Day
of Transplant
February
5th, 2005
Waiting
on the transplant list for a new heart can last anywhere from a day to or a year or more.
The average wait for someone with a rare blood type like mine is only about two months.
Still, when exactly such a gift comes is in God’s hands, and I knew my stay in the hospital could
last indefinitely.
The transplant team doctors did their best to make me as comfortable as possible. For example, they arranged blood to be drawn every other day instead of once (or twice) a day and authorized a sign on my door “DO NOT DISTURB Between 10pm and 6am .” This gave me a good chunk of time to myself, without people barging in all the time. Because my veins are thin and difficult to find, and because I value my privacy and had consecrated my hospital room as sacred space, these two concessions meant more to me than you could possibly imagine.
On Saturday, February 5th, I was looking forward to seeing my long-time boyfriend, Bob. He'd had the flu and had been unable for visit for almost three weeks. If I caught the flu I would have to be taken off the transplant list until I recovered. So he had stayed home. During his visits, he usually spent the night at a local hotel, but since I hadn’t seen him for so long I invited him to sleep in a cot in my hospital room. Bob had been by my side since my heart first failed in October, 2002, and stayed with me in my room for the next twelve days in a hospital far from home. He had patiently persevered through all my medical trials and put his entire life aside to be there for me in every way. It was no coincidence he was with me again on this night.
We went to bed about 10:30PM and I finally fell asleep about 1:00AM. An hour later, two doctors walked in, abruptly turned on the overhead lights and stood at the foot of my bed. My first thought, (and I may have said it aloud, too) was an indignant: “Didn’t you see the sign on the door?”
“Ms. Navarre, we’re surgeons from the transplant team and we think we have found a heart for you.”
“Wow.” That was my very first reaction. Then I dutifully said the gratitude prayer I'd been practicing and planning that I'd say if this moment ever arrived.
“We have you scheduled for surgery in six hours,” they said. I’d be called for an x-ray in a couple hours. Then an hour before surgery they would take me to pre-op.
We asked where the heart was coming from and how it was going to get here.
They said it was coming from an accident victim in New Jersey. A surgical team from Brigham and Women’s Hospital, where I was staying, were flying down to harvest the heart. They had to work with other surgeons who would be removing other donated organs first, such as kidneys and liver, as the heart comes out last.
If the heart looked good, they would call the team back in Boston to let them know it was still “go.” Then time was of the essence as they have only four hours to get the heart back inside a body. The team in New Jersey would take the heart by the fastest means possible--either by ambulance or helicopter--to the nearest airport where a chartered jet awaited them. Airspace would be cleared for a direct flight to Logan airport in Boston, where a helicopter would meet them to race the heart back to Brigham and Woman’s hospital.
By the time the heart arrived at Brigham and Women’s, my chest cavity would be open and I would be fully prepared to release my dear, old, worn out heart and receive the new, healthy heart.
The two surgeons standing at the foot of our beds then told us to try to get some sleep and left. Sleep, of course, was impossible. I was excited, yet worked hard to keep calm. The last thing I needed was for another episode of arrhythmia that might kill me before my new heart was implanted.
When we arrived in pre-op early Saturday morning, the large, usually bustling room was empty. I met my surgeon, Dr. Cooper, who had repaired my heart’s valves the previous year. He was bright-eyed and alert, stepping energetically back and forth across the floor with a Starbucks grande in hand. Looking back I realized the reason for his electric enthusiasm. He was about to perform heart transplant surgery—not something that’s done every day. The hospital averages only 1 or 2 transplants a month. Dr. Cooper’s positive attitude boosted my confidence.
Waiting in pre-op, I wasn’t nervous, worried, or anxious. I was just exceedingly happy. It was one of the happiest days of my life, even though I knew it was possible something could go wrong or I might wake up without the heart. Still, I felt so very blessed and so very grateful.
Finally it was time to go to the operating room. I said goodbye to Bob and refocused on my coming adventure. I felt so very very happy.
The anesthesiologists began to prep me for their part of the operation. I knew I’d be out soon. I asked the head anesthesiologist if he would do me a favor. When the entire team was there, if he would please tell them “thank you” for me. He smiled and said that wasn’t a request they got very often. I said, but I am so very grateful, please don’t forget to tell them.
I awoke in the recovery room late afternoon on Saturday, February 5th. The breathing tube was down my throat and the nurse kept saying I was nauseous. I wasn’t nauseous. I just wanted to talk but my efforts sounded like I was gagging. My arms were tied down, but that didn’t bother me as much as I’d expected. Luckily Bob appeared soon enough and knew immediately I wanted to communicate and got out a pen and paper. He kept the notes I wrote. They are endearing and humorous, an insight into the perceptions of a loopy, still-half-anesthetized mind. Unfortunately, most of what I wrote had to do with trying to convince the nurse I wasn't nauseous. The urgent message that I was trying so hard to communicate was lost. I hope to remember it some day, as I believe it was a message from my donor.