My third call for transplant

I received my first transplant call within 5 days of my blood tests suddenly deteriorating. I received my second call within 3 days of being reactivated on the list having got over covid. While there was no way of knowing when the super whizzy liver transplant algorithm would next summon me to London,  our expectation was for something similarly speedy. We ended up waiting 10 days- not long in the grand scheme of things but a seeming eternity when you are grappling with not knowing how long you can survive without the operation and you're praying/pleading with God each night that the call would come.

For every 10 of us who get to have a transplant, there is 1 who doesn't survive long enough to hear their phone ring with that call from the transplant coordinators (based on the latest figures I could find). The wait for the 3rd call was really agonising. While there are many other variables that determine who gets offered each organ that is donated, the urgency of need of transplant is an important factor. So how urgently do I need this? How sick am I? How many times can the operation not proceed before I run out of time? Who knows! And that uncertainty makes it a truly challenging place to be. The previous month had felt non stop with hospital stays, covid,  transplant calls but then nothing was happening. We were just waiting. Only for 10 days but those 10 days seemed to last forever. 

Bex- "I miss you." 

Me- "I miss me too." 

July 5th around 1.30am the phone rings. We go again! 

We wake the kids. Last time I got the call they were all incredibly excited. This time there's not the same joy. I guess the 2 false starts mean they are bracing themselves for the possibility of another difficult day ending with the disappointment of daddy coming back home still poorly. 

Our 9 year old,  curled up in a ball, asks "What if it's not the right one again?". We can't give her the reassurance she wants even as we desperately hope today is the day. Later when Bex puts her back to bed,  she says "At least if it's not Dad's, someone is getting a new liver today." I am so proud that, in the middle of our challenges, she has a compassion and consideration for others.

Dawn. Dawn is the name of my hospital transport driver, who picks me up at 2.45am. Dawn is what I see over London as we near the hospital at 4am. Dawn,  specifically a new one for me and us as a family, is what we are hoping today will bring.

Dawn over London. 5th July 2022.

Shortly after 4am we arrive at the Royal Free. I head up to ward 10 East where I will wait quietly while doctors, surgeons, transplant coordinators, nurses,  anaesthetists etc etc go through all the tests and conversations that will determine if everything goes ahead.

Once they've got all they need from me,  I get to have a little sleep for an hour or so. I wake just before 11am with Drs and surgeons coming in to see me to tell me the transplant is going ahead. I message Bex "It's happening." We have a brief phone call as we realise "it's happening" is not a confirmation that at some point later I will get the operation but a call to put on my slippers and get my failing liver down to theatre now.

The transplant coordinator takes me down in the lift. Apparently it is better for patients to walk in to theatre rather than be wheeled in in their bed. I hear later that it was the journey to theatre where the transplant coordinator realised how unwell I was- it seems the degree to which I was unstable on my feet caused her great concern. But I manage to maintain verticality and make it to the theatre.

My recollection is that the bed in theatre was some kind of air bed and was nice and warm. I try to ensure I remember everyone's name despite the fact I will be unconscious for the whole time that they interact with me.

It seems wise for me not to witness what is about to happen so I decide to have a little sleep. The anaesthetist helps out with this....