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,

Bon soir Papa

Paul's a hard act to follow, I think you'll all agree.  I've been writing this post in my head for over a week now, but actually typing it out?  That's the nerve-wracking bit.

I'm going to tell you a bit about my Dad, Bill Dent.  And, as Bill automatically goes with Marion, she'll pop up here and there too.  Probably to check my grammar.  

Dad was born in Mt Isa, a mining town in Central Queensland.  He was the oldest of eight children.  Early on in his childhood, the family moved to the Blue Mountains, outside Sydney.  Dad's neighbours were authors Dymphna Cusack and Florence James, who co-wrote "Come in Spinner".  He also had memories of going to tea with author, artist and general reprobate Norman Lindsay every now and then.  Perhaps this early exposure to literary life fostered his own talent and love for the English language and its literature.  Dad was a renowned public speaker with a beautiful, melodious voice, a wonderful sense of the absurd and impeccable timing.  School Speech Days are hardly known for their entertainment value, but people looked forward to Toowoomba Grammar School's Speech Day each year, knowing that the Headmaster, Bill Dent, would deliver a speech well worth listening to.

Dad's passion was education.  During a speech made after his retirement, as guest speaker at (another) TGS Speech Day, he said that he "feared God, honoured the Queen, mistrusted Governments, and did my best to mould for good the sons of other men".  I am friends with a number of his former pupils, all of whom remember him fondly.  If our good friends the Clark-Dickson boys, David Schwarz and Brett Clark are any indication, Dad's goal was achieved.

But Dad was so much more than a teacher.  He and Mum were dedicated parents.  Having said that, I do remember hearing him give advice to a young couple.  "Never", he said, "let your children outnumber you."  Not advice he followed himself, luckily for me, not to mention my brother Andrew and my sister Min.  Tessa and Billy may not agree, of course!

So many things remind me of Dad.  Thunderstorms - we would stand under our patio and watch the wild Queensland summer storms lash overhead.  I might have been scared, but not with my Dad holding my hand.  Swimming at Kings Beach, Caloundra.  Dad would take me out of my depth and teach me how to catch a wave in to shore, how to recognise a dumper, and how to recover after the inevitable dumping.  I knew he'd keep me safe.  Mum was never quite so sure.  I vividly remember Mum standing on the sand, binoculars screwed into her eyes, desperately counting heads to make sure Dad hadn't absent-mindedly let any of us drown.

I think it's from Dad that I inherited my enjoyment of a good glass of wine.  It's certainly not from my tee-total, alcohol allergic Mum!  When I was about fifteen, Dad asked me to pour him a glass of whisky and water.  I asked him how much whisky I should put in the glass.  About two fingers, he replied.  I poured.  I measured.  I tipped a little out.  I measured again.  I added a touch.  I measured again.  Satisfied, I added the water.  Dad took a sip.  "Skinny little fingers you must have, Dear".

Everything in life happens for a reason, even if you don't know for a long time what that reason is.  When I was fourteen, it was difficult for me to see any reason why my beloved Dad should develop cancer.  I now know the reason, or at least the lesson I took from it, was instrumental in helping my own family get through Paul's illness.  For starters, I understood what Imogen was going through.  I'd been there myself, although at that stage Dad wasn't as ill as Paul would become.  And I have to say, Imogen handled her situation with a lot more dignity and grace than I had handled mine at much the same age.

The second invaluable lesson I learned both then and later, when Dad's cancer struck again, more aggressively, was a lesson in what a marriage should look like.  Mum and Dad were a devoted couple.  It was always hard to imagine one of them without the other.  When Paul was so ill, it was Mum's example that helped me to devote myself to Paul and the children.  I had watched Mum care for Dad for years.  I knew what to do.  I will always be grateful that I had Mum's example to follow.  Mum and I are very alike.  As a teenager I would have punched anyone who said that.  Now, it makes me proud.

My Dad died far too early.  He was only sixty two years old.  I was twenty two.  I had recently met Paul.  As Paul has said in earlier posts, we were very young and we got engaged very quickly.  A good decision.  For starters, it meant that Dad was at our engagement party.  He made a beautiful and funny speech.  He was very fond of Paul and it is a regret to me that they didn't have longer to get to know each other.

