The Vigil is over, by the way. Did I not mention that? Whoops. Ever since I got my shiny new Facebook page, and got addicted to checking it every hour, on the hour (and sometimes even more frequently than that, to be perfectly honest), I just keep assuming that everyone in the entire world is on Facebook and knows what I’m doing at all times. But you’re not, are you? So, for the benefit of those of you who’ve been clinging to the "OMG Terry is totally going to die on the operating table!" vigil since 8am on Friday morning, you may stand down. And also: sorry for not releasing you sooner
As it happens, there was no need for y’all to be starting the vigil at 8am, and this was because the operation didn’t happen until 11.30am. So much for the whole "If he’s there at 8am he surely must be first!" thing. Oh National Health Service, how many are the ways in which you disappoint us!
Other ways in which the NHS disappointed us/freaked us the hell out on Friday:
1. They told Terry he would be having a local anesthetic.
2. So when he arrived at the hospital, he was all ready for a local anesthetic.
3. He was not having a local anesthetic.
4. "No way are you having a local anesthetic, that’s way too dangerous!" said Surgeon A.
At this point Terry called me to let me know that he would now be having a general anesthetic. This made my natural anxiety go into overdrive, because, as anyone who’s been watching Neighbours this week will know, general anesthetic is a highly dangerous procedure which can totally make you have an aneurysm and die. "He will totally have an aneurysm and die!" I told my mum, during a hysterical mid-vigil phone call later that morning (Vigil Stage 6 – ‘Calling in Reinforcements‘). However, this anxiety of mine turned out to be misplaced because:
5. They gave him a local anesthetic.
6. "There’s no way he can have a general now," said surgeon B, "because he hasn’t been fasting. So if we give him a general, he will die, like Stingray in Neighbours."
7. Surgeons A & B then begun the operation with a long conversation between themselves about how very, very dangerous it was to be carrying out this operation under a local anesthetic. This freaked out even Terry, and trust me, Terry does not freak out easily. Unlike, say, me.
8. When the operation was over, they came to look at his arm. "So, what will probably happen now is that you will develop blood clots in your vein," said the surgeon. "Maybe the vein will even totally, like, dry up and go hard, and we’ll have to take it out, who knows?" "Will the blood clots kill me?" asked Terry. "Oh no," laughed the surgeon. "They’re not those kind of blood clots." But then, he was the one who thought it would be OK to give him a general anesthetic. REMEMBER STINGRAY, people, is all I’m sayin’.
Anyway, after that Terry came home (in time for the lunchtime episode of Neighbours! Sorry y’all missed that, by the way, on account of you were still on the Vigil…) and we begun watching his arm obsessively to see if it would fall off or something. So far it hasn’t. But there’s still time…
OK, let’s try this again, shall we?
Tomorrow morning, Terry is going into hospital to have his fistula removed. Yes, just like he did last time, only this time we’re hoping the operation will, you know, actually happen.
Now, clearly the fact that Terry is having an operation kind of sucks, and when I say it kind of sucks, I mean it kind of sucks for me. Terry is happy and relaxed at the prospect of having his fistula removed. I? Am On a Vigil. For real.
Tomorrow’s Vigil starts at 8am. No, that’s not a typo, that’s 8am as in "an hour I barely knew existed". (I work from home, OK? I get lazy.) This is actually a good thing because the fact that his operation is so early means that he must be first in the queue (I mean, surely to God they don’t do operations BEFORE 8am? God, I really hope the surgeon is a morning person… ) so, technically speaking, he shouldn’t have to experience the long, tedious delays the NHS is so well known for. And I should be put out of my misery pretty quickly. Well, I hope so anyway.
So, yes, Vigil tomorrow, 8am. Are you with me?
* * *
In other news, I am now pretty sure that the man across the road is trying to steal my sanity. This guy washes his car every day. Every. Day. Not only that, but he washes his car for an entire hour every day. Sometimes longer. Dude clearly has more time on his hands than I do. Anyway, I’m sure you can guess what’s coming here. When the man across the road washes his car (Every day! For an hour!) he rolls down the car windows and does the old "using the vehicle as a massive speaker system" thing. GOD.
My question is this: how should he die?
