“Hello, Larry?”
“Hello?”
“This is so-and-so from BC Transplant. How are you?”
“Well, you tell ME how I am. Why are you calling?” By this point my heart is in my throat, and I’m trying to cross all my fingers and hold the telephone at the same time.
“Because we have a set of donor lungs for you. On paper at least, they appear to be a perfect match. How fast can you get here?”
“How fast do you want me?”
“Now is good…”
The next half hour was a blur. I was a bit panicked and hyperventilated while I went through my “ready bag” to make sure I had everything I would need at the hospital. Of course, it turned out later that I was missing vital things like toothpaste and mouthwash yet had unusable items like t-shirts, not stopping to think that I wouldn’t be able to pull them over my head for a while post-surgery. Cheryl and I rounded up the kids – Matt , Allisan, and our foster daughter Chelsey (well, actually she’s attached to Matt ) and headed off to Vancouver
When questioned by a somewhat disinterested admissions clerk on arrival at the Emergency Dept., I told her that I was there for a double-lung transplant, at which point a gentleman popped out from behind an office wall and greeted me by name! From that point on, I was treated like royalty. I was plopped into a wheelchair and paraded off to the 12th floor with my entourage trailing behind me. They even kicked some poor woman out of a double room so that I could be installed in her place!
Waiting for something to happen
9:00 a.m.: By now, I have been dressed in a frilly frock, nurses have been in and out, consultation with surgical residents have taken place, but nothing really concrete has happened. I was told from the git-go not to eat or drink anything. I don’t care – the last thing on my mind is my stomach anyway. Good thing too, as my support team is gathered around me sipping Starbucks.
My crew looks on. Matt figures he has mastered the wheelchair, and is ready for the paralympics
10:00 a.m.: I have had the first of many IV cannulas installed in my arm. For some reason which would not become clear for many, many days they did not want to use my IVAD (a surgically implanted vascular access device which I used for IV’s at home). I have taken pills (including anti-rejection drugs already), swallowed elixirs, and inhaled nebulized mists. My surgeon, Dr. Yee, has been in for a chat and told me that he has examined the donor lungs and that they look good. He cautions me that there is a chance that I will be anaesthetized, something unforeseen may crop up, and I may be brought out of the anaesthetic with the surgery having been aborted. I don’t verbalize my thoughts, but they are basically that if such a thing were to occur, when I woke up there would be HELL TO PAY!
12:00 (High Noon, just like in a good Western!)
I finally am on my way to the ICU, en route to the OR. A porter has whisked me out of the 12th floor room with no advance notice while the family scrambles to gather gear and follow. As we pass through the doorway of the ICU, said porter informs the family that “Oh, no one past this point except for the patient”. Now, understand that we were given no warning of this rapid trip so have not had a chance for final words before the operation. Needless to say, this causes a bit of an uproar which the dense porter was unwilling to listen to, and I started up off of the gurney prepared to go back outside. Hearing the commotion, cooler nursing heads inside the ICU prevailed and the family was allowed in.
I finally am on my way to the ICU, en route to the OR. A porter has whisked me out of the 12th floor room with no advance notice while the family scrambles to gather gear and follow. As we pass through the doorway of the ICU, said porter informs the family that “Oh, no one past this point except for the patient”. Now, understand that we were given no warning of this rapid trip so have not had a chance for final words before the operation. Needless to say, this causes a bit of an uproar which the dense porter was unwilling to listen to, and I started up off of the gurney prepared to go back outside. Hearing the commotion, cooler nursing heads inside the ICU prevailed and the family was allowed in.
Not long after this, I was told that it was time to go and be prepped for the OR, so to say our “see-ya-laters”. The family is visibly more worried than I am. I have long since made peace with the fact that there is an outside chance that I won’t make it, but I am absolutely convinced that all will go well and I feel nothing but excitement. I am wheeled off in one direction while the family is herded off in another and out of the ICU. The last vision of my family before surgery is to see them all framed in the ICU window, waving at me as I disappear from sight.
I am taken into the room that houses the newly-acquired robot that assists kidney transplants. This will not actually be my OR – just the room where I am prepped. I had been told earlier that the time required for prep was about an hour and a half, so I was prepared for lots of poking, prodding and discomfort. They started by inserting an epidural catheter in my back – a little local freezing and "a little pressure now" along my spine. I then lay down, had a mask placed over my face and was told to count backwards from 99. Or maybe it was 10… I really can’t recall, because I think I got about 3 numbers out of my mouth and that was it – I was gone!
7:30 p.m.: I’m out of surgery, still under the anaesthetic, and intubated so that a machine can breathe for me, or to assist as I start to breathe on my own. I will later be told that the surgery has gone very well with no hiccups.
9:30 p.m.: I have only been out of surgery for a couple of hours, and Dr. Yee has planned to leave me on the ventilator for at least another 10 hours. Bear in mind that at this point, he hadn’t yet come to really know me, nor had he been coached by any of my family about what they perceive (falsely, I’m sure) to be my stubborn streak. Apparently I started fighting the restraints and as they slowly brought me out of the anaesthetic, all I wanted was to get that rotten tube out of my throat! I had the feeling of needing to cough and as I couldn’t speak, attempted to draw letters in the air with my finger that spelled “Cough”, quite pleased with myself and thinking that this was a very bright thing to do. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice, and I remember thinking “Good grief, people, don’t just stand around yacking – I’m supposed to be the center of attention - look at ME!” Finally Cheryl noticed my air scribbles and figured out that I wanted to cough. Thankfully, Dr. Yee trusted me and obliged by pulling out the ventilator tube. The experience of coming out of life-threatening surgery was not as depicted in the movies – I saw neither a bright light, nor a dark tunnel. I do distinctly remember that when the tube was pulled out a man kept on repeating in a loud voice: “Breathe, Larry, BREATHE!” – an occurrence that I was later assured never happened! I could barely fight me eyes open enough to see my family come to my side one by one, speak a few words and hold my hand. By this time my sister Linda, brother in law Brian and niece Kim had also arrived to take in the festivities.
Barely conscious, but ALIVE! Extubated and breathing on my own.
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