Another sorrow is that Dad never knew any of his beautiful grandchildren, all of whom have some of his characteristics, be it his love of literature, sense of humour, love of music, obsession with tidiness (not Imogen!), dislike of maths, interest in people, empathy, and so on and so on.

They say you should marry a man like your father.  On the surface, Paul and Dad are very different.  But underneath, in the things that really matter, they are very alike.  A strong work ethic.  A fierce loyalty to family.  A love of children.  A sense of decency.  A strong faith.  A determination to be good fathers and husbands.  All these things are important.  Dad and Paul share them all.

Oh, and they both have awesome wives.

When I was a little girl, after I'd had my bath and was in my pyjamas, I would run down the hallway to say goodnight to Dad.  And every night, we said the same thing.  Dad would say "Bon nuit, ma petite", and I would reply,  "Bon soir Papa".

Bon Soir Papa.  I love you.

Until next time,

Family Ties

There is no place like home. Believe you me, those simple words are pure poetry.

My body is progressing very well. The biopsy results remain good and the healing continues at a rapid pace. All is on track for a full recovery. These are still early days but things are going well. There remains much ahead and I am resigned to the inevitability of further setbacks and snags. Little man with a big job.

I am starting to realise that I have been cloistered away from the world for a very long time. I am now learning of interesting things that happened in the world during my absence from it. Last week I discovered for the first time that Gaddafi had been killed. Then I learned that the Act of Succession had been amended to allow a first born female heir to ascend to the throne. I missed the entire Rugby World Cup, which was probably a good thing. I started seeing advertisements for a thing called BUPA and had absolutely no idea what it was. Eventually I understood that it was the new MBF.


On Tuesday, we had another busman's holiday to a hospital. This time we opted for a short stay at the Mater Childrens. Charlie had found one of my tablets that I had inadvertently dropped. My hands are very shaky and I have been finding simple motor tasks very difficult. Nonetheless, to Charlie it was a hot pink lolly and Camilla caught him sucking on it. I called Dr Brown and he pointed us in the right direction, calmly and confidently. My cardios are wonderful blokes and always give that little extra. I am very fortunate to be under their management.

Charlie spent a few hours under observation and was discharged. He had not ingested much of the tablet and was not exhibiting any symptoms or distress. It was a lesson learned for me. I have to be obsessive and precise with my medication. Nothing can be left to chance.

My being at home places a burden on Camilla, in addition to the responsibilities that come with Imogen and Charlie. The woman has a mighty cross to bear. She is, was, and always will be, the Rock of Gibraltar. Anyone who has met her will vehemently agree. It does make me feel guilty to be waited on hand and foot. I suppose I need to channel my inner Lebanese man. I've got to get a gold chain for my medic alert medallion so why not go all in?

Now that the maelstrom has lifted, I'd like to express my thanks to family, both mine and Camilla's. We have received immeasurable support from our families during these troubled times. We could not have got to this point without you.

I start, arbitrarily, with my parents, sisters and brother in law. We have always been a close family but if anything this has drawn us closer. My parents have made countless trips from Toowoomba to visit me or assist Camilla at home. Shelley and Casey have done whatever was needed and more. Danielle put her life on hold until the heart came through. It's been a hard slog for them all, but they've weathered the storm. I knew they would. Growing up, my sisters and I watched a bad eighties television program called Family Ties. In many respects, we were spookily similar to the three Keaton children. Yes, I was a lot like Mallory back then!

Camilla's family have been wonderful throughout. Marion too has been a rock. I'll dub her the Rock of Cashel. She'd like that. Andrew and Julie have been magnificent. They don't just say they want to help. They do it, and do it well and frequently. Bill, Tessa and Minnie have showered us with prayers, gifts, cards, flowers, visits and good spirits.

I have a very large extended Lebanese/Irish Catholic family. I have been overwhelmed by the support I have received from them. I come from very fine stock indeed. I have really appreciated the many visits, prayers and calls. It makes me very proud to call these people my family. Special mention must go to my grandparents. I was very close to each of them whilst growing up, and am all the better for it. Nan is an inspiration and I am looking forward to visiting her in Toowoomba for a chat and a cup of strong tea. We both got this far so we both must be doing something right. During my hospital stay I have also thought a lot about my other late grandmother, Eva Betros. My Sitti was a very special woman and I was privileged to deliver the eulogy at her funeral. Sitti showed me how to be strong and patient, with good humour, under difficult circumstances. My grandparents and parents were, and are, people of the highest calibre and well prepared me to be resilient when times got tough. Add Camilla to the equation and there's nothing we cannot endure and withstand.