So, things aren’t great in the ‘hood, is what I’m trying to say here. Maybe I should buy a new house? One with soundproofing and no neighbours? Or maybe I should just calm the hell down, hmmm?
Anyway: Vigil. Must concentrate on Vigil. Aaargh, hospital Vigil! Not good for hypochondriacs! Scary! Mmmm, wine.
Yup, that’s right, I’m calling off today’s Vigil before it even started. Terry was just getting ready to leave this morning when the phone rung and he was told that whoops, sorry, the surgeon is off sick today, so it’s back on the waiting list for Terry.
So now we wait. Again.
But on the plus side, at least he won’t miss Neighbours, now.
As you were.
I worry too much. I worry about stupid, insignificant things like work and doing the ironing, and whether my butt looks big in those skinny jeans I got last week. (It totally does, by the way. Stupid skinny jeans.) What a freakin’ idiot I am, no?
Terry is having an operation tomorrow. Now, it’s a fairly minor operation, to disconnect the fistula he used to receive dialysis through. It’ll be done under local anesthetic, he’ll be back home the same day, and really, this operation is a good thing. The fistula is being removed because Terry doesn’t need it anymore, and there’s really nothing to worry about here. Needless to say, I am going to worry anyway. I am probably going to worry A LOT. In fact, let’s make no bones about it: I am going to hold a vigil ALL day tomorrow. Want to join me?
Luckily (or “not so luckily”, depending on how you look at it), I am one of the world’s foremost authorities on holding vigils. I hold them a lot – more than you do, anyway. Terry late home from somewhere he’s been? Why, he has probably been killed in a car crash! Haven’t heard from the parents in a few days? They must be lying dead on the floor of their carbon-monoxide-filled home! Motorway pileup on the news? It will probably involve EVERY SINGLE PERSON I KNOW, even the ones that don’t live in this country. Yes, I worry a lot.
Of course, holding a vigil doesn’t help with the worrying one little bit. In fact, you could argue that it actually makes it a whole lot worse. I mean, you could argue that, but I wouldn’t care, because I know I’m going to do it anyway. Now, there are 7 basic stages to any given Vigil:
Stage One: Mild alarm
This stage involves nothing more taxing than looking at the clock a few times and thinking, “Hey, times a-movin’, wonder where <insert name of loved-one here> is? Possibly dead?”
Stage Two: Growing Alarm
This stage follows hot on the heels of stage one, occurring at the point where it becomes impossible to ignore the non-appearance of The Loved One. You’re going to want to do some mild pacing here, taking in all of the windows of your house as you watch and listen for The Return of T.L.O. You should also pick up your phone a few times during this stage, just to make sure it’s still working. (It will be).
Stage Three: Raising the Alarm
It’s now time to try and make contact with the missing person. At this point you will realise that your mobile phone, which is the only place all of your important numbers are stored, has run out of juice, so you’ll need to plug it into the charger, cursing as you do so. It won’t really matter, though, because once you’ve dialed the number, you’ll find that The Loved-One’s phone either rings out un-answered or goes straight to voicemail. (Leave a slightly hysterical message at this point if it does).
Defcon 1 alert: sometimes during this stage, if you are very unlucky, the phone will be answered but there will be no one on the other end. Feel free to crap yourself at this point because OMG, what if the injured loved one has just managed to pick up the phone but has passed out from the effort, WHAT IF?
Stage Four: Panic Attack
Heart palpitations, cold sweats, churning stomach, the runs…. Fun for all Vigil-holders!
Stage Five: Vigil Proper
Pour yourself a coffee, folks, because this is the main part of your Vigil and you could be here for some time. It’ll also give you something to throw up later, should the need arise. For this part of the Vigil, you’ll want to choose yourself a window to stand by. Experienced Vigilers will already know which window affords the best view of all approaches to the home: choose well, here, because this window is about to become your best friend.
Stage Six: Calling in reinforcements
During particularly long vigils (i.e. That time Terry went to some bar to meet people from a discussion forum, and six hours later he still wasn’t home and other members of the forum started posted messages saying, “Hey, I went to the bar like we agreed but there was was no one there – what happened?” This Vigil also included a Defcon 1 alert, in which I called Terry’s mobile and it was answered but there was no one there. GOD.) it may be necessary to call in reinforcements to talk you through the vigil and repeat the words, “I’m sure he’s just lost track of time” several times per minute. When you’re calling other people out on a Vigil, it’s best to choose people who are, themselves, experienced vigil holders. In fact, to be perfectly honest, it’s best to call my mum. Don’t, though: she’s got enough on her plate with all of my vigils, give the woman a break.
