It is true that this required a Physiotherapist From Hell on one side, an all-encompassing walking frame, a nurse on the other, and towing a tree with four battery-powered pumps and three drains, but wow! When the sweet-but-merciless PFH told us at the induction meetings that Joc would be walking in two days we said "Yeah, right" :]
I do in fact have the photographic evidence, but just looking at dear Joc's tremulous, frail but courageous progress brings a lump to my throat. Instead I have attached a warm-and-fuzzy shot of Leah ministering, which also shows the visible progress wrought by 24 hours with a new liver. What it doesn't show is the triumphant gleam in the eye of someone who has waited 22 years for the chance to spit on a handkerchief and wipe it all over a mother's face...
It is much more relaxing for Joc to be upstairs, but still no walk in the
park. Every hour on the hour J must push the button to elevate her bed
head, give herself a hit of morphine, and cough for two minutes.
Fortunately although she is small, she was spared the cracked ribs that she
was anxious about before the operation. In deference to some
correspondents' requests, I will curb my tendency towards excessive detail
but rest assured, this is no fun.
In between this activity there are the walks, ominous rumours of a treadmill, endless chemical tests and wheelings around for ultrasounds, scans and the like, which monitor the blood flow and check for clots and blockages. I overheard the surgeon describing, with exactly the sort of satisfaction I feel for a well-fitting gearbox shaft, the perfect match between the donor's and Joc's hepatic arteries :)
The morale and atmosphere up here are great. Many immunosuppressed patients are not keen on pollen, so friends and relatives engage in displacement activity and bombard the staff, who are of course also greatly loved in their own right, with vast quantities of flowers. As a result, the non-frontline areas sometimes resemble a sort of tropical paradise, with reception staff peering from behind and between foliage and orchids like a modern Rousseau.
There are pictures on the walls of the oldest, youngest, first etc. transplant patients, including two who married, and because the Austin has been doing this for over ten years, there are also follow-up photos of child transplantees graduating and the like. It is all very encouraging. The latest picture on Joc's side of the building is for No.198, dated around 1997, so I must find out what number Joc is so that the numerologists can have a field day.*
The weekend is fast approaching, and prospective visitors are getting restless. It was thought that her social skills had probably advanced beyond 'Fuck off and leave Joc alone' and so the delicate social task of visitor triage has been delegated to Leah. Joc's voice is still very weak and speaking really is tiring for her.
I get to shout at telephone robots in a vain attempt to pay household bills, a job normally carried out by Joc, but I think that I shall delegate this further down the genetic tree to people who can type 140-character messages with their thumbs whilst being assailed by flashing lights and loud noises. Interrogation techniques in 1960's spy novels now seem pathetic...but I digress.
I continue to be moved at the concern shown for my own welfare, and am pleased to report that on the way home last night I seem to have eaten a whole pizza. To the best of my knowledge and belief, it contained the specified vegatables and dairy products. It certainly gave me the intestinal fortitude to subdue Joc's pre-made porridge, which I had accidentally left on the stove since Monday evening.
There are plenty more of Joc's milestones for us to savour, but enough is enough, and this mailbombing of everyone who has even passed Joc on the street should now come to an end. I have also noticed excessive use of the 'I' word and an unhealthy tendency to be a smart-arse. And yes I can see those eyeballs rolling heavenward. I also need to devote more time to other priorities, such as paying customers...
So please assume that no news is good news, and do not even think of responding to these messages. I will print out a wad of your well-wishes today and take them over for Joc to read as soon as I scrub up. O for the day when I can loaf around in filthy jeans and smelly T-shirts to the distant sound of sartorial nagging, like a normal person.
Love, JH.
* Joc is transplant No. 349 at this Unit.