THIS AINT NO GAME OF BACK YARD CRICKET

And the wheel turns…

But unlike a windmill, effortlessly spinning in the afternoon breeze, my wheel is more of a churning, grinding. Like the grinding of a steel worker or the sharpening of a chefs knives, and every now and then a cog falls off the wheel and the grinding is flowed by a thump! Actually it is more of a ka-thump! Breathe in, grind, breathe out, Ka-thump! breathe in, grind and breathe out ka-thump! This is how it feels to go into acute respiratory failure. There is no mistaking one does not need to ask, one knows beyond any reasonable doubt. ka-thump! But for now the ka-thump! is under control, breathe in, grind, breathe out, wheeze, cough, cough cough, gasp and laugh!

Life on the waiting list has become a full time occupation. When I originally applied for this position, with my CV of various medical tests in hand, I was placed before the board and jury who upon hearing my plea and reading my CV took a vote, is she a good candidate? Fortunately I was.

Deciding to go on the wait list was no easy task, well not for me. 6 months it took me. 6 months of questioning my worthiness to live, 6 months of therapy. Funny, I have never in my life been for therapy of any kind and though I have faced and lived through situations proven quite horrific, to say the least, therapy was not something I ever contemplated. That was till I was faced with the decision to fight for life or die with dignity.

So, what gives me the right to live over another? Upon my acceptance onto the waitlist and during the initial interviews I was asked by a Consultant;

“Why do you think you should get a set of new lungs over the next person?”

Good question! Think about it;

If you were told you had to have a transplant to survive what gives you the right to life over another?

For me there is a moral dilemma. Due to my height and size I need the lungs of a small juvenile or child. Now this in particular is doing my head in. I ask myself If my child was to unexpectantly suffer illness and be placed on life support, then I had to make the decision to "pull the plug" would I, at this point, want to donate my child's lungs? if it was to save another child absolutely, without question yes, but to save the life of a strange Woman? probably not. I am in competition with Children for survival. Well, not really, there is no competition for a Child will always come first. Alas this decision does not need to be made by me; it is how things work in the world of transplant wait lists and is how it should be. This is no game of back yard cricket, I will neither run out nor take down the wicket of any child.

I sit in the waiting room for my consultation with the transplant doc’s and atop the Vanity Fair magazine I peer around the room. There they are soldiers of fortune all with their oxygen canisters, some proudly displayed as medals of Honor, others concealed disguised in surgical blue carry bags. Trying desperately to focus through the fog that was once virgin vision and for a brief moment our eyes connect, followed by a nod of understanding.

I had no idea what this position entailed. Not that the actual waiting list demands too much effort, it is the work involved in keeping oneself transplantable that proves difficult. To give the greatest chances of survival one has to be in optimum health. This for me is as much of a challenge as I would imagine an acrobat walking a tight rope without a safety net. One wrong foot can bring about a world of pain and suffering.

Last Easter I got a promotion! Yet unlike other promotions given for a job well done I was promoted to top of the list for a bad job done. This promotion of sorts was not followed by fan fare, there was no celebratory dinner nor drinks, I did not receive a plaque or certificate for my “achievements”. I did however receive a pat on the back from my lovely Irish Consultant, huh! Was that a pat on the back for a job well done? I am confused. And I am torn between feeling happy I am next on the conveyor belt, and sad.

Along with this promotion comes benefits, I now get to go to palliative day care. That’s right! Every Friday I pack my little lunch box filled with my favorite goodies and am dropped off at the gates. Like a wide eyed child on their first day of school I pop off to day care filled will with nervous anxiety. I paint, I draw, I learn to knit. We have morning tea of cup cakes and bikkies. Quite ironically I am classified as a “youngster” in the world of palliative day care, one of the youngest kids on the block and as I watch as my peers fight over the last remaining cup cake I can't help but giggle to myself. It’s a dog eat dog world in palliative day care. But I know, I know they are not really fighting for the last piece of cake, they are fighting for their lives, the cake just got in the way.