Stage Seven: Standing Down the Vigil
Obviously, this stage is only reached when the Loved One’s car pulls into the driveway. Congratulations! You made it through your first vigil! Have a cookie! And also: a strong brandy.
So yes, this is what I’ll be doing tomorrow between the hours of noon and whatever time Terry gets out of theatre. Why yes, I do feel a bit stupid about it, but hey, I didn’t choose the Vigil, the Vigil chose me. And, on the plus side, holding a Vigil like this certainly helps get things in perspective for you: like the ironing and the Project O’ Doom and those skinny jeans (which seriously, I think give me a bit of muffin top). There’s nothing focuses the mind quite like having someone you love go through an operation, and while yes, this is a good operation, an “end of an era” operation, getting rid of the last remaining symbol of the time Terry spent on dialysis, it also serves to bring that time back to me in horrible, Technicolor close-up.
I always told myself that I would never let myself forget That Time, but I’m embarrassed to admit that I rarely think of it these days. It feels like something that happened to someone else, and I can’t quite decide whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. When I do think about it I tend to find myself overwhelmed by the thought what if it happens again? I don’t like to think about that too much, but maybe I should, because lately I’ve been letting myself get bogged down and hacked off with work and with all of those other things that don’t really matter, when the reality is that, compared with the way things were when Terry was ill, we’re actually living the dream here, folks. Really.
Still holding that vigil, though.
… and there’s reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last…
Every December I make it my mission to quote the Counting Crows’ Long December at least once. Sometimes I quote it twice, and last year? At least three times – and not just because I was particularly bad at titling my blog posts last year, either (although that was also the case). Last December was a particularly long one, filled, as it was with “the smell of hospitals in winter/ and the feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters with no pearls”. Last year, though, was also the first time that the hope expressed in that song (which I can now hardly listen to, by the way), actually came true. This year actually was better than the last, and it’s all because of the events of December 15th, 2005: T-Day.
Today is the one year anniversary of Terry’s transplant. It’s the three year anniversary of our engagement. It’s Terry’s Name Day, in Greece. (It’s also the day Dylan and Sky got engaged in Neighbours, but honestly? I don’t think that’s going to last, personally.). A big, important day, then. A T-Day, if you will. This time last year, Terry was still in theatre (that’s the operating theatre, by the way – he wasn’t treading the boards), and I was still sitting in the reception of the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, staring at that scuffed bit on the toe of my boot and hoping I wouldn’t throw up. (Note to self: get boots fixed, because, seriously, Amber, that’s been a YEAR now already…) I think I said everything I need to say about this on the six month anniversary of T-Day, and, really, there’s only so many ways you can say “God, I’m glad that’s over with!” But I am. Very, very glad – and I’m glad, too, that, rather than being the year of hospital visits that I thought it would be, this year has actually been very much like “normal” life, resumed.
Happy T-Day, Terry. Don’t order the steak when I take you to dinner tonight to celebrate…
Tagged kidney transplant
So, we’ve been planning a Day of John. John = Terry’s brother, he of kidney donation fame. The day? His birthday – or the day before it, to be exact.
You see, John has the misfortune of having been born on Christmas Eve. In addition to meaning that he gets less presents than other people, it also means that no one is ever available to celebrate with him on the day itself, everyone being far too busy wrapping up the Christmas presents they panic-bought just hours before, and putting out milk and a cookie for Santa. Oh wait, that’s just me, isn’t it? Damn.
Last year was a particularly un-birthday-like birthday for John. For one thing, it was his 30th. For another, he had only just been released from hospital, and was still drugged up to the eyeballs. For a third, he spent most of that day traveling to and from said hospital to visit Terry, who was still incarcerated, and who, as it turned out, wasn’t released until Christmas morning. So, all in all, probably not the best birthday John’s ever had.