I've asked Camilla to pen the next post, so that she can tell you a little about her late father, Bill Dent. Bill was a great source of inspiration for Camilla during our ordeals and I was privileged to know him for a brief period before he died. Bill would be very proud of his little girl at the moment. Always was.



Until next time,

Elvis has left the building

Yesterday afternoon, after 260 long and arduous days in confinement, I was finally released from Desolation Row. I am now at home.

I am officially the 329th heart transplant performed in Queensland. Well done to my medical team. You are the best, bar none.

I have no idea who my donor was or the circumstances of death. But I do express my eternal thanks to him (or her) and the family who made the decision to donate the heart under the most difficult of circumstances. You saved my life. You made a profound difference.

I feel a little like Rip van Winkle. The world seems to have changed. My children have grown and matured since I last remember spending significant time with them. Imogen has become a beautiful teenager and Charlie a tall little boy.

It's great to be back in my own house. My life is no longer bed-centric. I can rest, recuperate and rehabilitate on terms closer to my own. I can help Imogen with her homework and read Charlie his bedtime stories. I can enjoy a cup of coffee with Camilla on my own sofa. Simple pleasures indeed.

The family is delighted to have me home. Charlie was surprised to see me when he woke up. He said, "Daddy not in hospital. Daddy is at home." Thanks, AEIOU. Those words were priceless gems.

My movements are still very restricted as a consequence of the pecs flap surgery. You'd be surprised how often you need to use your arms. Actually, you probably wouldn't. Nonetheless, we are getting by and it is only temporary. Another month and I'll be free from the restrictions. It's a small price to pay in the big scheme of things.

On the cardio front everything is going extremely well. The three biopsies I've had have all produced great results. It's early days but all signs are that the new heart is a great match. My body has recovered well and I am on track to return to a normal life.

I need to accept that this will take months of recovery. It must be measured and slow. My body has a massive job to do and I just need to give it time and space to do it.

It is important that I avoid infection as my immune system is now suppressed. This is difficult given that it is now cold and flu season. I must be zealous in washing my hands and avoiding sick people.

We organised a couple of removal trucks to transport a month's worth of my drugs from hospital to home. It is a staggering number of pills that I put into my body every day. This will improve over time.  I will get into a routine and just get on with things.

Life will not be the same. That's part of the deal and non-negotiable. The old road is no longer able to be travelled and I must embrace the new one. It can still be long and fulfilling.



Until next time,

Forbidden fruits

As you will well know from previous posts (and I am sure you have read them all) there are certain dietary restrictions that go with being an organ recipient. And that's what I now am. So, ipso facto they should apply to me. Like any good lawyer, I am looking for loopholes and generous interpretations.

These restrictions exist because my immune system is now greatly suppressed. Forever. So as clever lawyer boy as I would like to be, the rules are the rules.

I cannot have natural oysters. But I love them! Thanks to the crew at Morgans for officially serving me my last six natural Pacific oysters. They were exquisite.

I cannot have uncooked salami. But I love it! Thanks to the guys at Amici Deli for officially serving me my last uncooked salami roll. It was divine. Will be back there soon for a cooked one.

I cannot enjoy soft cheese. But I love it! Thanks to Kate Schwarz for supplying me with my last slab of soft cheese. It was delightful.

I cannot have a rare steak. But I love it lots! Thanks to the Chermside Tavern for my last rare steak. It was very good indeed.

I cannot eat sashimi. But I love it so much! Thanks to Sono for my last sashimi boat. The little guys just sailed into my tummy.

Worst of all, I can no longer partake in the traditional Lebanese delicacy kibbeh nayeh. It's like a steak tartare, only much better. I will not describe it as to do so would make me want to cry. So sincere thanks to Marilyn and Jacki Trad, and their delivery boy Damien Atkinson, for giving me an enormous plate of this unspeakably wonderful food before I got the transplant. It was magnificent.

