Stay Positive

Yesterday, I, as a middle-aged Englishman, did something out of my comfort zone.

I talked about my feelings. Sober.

Unprecedented.

Seeing a psychologist is an important stage in the pre-transplant process to evaluate whether you’re prepared for it, understand what’s going on, and what support systems you have in place. That was the morning’s activity. It didn’t start well. I had to park a long way from the hospital, and once I’d hiked back to the entrance, my Apple Watch told me this:

Yeah. No shit, Sherlock. Why do you think we’re here?

After they took more blood out of me (seriously, what are they doing with it? Keeping it in a bucket?), and I chatted with the nurses about the cost today of visiting the hairdresser (“for that price, they should give you hair”), I was introduced to the psychiatrist. I wondered if he’d be able to help with the emotional issues I was experiencing after Newcastle Utd spent a sizeable chunk of the previous evening trying to put me in an early grave playing the evil Manchester Utd. But humour as a defence mechanism probably wouldn’t work here.

‘So, what do you do?’ he asked.

‘I’m a writer.’

‘And what do you write about?’

‘Death.’

‘Death?’

‘…’

‘…’

‘One of the main characters in my book is the Grim Reaper. The embodiment of Death. When I found out I had a life-limiting heart condition, my natural reaction was to write a story where I made jokes about the concept of mortality.’

Humour as a defence mechanism, anyone?

We talked for a long while about me, my family, our lives, and how we were all coping. Then we came to my least favourite part of the conversation.

‘Have you heard of ICU delirium?’ the psychologist asked.

‘Yes, it’s been mentioned,’ I replied.

‘What’s been mentioned?’

‘There’s a chance that when you’re in the ICU, the drugs and situation will make you hallucinate or not recognise family members.’

‘You will probably experience it. Eighty percent of ICU patients do. And, in your case, I think there’s a chance it will be – and I don’t use this word lightly – traumatic.’

WTF?

‘Why?’

‘The condition processes lived experiences. Your lived experience is writing and thinking about zombies, vampires, and the dead.’

Bugger. The next book contains pan-dimensional monsters, too. Maybe I should’ve written stories about lovely cakes and fine wines. Perhaps the next one.

I told him I was writing this newsletter, and he agreed it was a good idea. I’m finding it useful, and I hope you’re finding it interesting. The act of sitting down and structuring these posts is helping me acknowledge and process my thoughts around this big ol’ mess.

By the end of our session, it was concluded that I was a suitable candidate for a transplant. Yay. Apparently, I was motivated, thoughtful, and reflective. Which will come as news to my headteacher.

Did you hear that, Mr Shearn? Motivated, thoughtful, and reflective. And you wrote in my final school report, “The sun is setting on a bright young man’s future”. In your face.

So, what have I learnt from this? Well, I need to make sure I grasp the implications of what might lie ahead over the following months and years. The future for me and those I love is going to be hard. It’s going to be painful in every sense of the word. I need to recognise that and focus on why I’m going to put myself through this. I also need to accept that, though the technology and knowledge have never been better and the chances of all this being successful never higher, things fall apart. It’s no good telling everyone it’s all going to be ok and then – suddenly - it isn’t. It’s difficult, but anything other than acknowledging the vastness of the situation, what it could cost, and what the outcomes – both good or bad – could be isn’t fair to anyone.

But, in the words of one of my favourite bands, The Hold Steady, we gotta stay positive. When I see them play in Camden on Saturday night I’m going to sing that loudly and really mean it.

Then probably have a bit of a sit down.