24 hours to live at Christmas!
Given 24 hours to live!
Wednesday 24th December 2008
Is there ever a good time to be told you've only got 24 hours left to live? I doubt it. But as I sat in The Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham, and the doctor's words echoed round my head, it felt like the worst possible timing. It was December, and there was less than three weeks to go until Christmas.
All my mates were wrapping their presents and planning their party outfits for New Year's Eve. But here I was, stuck in hospital with skin the colour of Bart Simpson. I must have been a funny sight, but the look on the doctor's face told me this was no a laughing matter.
'We need to put you on our super-urgent transplant list,' he said.
'W-what does that mean?' I stammered.
'It's for patients who have just 24 hours to live,' he replied.
Heart racing, I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Surely this couldn't be happening?
I was 18 years old, and just three weeks earlier, I'd been a student at the Swansea Institute, without a care in the world. That is, until I'd started throwing my guts up and my skin had turned yellow. My mum, Melanie, 42, had taken me to Prince Philip Hospital. Eventually, after three weeks of to-ing and fro-ing, and goodness knows how many tests, doctors decided I must have contracted a virus, which caused liver failure. Now, pieces of my liver were breaking away. I'd been transferred to Queen Elizabeth Hospital, where the specialist had broken the news.
'We can't save your liver,' he'd explained. 'You're going to need a transplant.'
Now, three days on, still trying to get my head round needing a transplant at all, I was facing the prospect of never seeing in another New Year again. I tried to hold back the tears,
but it was useless. I had just 24 hours left to live. Suddenly, I was crying so hard, I thought I'd never stop. As I lay in the hospital bed that night, my skin the colour of a banana, there were so many thoughts racing through my head. Would I make it to Christmas?
Would I be able to see in the New Year with my friends and family at the Bridge pub in Llangennech? Let alone finish my course, and have any sort of future? What if they couldn't find a donor in time? It was terrifying.
And next morning, my eyes were still red from crying when the doctor came over with news.
'We've found a donor,' he said. 'The operation is at 6am.'
'Really?' I gasped. 'That's fantastic.'
But as pleased as I was, I was still terrified. When I was wheeled down to theatre a couple of hours later, I did my best not to break down as Mum shook the surgeon's hand.
'Please take care of her,' I heard her whisper.
When I came round 24 hours later, I was in intensive care, and my sister, Chloe, 19, was sitting by my bed clutching a teddy bear.
'Hello,' she smiled.
I blinked in recognition and tried to speak, but there was a tube in my throat, so no words would come out. Mum had good news.
'The operation went well,' she said. 'The surgeon sang his way through it, apparently.'
I was desperate to be able to speak to my family, to phone my friends and catch up on what I'd missed. Only, three days later, when my tube was removed, I had another shock in store.
As the nurse fussed around my bed, I opened my mouth and started to speak. Except, instead of saying: 'I need the loo,' which was what I wanted to say, the sound that came out of my mouth was complete gibberish.
The nurse stopped and looked at me in amazement. I took a breath, and tried again. Still, it was all gobbledygook. So I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and started scribbling…
But the same thing happened. The letters were jumbled up and didn't make any sense.
Fortunately, Chloe turned up, and she managed to work out what I was trying to say.
'She needs the loo,' she said. 'Don't worry, sis, I'll translate for you.'
It was kind of her, but what I really wanted was to know what the hell was happening.
'We think it might be caused by a virus you've picked up,' the doctor said. 'You should be all right in time. Just keep trying to speak.'
Easy for him to say!
But it was no good. Christmas Day passed with me stuck in a hospital bed, speaking total rubbish, as Mum, Chloe, and my dad, Mark, 43, sat by my bed. Somehow, Chloe seemed to have the knack of being able to work out what I was saying. And on New Year's Eve, things finally started to look up when I was allowed home. As I sat on the settee watching telly, with Mum, Dad, and Chloe, I smiled as Big Ben struck midnight.
'Happy New Year, love,' Mum cried, hugging me tightly.
I would have given anything just to say those words back. Instead, I just blinked back the tears of happiness. By then, my yellow skin had faded and I looked a healthy pink colour again. Finally, two months later, I got my voice back. It was the most wonderful feeling as I finally managed to say: 'Pass me the butter,' at the breakfast table. My first words! In February 2007, I was well enough to go back to university and pass my course.
Now, 20 months on, my transplanted liver is working normally and I've been given my life back. And this New Year's Eve, I certainly won't be sitting on the settee in silence. In fact, I can't wait to see in the New Year with my family and friends. Because I reckon I've got a lot of catching up to do!