Me: 'HELLO' You utter wanking idiot, this is my transplant phone.
PPI Caller: 'Hello, is that Jayne?'
Me: (still in my mean voice) 'YES.' Oh great, a PPI caller who is trying to be over friendly and somehow has my name, just wait until I verbally unleash my thoughts.
PPI caller: 'Hello, we have some possible lungs for you.'
Me: 'Mmmmffff.' Wow, these PPI callers are offering more than I bargained for. Oh wait. I think she said she was calling from Harefield and has new lungs, I'm beginning to doubt it's a PPI caller now. Oh.
At this point I went into a little panic. Last time I'd been mildly panicked but at least methodical. This time I stood and repeatedly swore and went for a quick shower doing the same. I have no idea why I did that but it seemed to help. At the same time, we tried to get hold of Adam. He works round college hours at a service station Subway. Adam knew his phone was ringing but was on his own in the shop for a few minutes and had a huge line of customers. He also immediately knew that I'd had a transplant call but there wasn't a lot he could realistically do until his colleague got back. He said his hands were shaking because he realised why we were calling him. He carried on serving and one particular customer was horribly mean to him and acting like a real know it all idiot because Adam became slightly flustered. (To THAT person, I really hope you rot inside a little bit in your cock area because you are vile). Adam managed to explain to his supervisor what had happened and we picked him up. Except there is a north side and south side to the service station, we went to the north side to collect him but Adam had legged it over to south side, so we went to south side only to discover that he'd legged it back to north side. It was funny in the end, but maybe you had to be there.
On the last call, we had barely made it into the hospital car park before they had called it all off, so I was fully expecting not to step foot in the building. However, the phone remained conspicuously silent and I was admitted as a possible transplant recipient. This was a whole new experience and it felt very odd. I had bloods taken and observations etc. There was a lot of waiting and we were given an indication of what time the surgery would go ahead if everything went to plan. This felt extremely real and yet surreal. A few hours in, a man wandered in to my room picking his nose and brandishing a roll of paper. I thought he was a hospital porter. He hung back as a nurse finished whatever she was doing. Adam immediately started pretending to pick his nose with his fist trying to make me laugh. The porter then gave himself a hefty promotion and introduced himself as the surgeon. I was already trying not to giggle and the fact he was now the surgeon made it worse. Then I was in awe of him because his hands had saved loads of lives. He could pick his arse for all I cared.
The surgeon went through all the paperwork and asked if we had any questions. With hindsight, Tim made the terrible mistake of asking how long the surgery would take. Oh. My. God. Or as a the youngsters say OMG. It went like this but in a possible Swedish accent:
'Weeellllll, I cannot say 'ow long it willlll take because getting out ze lungs can take hours you know? We lift up ze chest and scoop out ze old lungs and getting out one lung can take ages because they can stick you know? I mean Jesus Christ, I could tell you eight hours and if it took twelve, you'd be having a stroke because of ze worry. I scoop them out and then there might be bleeding etc, and I can't possibly say. I mean I never like to give a time you know? Then getting the new ones in takes time and it's complex with ze chest lifted up and bypass. I don't want you to have a stroke by giving you a false time. Did I mention strokes? And blood? BLOOD.'
It's fair to say that Adam looked green at this point and Tim looked aghast. I signed the forms and hoped that Tim wouldn't have a stroke. At this point, I truly believed that the surgery might go ahead and as Adam had left the room for a second (presumably to throw up) I asked Tim to look after Adam for me and was planning on asking Adam to look after Tim. To be honest, the whole idea of them looking after each other just reminded me of the word 'chaos' but I felt I had to say something vaguely touching. Saying 'don't forget to feed the dog' seemed less moving somehow.
I digress. My bowels by this time were pleading for an actual number two but at that point the transplant coordinator breezed in and said 'I'm sorry, there's a problem with the lungs, so you can go home.'
That was that then. I felt really angry inside and two of my friends had turned up just as we were told it was a no go. If they hadn't have turned up then I think I'd have lost my marbles for a little while. We all had a cup of tea, put the world to rights and made our way home.
This update ends quickly because that's literally how it happened at the end.
I'll keep you posted.
Over and out.
P.S. Whoaaaa. Forgot to add the most moving part of the whole day. Tim looked at his phone and the following conversation was had.
Tim: 'Can you send me a nice text or something?'
Me: 'Why? I'm in the room with you.'
Tim: 'Well just send me a text saying I love you or something otherwise your last ever text to me might be the one you sent three days ago saying "I've had three shits in two hours, I'm barely a husk of my former self."
Me: 'Oh yeah, good point. Okay,'
Over and out. Again.