Chasing Air: My Quest for a Lung Transplant Journey (Part 3)
"Well, what are we going to eat?" I breathlessly asked my dad. He was sitting at the counter in my apartment with my boyfriend (now husband) and brother. They were helping by "babysitting" me that day while my mom worked about an hour and a half away. She was a pharmacist at a small rural hospital and juggled her shifts between caring for me and her work responsibilities. My boyfriend stayed to assist me, and my dad often came over on weekends. With my six oxygen tanks (lovingly dubbed my R2D2 family) and an array of medical equipment, I felt like a high-maintenance oxygen enthusiast.
Surprisingly, I was turning a corner on my transplant journey. I had begun to accept my situation, and with the help of antidepressants, my mood swings had mellowed out. I found comfort in watching reruns of Seinfeld and Absolutely Fabulous (British comedy) while crocheting little butterflies. However, this was my life now. The dreams of having children or marrying my boyfriend were distant memories. Despite this, having my family around, talking with me, and simply being there was comforting. At this point, talking was a struggle; it required too much air that I didn't have anymore. I was ready to move on completely.
As the guys were debating the ins and outs of fast food, my cell phone rang with a restricted number. It wasn't unusual; my uncle, a parole officer, sometimes called from such numbers to check in on me. I casually answered, my voice timid and weak. "Hey, Christina. How are you doing? We have a transplant for you," my nurse's voice sounded surreal. A mix of relief and nervousness washed over me as I replied, "Really?" She shared what little information she could about the situation. It was December 30th, around 5 pm, and a rush of emotions flooded my mind. Excitement and nervousness intertwined with the realization that someone had died so I could have a chance to breathe again.
The call was brief, and as I hung up, I explained that we needed to go straight to the hospital for the transplant. We were prepared for the understanding that many things could go wrong, potentially leading to the transplant being canceled. Time was critical; lungs were only viable for up to four hours after death. My dad called my mom immediately to hurry down. Rushing to the hospital, we were ushered into a special surgical unit. Tubes attached, tests conducted, and the team introduced themselves, answering our questions. Despite all my preparations, I never imagined I'd be here at this moment. Yet, I was grateful to God for the opportunity to have my entire family with me before surgery. Saying goodbye one last time was a luxury many don't have.
Was I nervous? You bet your horses I was! But I was ready to move on, whether waking up surrounded by my family or awakening to the Lord. I just knew I didn't want to continue fighting for breath each day.
The team was amazing, and I was wheeled into a surgical closet as they prepared a room for me. Despite their apologies for the inconvenience, I was unfazed. Plus by now they were starting to give me some sedatives to calm me down and get me ready so I didn't care one bit about what room I was in. One nurse, in particular, stood out, offering silent prayers as she bustled around preparing everything. She was an angel to me, having witnessed so much in the surgical room. The whole team just made me feel so cared for and loved. The transplant surgeon was right there the whole time reassuring me throughout.
My heart was beyond stressed by this whole lack of oxygen thing. All that hard work had caused it to start to falter. The team had told me that if things kept going I would also require a heart transplant.Fortunately, it hadn't reached that point, but my heart required assistance from a bypass machine during surgery. That machine helps your heart to pump your blood and does most of the leg work for your heart. Due to this, I couldn't have an epidural. Which I didn't care not like I knew what the difference was with having it or not. The anesthesia team was having a hard time getting my lines in. From all their poking and prodding with needles in both my wrists I was going to pass out. I alerted the main doctor who said forget it just put her under and we can deal with it later. He was determined to get this through.
As I drifted off to sleep, I prayed for the 23-year-old man whose life was cut short and his family's difficult decision. I prayed that his lungs would breathe again and his soul find peace.