I really cannot complain. There are so many things I can have. I can have any of the above if properly cooked. I am alive and armed with another shot at life. That's a pretty good deal.


Until next time,

A good heart these days is hard to find

Yes, I know it's a dreadful post title. Revolting song. The sort of thing the anti-Dylan would sing. But who among you will challenge it to be apt?  My mate Nick Ferrett came up with an alternative analogy based on a Madonna song. Enough said.

I blame the title on the drugs I am presently funnelling through my body. I intend to retain one of the major Accountancy firms to calculate the precise number I take every day. This will come down over time but for the moment it's breakfast with a bucket of drugs (literally), followed by a few drugs through the day and then finished with dinner and drugs. I think I did die in theatre. I have been reincarnated as Keith Richards.

I am now back with my good pals in Ward 1B. We are working on a timetable for a release date. All going well, I will be home soon.

The heart is going well. I have now have two biopsies and both indicate that we do not have any realistic rejection issues at this stage.

What's a biopsy, you ask? Good question. A biopsy is a pleasant little procedure whereby a cardiologist will put a tool through your neck, reach into the heart, snip out a few little morsels and retrieve them for examination. For the next few weeks, I have them weekly. Like most things medical, they are nowhere near as gruesome as they sound. Quite the opposite to practising law, where a simple document can be made horrendously complex with little effort.

I must say that I got a major thrill watching my new heart beating strongly and independently on the monitor in theatre. It was an amazing thing to experience.

I am now back into rehab. My strength is returning quickly and each day I can do more. Lisa remains a harsh taskmaster. This is God's punishment for every glass of wine I have ever drunk.

Moreover, I am now almost completely free from all attachments. It's now just one little drain. This would be wonderful if I could use my arms. For the next few weeks, I must keep the arms immobile. I can still eat, type and brush my teeth. I just cannot put any weight through the arms. Yes, it is as difficult as you expect. This is God's punishment for every glass of beer I have ever drunk.

You should be thankful I am permitted to type. I was not going to resort to channelling Christy Brown to keep you updated.

I caught up with Noel yesterday. He is doing amazingly well. If I am doing this well in a month I shall be very pleased indeed.

More good news lies in the fact that Mandy has now gone home with her VAD to wait for a heart. This is a much better option than hospital for anyone, let alone a twenty year old. You'll get there, girl. You will.

One of the many drugs I am taking is a thing called Prednisone. It's a steroid and I am putting it down in massive doses. This, for me, can be best explained in the words of Kramer. "I'm on no sleep, Jerry. No sleep."

 I get around four hours of sleep a night. I suppose that's a lawyer's sleep in.


Until next time,

Delusions and Nightmares

My elation in getting a new heart was tempered by the fact that I would in fact require the pectoral surgery. This was completely unexpected as Pinochet had apparently healed well. Not well enough, regrettably. So much for Greg Inglis and his wobbly field goal.

The pecs surgery was due on the following Sunday, 6 May 2012. I still could not stand. I could barely speak. I was devastated. I had it in my head, mistakenly, that the pecs surgery would be in two parts. Moreover, I decided that I was going to die in theatre.

Heavy anaesthetic drugs do strange things to strange people. They give me delusions. Horrible, animated delusions. Inanimate objects will form into monstrosities. I would close my eyes over one hundred  times over the course of that Sunday night.  Each time, I saw myself dead on the operating table.

It was lucid. I could not separate nightmare from reality. I knew I was being irrational. It made little difference. I was unsure where I was.

Camilla left at eleven to get some sleep. She promised that she would come back to the hospital if I needed her. By 2.30am I did. However, the ICU nurse told me to harden up and not bother her.

At 4.30am I asked for her again. Again the nurse refused. I explained my visions of death on the operating table. She said that it was minor surgery and I was being silly.

I asked for Camilla again at 5.45am. The nurse called her for me. I had not slept a wink.

I was distraught. I explained my understanding of the two bouts of surgery. Camilla gently told me that I didn't need to sleep that night and would only undergo one round of pecs surgery.

We waited out the pecs surgery, calmly and quietly. I was then gently put to sleep again.


Until next time,