May 20, 2005: A story in 5 parts….stay tuned!
MAY 20, 2005: PART 2 (of 5): BACKGROUND: My husband, Rex, has been on oxygen for 6 years, the result of 35 years of smoking and emphysema. He’s down to 14% of one lung, and he’s been on the list for two months.
11:00 a.m. Barbara stops in. Laurie is moving to another unit so Barbara will see us through post transplant too! Yeah! We really like her!
11:20 a.m. Chest X-ray in room. EKG in room.
Noon Rex has been peacefully sleeping for 45 minutes. He got scared on the way and surprised both of us I think. He threw up or tried. He’s really pale, short of breath, quiet. They’ve promised anti-anxiety drugs, but not brought them yet. But he did ask for and got an extra blanket, and he sleeps so peacefully: open mouth, sweet white beard, curly blond hair so soft to the touch (sweaty as we checked in), his good, strong arms covered with scabs from lack of oxygen, furry brown lower arm, strong, sturdy hands I love to hold and feel. This is my man, his last day on oxygen I pray. My man, the best (and only) husband I’ve ever had for 17 years, and he’s about to be reborn! Hallelujah, Lord, thank you for all that’s gotten us here!
1:00 p.m. We moved you (I begin to address, Rex himself as he goes into surgery) by stretcher to pre-op. I get to tickle your back. The lady next to you is waiting for a leg to be amputated.
1:30 p.m. Dr. W., very young anesthesiologist explains what he’ll do. I go to waiting room.
2:00 p.m. 05/20/2005: a magical lucky Chinese number I hope! I’m new to this ICU waiting room on 3rd floor. I crave silence, but everyone chatters. Now and then someone is pulled into the hall to talk with doctors. Magazines, Bible, near empty Cokes, bags full of just what someone needs to sit like this for hours.
Rex is getting IVs from the anesthesiologist, Dr. W. Blood gas one in wrist, pulmonary/heart monitor in neck. If Rex can’t stay ok on one lung during the transplant, he’s likely to need to do a by-pass (what’s that? I think a machine to do heart and lung motions for him.) If so, they’ll also do a blood transfusion. But only one in 100,000 chance of hepatitis; one in a million for HIV.
I wait. My needs: journal, 2 newspapers, Gilead (book), shawl, Diet Coke, water bottle, and food journal.
Sharon T…. is called. Room goes dead silent. She leaves. Who is in mourning tonight, having lost their beloved who has used these lungs? Who decided to donate that my guy can live? God, be with them today and grant them the peace of knowing one’s passing means another (maybe many?) gain hope. Mine. Ours. His. That person: will he be declared dead after his organs are taken? At what point will he pass on like my dad did? What will this family want to know about us? Amen. I wait.
