Giddy Up!

It's now nearly two months since I received my new heart. My recovery has been unbelievably good. I could not have scripted it better.

I have now had eight biopsies to test for rejection. I am pleased to say that my body and new heart are getting along extremely well. Indeed, at least one of the biopsies has resulted in a zero rejection factor, which is quite rare. The heart seems to be proving to be an excellent match.

Somehow, I have thus far managed to avoid any infections or other winter bugs. This is a real achievement given that:

1. I am immuno-suppressed; 
2. At least 94% of Brisbane is sick at the moment; and
3. I share a home with a mobile germ factory called Charlie who has been coughing and spluttering the entire time I have resumed residence with him.

Charlie is four and goes to a centre with other children five days a week so that they can share germs and see who can bring home the nastiest lurgies the most often. He is also autistic, so he engages in unusual repetitive behaviours called stims. His latest stim, and special gift to us for winter, is to lick and suck household objects such as chairs, tables and remote controls. 


Perhaps my patron saint has encased me in a forcefield. I can think of no other explanation for my fortunate ability to stay well under these conditions. Of course, my boasting will now become a jinx and I will, as sure as eggs, fall victim to an infection in the very near future. 


My wounds have healed remarkably well. I attended a review with my plastic surgeon last week. She certified my sternum to be "rock hard" and gave me the clearance to resume driving and other physical activity using my arms. I now have my car back and have been enjoying life as a driver. For its part, the Beemer is delighted to have returned from Bellbowrie and be back amongst its own kind. 


My blood pressure has been a little high, but my doctors have fiddled around with my drug mix and that has brought it under control. I am still taking around 40 drugs a day. One comes only in the form of a cherry flavoured liquid so twice a day I get to revisit my childhood and down a syringe of saccharine sweet goo. It costs around $200 for a tiny bottle so it is litre for litre actually more expensive than Chateau Petrus. Fortunately, the Government subsidies most of that so I get to enjoy Petrus at a mere Krug price. 


Apropos fine wine, one of the unfortunate consequences of life post transplant will be a significant curtailment of my ability to consume ridiculous quantities of alcoholic goodness. No more lengthy beer benders. No more ten bottle dinners. No more collecting wine by the case. God has decided that after many good years of irresponsible debauchery I need to start drinking like a grown up. So be it. I will now drink less frequently but only the best. 


This means that I need a new hobby. My doctors have warned me against making any impetuous or rash decisions whilst taking high doses of steroids. I have been cautioned against buying a new house or a sports car. With this in mind, I have instead decided to buy a racehorse. The doctors didn't say anything specific about avoiding such a purchase so I take this to be an implied consent to proceed. I have always wanted to own a racehorse. Both my parents come from racing families and I have grown up following the occasional successes and frequent failures of the various plucky nags my uncles and cousins have owned and raced over the years. I tentatively raised the subject with Camilla and, to my surprise and delight, she was enthusiastically supportive of the idea. Growing up, Camilla always longed to own a horse, but her mean-spirited parents would not accommodate this. She had visions of a rustic idyll centred on a noble mare wandering the grounds of Toowoomba Grammar, frolicking and gavotting on the lush ovals. We now have similar visions of dressing up in our finest to attend picnic race meetings in Country towns to watch our graceful horse sprint across the post many lengths ahead of the rest of the field. We will then smugly collect our winnings from a smiling bookmaker, pose for the obligatory connections photograph with our beloved horse and retire to the members room for a flute or two of obscenely expensive champagne.


I then told Imogen of our new venture. She was mortified. She said, "Dad, that's a stupid idea. Do you know how much it will cost to own a racehorse? Only rich people who want to be show-offs can do that. We can't afford it."


I was taken aback as I was certain that I could rely on her support for this proposal. Camilla and I said to her, simultaneously, "But it's an investment!" 


She respectfully disagreed and warned that it would bankrupt us. She said that nothing good can come from having two fun parents and Mum needs to be the voice of reason to this folly. I told her that we were doing it anyway because it was my money, my life and she lived under my roof. If it got too costly she would just have to leave Stuartholme and continue her education at Kenmore High.


I then decided that a better strategy would be to catch more flies with honey than vinegar. I told her that Tony Soprano owned a racehorse and she could help us to name it. We could call it something cool like Bottle of Smoke. Bottle of Smoke is a song about a racehorse written by the Pogues. Like her father, Imogen loves the Pogues and the mafia. She weakened a little, but did not break. She said that it was still a dumb idea and we would not be buying a racehorse.


Imogen is not in charge of this family. We are buying a racehorse. End of story. It is a lucid and tax effective investment strategy. A clinical and analytical financial decision. Imogen can just deal with it, with a long face. A few months ago, I was knocking on Heaven's door. I am now healthy and strong. Surely I am allowed one little racehorse!


A few short hours later, at about six forty five last night, my dreams of racehorse ownership were cruelly shattered. We decided that we would take Imogen out to dinner because Charlie was visiting  his grandparents in Toowoomba for a few days. It was cold and wet so Camilla insisted on driving and decided we should take my car. She then proceeded to reverse it out of the garage and into the side of a white van parked across the street. Looks like the money earmarked for Bottle of Smoke will now be spend on panel work for two vehicles. A family cannot function with two fun parents. Camilla will need to resume duties as the grown up single mum with three kids.
   


Until next time,