Ignorance was Bliss

I was a tomboy growing up. I argued with my mother about wearing skirts to church and did much better in shop class than I did in home-ec. I wore baggy clothes and was likely to be at soccer practice after school than at the mall. I saw my strings of flings as reinforcement of my feminist beliefs- the image of the woman alone, refusing to be domesticated. As I got older, things started to change. I gradually began to buy clothes that actually fit and enjoyed wearing a dress every once in awhile. I met Fred and bit by bit began to feel more domestic. I remained quite unable to cook, and was rather proud of my incompetence in the kitchen- largely because it assured me that my roommates would always cook for me. When I moved to Korea last year, it was with a heavy heart- I knew it was inevitable that living alone, I would finally learn to cook. But when I arrived, I found eating out so cheap and easy that the effort simply wasn't worth it. Here I am, back in Montreal and still unable to cook. As Fred went into the hospital for his transplant, I realized this was the ultimate test- if I could just make it through the next three months... Unfortunately the other day, I caved under pressure when Fred complained about his three sandwich a day diet. I bought a pound of salmon, cooked it in maple syrup and served it with grilled vegetables and fettucine alfredo. Part of me hoped it would be a terrible failure, but Fred loved it and has spent the last two days accusing me of being a good cook. Ignorance was bliss. Now it's into the kitchen with me.

These posts are becoming fewer and further between. I'd say I've been busy, but I don't really feel like that's true. Two weeks spent hanging around the Royal Victoria Hospital virtually killed any creative impulses I may have had. I suppose I have been busy, but most of my time has been spent hanging around with Fred- and then all the cooking, cleaning, housework and running about that one would expect when you're the only one doing the work. I don't know how women do it. Three weeks in and I'm already burnt out from it all- while at the same time, I'm giving myself little credit for all the work I am doing. No matter how much work you do, there always seems to be more. That said, I've also taken to reorganizing the apartment.

Fred continues to do well. It's been easy to forget that he's just undergone major surgery. He's up and about, accompanying me on long-ish walks to Queen Mary street. He's exhausted when we get home, but he's getting out a bit. His incision became infected before they released him, so they had to take a few staples out. This resulted in a gaping hole in his stomach about three inches long and an inch deep. A nurse is coming to the house twice a day for the last week to change his dressing, which has been oozing goo. Last week-end I played nurse myself, cleaning the inside of the wound, stuffing the hole with saline gauze and applying the necessary gauzes and tapes. I never thought I'd be able to do that. How many people can say they've seen the inside of their boyfriend's stomach?

It is so difficult for us to wrap our minds around what we have just been through. Boxes of insulin sit lonely in our fridge and I pass my days calling charities, hoping someone will accept the donation. Fred takes his blood sugar reading four times a day- lately the reading has been between six and ten, within the normal range. Prior to the transplant, his sugar level could be anywhere between two and thirty. He has had some really rough days in his recovery. Four days after the surgery, the doctors dropped his steroid dose considerably, resulting in an unexpected mood swing and a lot more pain than he had previously had. The tube that had been going through his nose to his stomach, the purpose of which was to suck out the stomach juices, was removed at his insistence. The following day, they had to put it back in because he was vomiting too much. Initially the tube had been inserted when he was under anesthetic, but the second time he was awake. It was badly placed and stuck out from his face at a 90 degree angle. His throat bled, his ears hurt and it irritated his stomach. Four times a day, he pops a handful of pills- two anti-rejection, a steroid, two pills for hypertension and a collection of antibiotics to prevent infection. Sixteen prescriptions in all, which will eventually drop to three. I spent an hour at the pharmacy last week getting the run-down on each drug and left feeling as though I should have the bag shackled to my wrist. Two months worth of Cellcept, one of the anti-rejection drugs, came to 1200$. The Prograf, also an anti-rejection was 4000$ for two months, and the antibiotic Valcyte was 5000$ for three months. Fortunately, the bill was passed onto the insurance company and I paid only for the box of multivitamins.

The last few weeks have been so surreal for me. It's hard to believe that our wait came to an end so quickly and that Fred's surgery and recovery went so smoothly. We've been reminded that although all looks good, we aren't out of the woods yet. There will still be ups and downs as his body adapts to his new organs and as they continue to ease him off his obscene dose of steroids. I've taken to calling Fred 'Triple Threat' or 'Three-Kidney Freddy', but I'm at a loss for pancreas-related nicknames. I'm sure this will result in countless new names, and eventually speculation as to who it was that passed on their organs so that he could live.

All kidding aside, if you haven't signed your donor card, please do. While we waited a short time for Fred's transplant, we were very fortunate. We have a friend who waited two years for a kidney and we met a man at the hospital who had been waiting three months at the hospital (and who knows how long before) for a liver transplant. He was unlucky enough to be a very generous O blood type- universal donor, but picky recipient. In Ontario, it is not uncommon for people to wait eight years for a kidney. In the Netherlands, three hundred people die every year waiting to receive a transplant. Consider for a moment what a difference your organs could make to so many after you pass on. And it isn't just one person that you'd be helping, but possibly as many as ten. Not to mention all the friends and family of those recipients that would also be affected by your generosity. Allow the last thing you do to be the most heroic thing you ever did.