In August of 1993 I donated 40% of my liver to a 9-year-old boy who had Cystic Fibrosis. This is part three of that story.
Testing all the different people had taken a lot of time and Ian was only getting worse with time. When I was chosen as the donor, the doctors said it would be at least three weeks before the transplant operation could be done. Teams would need to be assembled, rooms and schedules coordinated and so forth. But could Ian hold out that long? If he wasn’t strong enough the medical team would scratch the transplant. We could only hope that he could last.
But his health deteriorated so quickly that within a week I got the call. It had to happen now. It was Friday; I needed to be there on Sunday.
Kath and I flew out to Chicago. On Sunday afternoon we got her set up at the Ronald McDonald house. Early Sunday evening we walked over to the hospital. I would be spending the night there because early the next morning they would be prepping me for surgery. I remember looking out the window and it was a very clear night. Stars were twinkling. I was as calm as the moon. My wife looked a little nervous, the nurses asked if I was all right a lot, Deb seemed a bit jumpy, Jeff had a nervous grin, but I was Lake Placid. I didn’t know it at the time, but God was giving me the peace that surpasses all understanding. There was a cushion around me that was impenetrable. I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. And there was a softness, a quietness, a comfort that was upon me. I’m really not the most spiritual guy, but this was spiritual.
The next morning they explained that there were really two teams of doctors. One team would be removing the piece of liver out of me. While they worked, the second team would prep Ian but would not be cutting into him until they actually extracted the piece out of me. They wanted to physically hold and look at my liver to be sure it would be a fit before cutting Ian open. Good for Ian, kind of a downer for the donor. They could take it out of you, find a flaw, and close you up. Now all you’ve got is liver pate. Dinner is served Mr. Lector.
As they wheeled me to the pre-op room, I kissed my wife goodbye and smiled at the nurses. I could have been on my way down for donuts. My pulse was a steady 48 beats per minute. My mind was free and easy. I felt good.
In the pre-op room they explained about the anesthesia and what to expect and then it was on to the operating room. They might have given me something somewhere in there because I was feeling a little fuzzy. I do remember the very silvery room though. Lots of shiny objects. People laughing and joking and moving about. They moved me to another table and stretched my arms out. They told me to count backwards from 100. I think I got to 98.
I don’t remember waking up. I don’t remember the first day of recovery. I do remember thinking that I was completely sober though when I was talking. But I guess I wasn’t. I was on morphine. There was this little thing you could push when you needed a drip. You could push it 100 times and it would only give you a drip every 10 minutes or so. I pushed it a lot. I wasn’t in any pain at that time, I just thought that if 1 was good 100 was better.
The doctors were very pleased with their work. They said it was a good fit. They felt that everything went as it was supposed to. Now it would just be a matter of time to see if Ian’s body would reject or sustain the ‘foreign? organ. Kath stayed with me and Deb and Jeff came to visit occasionally. Deb and Jeff thanked me, but I think they were at a loss as to what they could really say that would convey the feelings they were having. Jeff got a little misty eyed, but Deb was pretty matter of fact. She is one cool character. But regardless of what they said or couldn’t say, or how they said it, I knew their heart and I knew God had used me in a mighty way.
Ian had a long way to go, but he was recovering quite well. Faster than I was actually. They pretty much deaden your insides for the surgery and then it takes a few days to begin getting everything to function once again. We were having an informal recovery competition where he was winning every event. He reminded me each time he saw me that he was beating me. And though I am usually fiercely competitive, this was an event I didn’t mind finishing in second place.
Next time ? Recovery and recognition.