Heart of Gold

I had a day of tests and meetings at the hospital last week, and it started with an early morning CT scan. Normally, I quite like CT scans, MRIs and echocardiograms. It’s an excuse to lie down in a room and have a bit of a rest for half an hour. That is, apart from that one MRI I had.

When you’re in an MRI machine, you need to hold your breath to allow them to take clear images. The machinery is very loud, so they give you headphones through which they can play music or put the radio on. This time, I asked for Radio 4. There was an afternoon play in progress. In this play, a character was found dying, and another was giving them CPR.

MRI Operator: Don’t breathe.

Me: *holds breath*

Radio 4 Character: Breathe, goddamit!

Me: *breathes*

MRI Operator: No, you’re breathing. Don’t breathe.

Me: *holds breath*

MRI Operator: That’s great. Now breathe.

Me: *breathes*

Radio 4 Character: Breathe!

Me: I already am.

MRI Operator: Don’t breathe.

Me: *holds breath*

Radio 4 Character: Breathe!

Me: *breathes*

MRI Operator: You’re breathing again! Don’t breathe!

Me: *holds breath*

Radio 4 Character: Breathe!

Me: *breathes*

(And so on until I almost hyperventilate)

For this CT scan, I was injected with a contrast agent to enhance the images. One of the side effects of this is a warm sensation throughout your body, so – well – it feels like you’re weeing yourself. It’s a disconcerting sensation, to say the least, and also explains why I don’t get along with heated car seats.

After some more blood tests (I could keep a healthy vampire nest going with the amount they’ve taken out of me the last few weeks), my wife and I met with one of the heart surgeons, who took us through the mechanics of a transplant itself. I’ve read up on this with the help of Dr Google, so nothing came as a surprise. I was worried I might need an LVAD to keep me going (a mechanical pump attached to the left ventricle of the heart, which is a major procedure to fit and requires a utility belt full of batteries to be worn at all times) but I was told that this wouldn’t be of any benefit.

Then we got onto the stats. I love a stat. You want my attention on something? Give me some stats. Stat me up. Especially if those stats are about my chances of survival (I know. I’m so self-absorbed…) There are only around 300 people on the heart transplant list at any time, I believe. So, I’m part of a pretty exclusive club. The general survival rate after a transplant is 72/100 for five years, and 61/100 for ten. My personal odds are slightly higher as, apart from the knackered heart, I’m relatively young and fit. Which is weird to hear. After all, I’m a man who, in the past, would justify eating cheesecake for breakfast because it’s dairy and cereal and basically a bowl of cornflakes. I also found out my heart valves are alright, so they’ll be able to use those if and when they take the old model out. So, there’s a bit of paying it forward, at least.

We then had a long talk with the transplant nurse about life before and after a transplant. There are three transplant lists – routine, urgent and Oh-Jesus-We-Need-To-Do-This-Now. For the moment, the medical team has decided I should be placed on the routine list. If you’re on the urgent list and higher, you basically have to live in the hospital and wait. There are many physical and psychological benefits to staying in your own home, so if that’s an option, that’s better. So that’s what we’ll do for now.

But how long will that wait be? Here is where the stats don’t go in my favour. I’m a relatively tall man (again, a weird thing to hear when I’ve spent my life considering myself to be Mr Average) and my blood group is O. Which means I can only receive a heart from a man who is also type O, which reduces the market considerably. It could be a couple of years or more, unless my health deteriorates and the team reviews which list I should be on.

And the call to come in could occur at any time from any phone. So, I have to answer every number that comes through to my mobile. Now, I’m from the “Don’t Answer Unknown Callers. If It’s Important They’ll Leave a Message And – Hell – Why Don’t They Just Text Me Like a Normal Human Being?” School of phone etiquette, so this will be quite the challenge. I look forward to enjoying many future conversations with sales callers, recruitment agents, and scammers.

I also need to put together a grab bag, so when the call comes through, we can leave the house quickly. This is no problem, as I’ve been planning a grab bag for years. But purely from a zombie apocalypse perspective, so I probably won’t need the shovel.

Life after a heart transplant will be very different. There will obviously be a strict regimen of medication and rehabilitation. What I didn’t expect is that I can never eat a rare steak ever again. Or shellfish. It’s to reduce the risk of food poisoning. Now, as a working-class lad who grew up in the eighties, the height of sophistication to me is a prawn cocktail followed by a steak, so this is devastating from a social mobility point of view. I also won’t be allowed to change the cat litter tray because of spores, so that’s something we’ll have to talk to the kids about. And the cats. Then we discussed the logistics of getting the donor heart to wherever I am: the criteria that need to be met, the permissions, the methods of transportation, the time limits.

And suddenly I’m crying.

Big-fat-pass-the-tissue-box tears like I’m watching E.T.

Because that’s the shadow that hangs over everything I do now, isn’t it? When you strip away all the technological advances, statistics and leaps in scientific knowledge, a family I’ll never know has to lose a son, partner, or dad so this son, partner, and dad can stay with his family.

And, whatever happens in the next few years, that’s the one thing I can’t ever allow myself to forget.