To make up for all of this, we had a plan, a cunning plan, hatched by John’s girlfriend, Jolene, and tenderly nursed along by Terry, who’d kind of like his brother to have a birthday that doesn’t involve ripping a kidney out of his body and then drugging him. (edited to add: they actually drugged him before taking the kidney out, too. Just thought I’d make that clear.) I mean, it’s the least we can do, really. The plan? We would have a Day of John. This year, December would be magical again! (Also: expensive! But worth it!) What we’d do, we decided, was pick John up on the morning of his birthday. "Get you coat, John – you’ve pulled we’re taking you out," we’d say, before bundling him into the car and driving him to Edinburgh, where he and Jolene would take a helicopter tour of the city and the Forth, before returning to the ground. Terry and I would then join them for food, and also: alcohol.
Well, that was the plan, and indeed, still is the plan. The reason I’m able to write about it here, though, without fear of John reading this and the surprise being ruined? Well, the surprise has already been ruined. By the stupid helicopter company who, despite being told that it was all a huge surprise, and that they must not, under any circumstances, communicate The Plan to John in any way at all, went right ahead and did just that. Yes, they interpreted "Please don’t tell John about this," as "Please tell John all about this, by sending a boarding card to his home, addressed to him, with the full details of The Day of John with it." Gah. You just can’t get the staff, can you?
We will still have our Day of John, of course. It’s just that… John knows. Gah.
So, our article in the Daily Record came out today – a double page spread, under the headline ‘IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH IS A VOW AMBER HAS ALREADY TAKEN’. Hee! They used this picture, but they cropped it, blew it up to massive proportions, flipped it round, greyscaled it, and also: photoshopped it to make me look like some madcrazy snaggletoothed troll – THE SWINES.
But that’s not the strangest thing. The strangest thing is this: EVERYONE IS LOOKING AT ME. Everyone. I mean, I’ve had my picture in the paper before. Hell, when I was a reporter I was in the paper every other week: receiving massive cheques from politicians, launching bonnie baby competitions, getting dressed up in the strip of the local football team so we could express our "support"… And you know what? I never really thought about it, partly because it was a local paper, so only local people would see the pictures, and partly because I have no idea why. Maybe I was crazy.
This paper, though, is a national red-top. It’s got a circulation of millions, and is probably the most widely-read daily newspaper in Scotland. Which is a bit…wow. I just keep thinking of all of those millions of people who have a picture of me and Terry in their houses today, who will have LOOKED AT ME, even if it was just while turning over the page and thinking, "Ewww, a snaggletoothed troll!"
And then I think about all of the pet litter trays we’ll be lining tomorrow and all of the bags of fish and chips we’ll be wrapping into next week, and I think I may be trying to make some kind of point here – maybe on the transient nature of fame or something? – but I’ve only had one coffee today, so maybe y’all could just pretend you know what I’m talking about…
(Terry and I are currently looking after Terry’s mum’s parrot, Pepe. His cage is lined every day with newspapers. Now I keep imagining my face in a bin somewhere with a huge bird dropping on it. GOD.)
Anyway. The story was fine. We live in Edinburgh, now, apparently, and our visit to the Grand Canyon was "the trip of a lifetime!" (er, hello! I was twenty-freaking-seven! I haven’t had a lifetime yet!), but hey, at least they didn’t mention my age. The one thing that does bother me is that they’ve said that Terry’s mum couldn’t donate a kidney because she was "considered too old at 63". Now, that, my friends, is crap.
Terry’s mum wasn’t allowed to donate because during the final stage of testing, they discovered a problem with her heart which, although not serious enough to worry about, nevertheless made them not want to put her through such major surgery. They discovered this in the final stages of testing – they wouldn’t have bothered testing her at all if they thought she was too old. It’s a small point, I know, but I don’t like to think that people in their 60s might discount themselves as live donors after reading that.
Ah well. I guess if that was our 15 minutes, we’ve had it. Easy come, easy go…
ETA: Just found that the story is on the Record’s website, here, although without the pics.
Tags:kidney transplant kidney failure
 So, you would think I’d have learned by now that drinking wine at lunchtime is not such a good thing, huh? Or, indeed, eating a three course meal, for that matter. Because now it’s 17.31, I’m back at my desk with all of the day’s work still unfinished (and, yes, unstarted) and do I feel like ploughing through it all now? No, I decidedly do not. And you can’t make me.
