The Preamble...

About 5 years ago, my lung function started to deteriorate rapidly. There seemed no particular reason for it - my lungs had just decided that after many years of relatively problem-free adult living, it was time to give me a kick in the butt and remind me of the difficult times I’d had when I was younger. They had endured enough infections and scarring, and apparently it was time for life to be "all about them".

We had a small lease cabin in the woods around that time, at a high elevation. When my fingers turned blue on arriving there, we knew that trouble was brewing, and sadly gave the cabin up. Around the same time, I experienced some episodes of haemoptysis (bleeding from the lungs). One of these was quite major - this type of a bleed is not just a little bit of blood working its way up your throat to dribble out your mouth. Instead, it fires forcefully and uncontrollably in large volumes from your mouth (you’d think you were in an Exorcist movie). After the major episode, I entered hospital for the day to have Bronchial Artery Embolization done. Basically, this involves sending a camera image from your bronchial arteries to show areas of weakened bronchial walls - a substance akin to mini Styrofoam balls is then injected which float to those weakened areas - much like a mud patch on an adobe hut. Oddly, the access point for this surgery is at your groin - perhaps to give you humility.

At my local CF Clinic, I was asked if I had ever considered a lung transplant. I was thrilled to be asked - I had no idea that they would consider me at my "advanced years". I had thought that my "best before" date had long since expired, and was quite pleased to find that I was just being marked down rather than being outright tossed off the shelf. On June 10, 2006 I was scheduled to begin my pre-transplant workup as soon as a hospital bed was available.

The tests came fast and furious and included Echocardiogram, EKG, X-Rays of chest and spine, CT scan, walk tests, Pulmonary Function, abdominal ultrasound, Carotid Doppler, Bone Densitometry, Lung Perfusion, 24 hr Esophageal PH Monitoring, Right Heart Catheterization, MIBI Scan, Cardiopulmonary Exercise Test, and full lab tests. These were all to ascertain that I was sick enough for transplant, yet healthy enough to survive the surgery. Also, they (thankfully) proved that I had no other underlying complications (heart disease, cancer, etc.) which would have excluded me from transplant. Once these tests were completed and judged favourable, I had appointments with various people at BC Transplant - Social Worker (to make sure I had a support network for before and after transplant) and Clinical Dietitian (to make sure I was eating properly and had a body mass index sufficient to withstand the shock of surgery and subsequent weight loss). I just squeaked over the line for having enough meat on my skinny frame!. I also had an Anesthetic Consultation and met with the Surgical Director who would perform the surgery. Last but not least, I met with the Clinical Psychologist, who made it clear that no matter what the physical tests showed, if he thought I was mentally incompetent, I would not be placed on the transplant list. My tongue bled from the effort of holding back smart-ass answers to his questions...

Five months later, on November 1st, I was officially placed on the waiting list for a bilateral lung transplant. In the meantime, I had been put on oxygen 24 hours a day. I was told that the average waiting time was 2 years. In my head, I decided that 1 year was more than enough and I settled in for the wait. The following August, I had a "false alarm" - I got a call that some donor lungs were being checked out and not to leave the phone for a few hours. When the next call came, it turned out that the lungs were not a good enough match. I said "Don't worry about it - I'll wait for the perfect match!"

The one year mark came and went. Psychologically, the wait became challenging. My health was deteriorating - I couldn't get off the couch and walk across the room without panting for breath. The effort of having a shower would leave me collapsed across the bed for half an hour while I recovered. I was sick of dragging oxygen tubing around the house, and was fed up with the constant puffing of the oxygen concentrator. Physically, I had no ambition nor strength to do any work around the house and felt more and more useless. The only thing that kept my spirits up was my wonderful network of friends and family who never chastised me for being such a lazy-assed lump.

Then finally, 15 months, 7 days and 18 hours after being listed, the call came.