Transplant_ed!

Not only is it Friday, but it's payday Friday, and even more "bonus" Friday. That made me think of firkin. Well, that and an extract from an unamed and un-attributed article which I was reading in which the author(s) referred to a "firkin full of theories". A firkin of course refers to a little barrel. Enough for a field labourer's lunch, or enough ale to enjoy the gentle pace of test cricket - well, perhaps one afternoon of it.  Seemed about right when I considered the prospect of my "bonus" compared to the list of items for which it must now pay. "Yes, well, that was nice - now how about something more? No? Oh dear."

Still and all (sorry, Durban roots showing), next week is my 8th wedding anniversary. Not much you say? No, it isn't, but then this is second time around, in more ways than one: 2nd marriage; and of course close to my 8th transplant anniversary. When I came down to Cape Town for the assessment to see if I was sick enough to qualify, but healthy enough to survive (now there's a delicate balance!), after all the tests had been done and the team had spelt out the procedures, implications etc, I was lying in the ward wondering whether it would all be worth while: I had been divorced only 8 months, I was a tad sickly at the time, and the university I then worked for was about close the department in which I worked ("not a profitable cost centre..."), so the decision wasn't that clear cut.

In walked a guy in theatre greens, silly cap on his head, and sprawled over the end of the bed. He turned out to be the cardiologist who had done my biopsy the previous day (missed that: his face was obscured and I was pretty much out of it for all kinds of reasons). We talked about the decision: I said I wasn't that sure it was worth it - there are no guarentees here - something about 80% recipients surviving the first year. Can you imagine buying a car on that? (Well, I suppose so, as I see many Indica's on the road). As we talked, he asked me what would be one thing that I would like to live for. My answer was to see my son (then aged 16) and daughter (then 14) on their own two feet. Well, January 2008 will be that time. Both are about to submit their masters (Geology and German respectively). My kids take great delight in reminding me that my time is about to run out and that advances on the inheritance would enable me to see the pleasure it will give them. Well, my son does. 

So that long story is: I'm going to take that firkin bonus and ensure that I celebrate those 8 years with my wife (who was a hospice caregiver dumb enough to marry the patient before the transplant - and since she's an academic she knew there ain't much money). She deserves at least a good meal - right? 

Now let's see, what's Wimpy's phone number.... 

Prof Larkin's death  (a brutal stabbing by muggers)  marks last Friday out. That he joins the dizzying statistics of victims of crime is just one factor - somehow statistics blunt the single act of senseless brutality, but should not dull us to fragility of "normal" life here. Perhaps the big numbers overwhelm us, while the single instances of people we can indentify bring home the savagery which continues to tear at the fabric of our society.

Also on Friday we heard my great-neice (yes, that means I am old) has been born with a Chromosome 15 error. She has heart defects (three open heart operations in her first week of life), is missing a kidney, her chest wound won't heal and her desperate parents keep daily vigil at her bedside.

Some Friday's just should not happen. Seems like last Friday was one of them.

To Jake, John and the team - all the very best for the Final. It's certainly something to read nearly everybody (with the notable exception of Deputy Minister of Home Affairs Malusi Gigaba's oh-so predictable snipe)  from the Young  Communist League to the FreedomFront+ putting themselves firmly behind a SA rugby team. In fact any SA sporting team. And the SA women's hockey team even beat the Aussies as an example. 

Odd how sport can be so amazingly emotive: watch soccer, rugby, hockey - even cricket (well, ok, not a five day test). Just for that moment we can filter out the advertising, almost mute the endless carping of politicians, nearly forget to lock all the security doors, leave the bank manager's calls un-returned and the tax return incomplete, just to see Bryan take the gap; Percy slick back the gel, and kick that ball to where it hurts - and even maybe see Jake smile. So Bafana lost to Italy - at least the played Italy - they were there and can hold their heads up high. Even the Proteas have kept it together enough to win in Pakistan.

 What's all this to do with transplants? Well, even my de-ennervated heart beats faster in those moments. So, damn, there's got to be something above the physiological at work.

Actually, its Thursday. The Blog title (Transplant_ed) was meant to reflect a whole range of things: receiving a transplant; moving from one place to another (having just moved to the University of Cape Town from 13 years at Rhodes University in Grahamstown) - generally finding oneself suddenly in a new place (or, I suppose, a new place in me). It was also meant to make connections to my earlier research interest in the sociology of health and illness and patient education, and my current responsibilities in higher education development. Someone asked (not via the Blog, oddly, but face-to-face) hence the aforegoing.

Well, not exactly the fastest start to a blog... At least this does mean my decision to blog on Fridays only was more or less realistic.

Ok, the transplant thing. Living with a transplant is an interesting conundrum: you're cured of a terminal disease (or condition depending on why you had the transplant), but you're on chronic medication for life. Not sick, but medicated to the gills. Medical Aids (medical insurance) still don't quite know how to categorize you, which can be a challenge as when they don't know their default answer is "we won't pay". And even when they finally do work something out (which they normally do) there are hiccups with every new staff member who handles your case. The medication you take to keep rejection at bay has such C*&% side-effects that you have to take a small bucketful of others to keep these at bay. But on the other hand - you're alive when you should be dead, you're cycling, hiking, mowing lawns, cleaning cars - doing all the things that we take for granted. Now that's a really big "other hand" which makes the other stuff quite bearable.

I had mine in 2000 (I'd rather keep the month out of this to help retain the donor confidentiality) and cannot begin to express the surprise and wonder at still being around nearly 8 years later. So, if you're faced with the choice, would I recommend it? Absolutely. I do understand though, that for many people the whole process is not an option: deeply held religious and cultural views make the idea of transplantation unacceptable. For others the huge cost (not only of the operation, but the monthly medications, annual / bi-annual checkups) make this impossible. My dad and sister died as a result of the same condition that just missed killing me - different times, circumstances, choices and locations put transplants out of their reach.

We have around 3500 people waiting for various transplants in South Africa (as at mid-2007 http://www.odf.org.za/ ), but so few hhealthcare professionals think about transplants (or object to the process - regarding discussions with family of dying patients as being too cruel to consider), and so few people really know much about it. So now you know something - how about contacting the Organ Donor Foundation and signing up as a donor? Discuss this with your family, tell your doctor, carry the card and add the sticker to your driver's licence. Think about it?