Today we visited our wedding venue, Orocco Pier, for lunch. The visit was kind of like a consolation prize, for today is a bad day for me, being the day my parents leave for Florida for their annual summer holiday. They’re up there now, in the sky. It’s quite disconcerting having parents in the sky, especially if, like me, you suffer from The Panic. Even if the plane doesn’t crash, they still have to stay safe while driving around central Florida for two weeks, and ohmygod what if something happens to them? And also: what if something happens to us while they’re gone?
This last bit of angst is not quite as far-fetched as it seems considering that this time last year my parents’ plane hadn’t even left the ground and Terry was in hospital having an emergency operation on his fistula. My parents were in international departures, Terry’s mum was in Crete, and, in short, wasn’t a body around to drag me back down from the ceiling and convince me that it was all going to be OK. They said the operation would take an hour: it took three. By the third hour I was seriously considering going and knocking on the door of the woman across the road and asking her to come and sit with me before I done LOST MY MIND, people.
Serious illness has a way of making you feel much more vulnerable than you otherwise would. And that’s not to say that I wouldn’t be sitting here obsessively refreshing Sky News and waiting for news of a plane crash if Terry hadn’t been ill – but I have to admit that I’ve never felt more alone than I did on that day last year, and I pretty much live in fear of a repeat performance. Our health and happiness seems so much more fragile than other people’s. I know it’s not really – hell, the events of this time last year are testament to that. But the fact remains that we’re still more likely to have to rush to hospital suddenly than most people are, and it’s at times like this that I’m most aware of that.
God, that was depressing, wasn’t it? Here, have a photo of the Forth Rail Bridge to make up for it:
 This is where we’ll probably have some of our wedding pictures taken – it’s just a stone’s throw away from the venue (we’ll get married in front of a huge window looking out onto this same view) and will no doubt be swimming in rainwater in March. It was nice and sunny today, though, and ohmigod, the food was good. It gave us both a warm, fuzzy feeling about the wedding, and no, it wasn’t the wine.
And now it’s SIX o’clock and I haven’t done any work. Gah.
…they made me sit on Terry’s back:
 Lookit how excited we are. Whee! We gotta kidney transplant and now we’re getting married! You wish you were us, you really do!
In other news of a photographic nature, we’ve also finally – FINALLY – booked a wedding photographer. Halleleuja. Also: we’re broke now.
Anyway. Must work.
I have broken one of my cardinal rules. The rule in question is this one:
THOU SHALT ALWAYS BE PREPARED FOR THE EVENTUALITY THAT A PHOTOGRAPHER APPEARS AT YOUR HOME AND WANTS TO TAKE PICTURES OF YOU/IT
Adherence to this rule basically involves the house and garden looking immaculate at all times, me being always washed and, yes, dressed, and my wardrobe containing a selection of darling little outfits ideal for a range of different occasions.
Needless to say, my life is hardly ever like this, which is unfortunate really, because tomorrow the Daily Record (circulation 3,458,011, people) is sending a photographer round to take lovely pictures of Terry and me. They’re doing some sort of advertorial thingy on transplants for the NHS, see, and they’ve decided that what would make it totally perfect would be using our story of "OMG! WE GOT ENGAGED AND THEN ONE US NEARLY DIED!" An uplifting tale of triumph over adversity, you see.
They will be working the "Terry’s brother gives him a kidney for Christmas" angle, of course, but apparently they are mostly interested in the wedding, which is nice because at least someone’s interested in it. God knows none of the wedding photographers I’ve been trying to contact seem even remotely interested, but let’s not talk about that now, Internet, because I’ve already had one migraine this week and I could really do without another.
Anyway, so the photographer is coming tomorrow at 11am and WHAT WILL I WEAR? I have NOTHING. No.Thing. I suspect I will fall back on that tired old standby, jeans and a top, but which top? Which jeans? I mean, I guess they’ll want us to look fairly casual, kinda like "Here we are, relaxing at home in our post- kidney transplant world, lalala" but I really don’t do casual. OK, I wear jeans pretty much every day in life, but that doesn’t mean I look good in them. And my nicest tops are more "here we are relaxing in our favourite bar with wine" than "at home with Amber and Terry."
What to do, what to do?
(I want to go shopping.)
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