Mumma's 'call day' account...

In keeping with the last post, here is a piece by my Mum telling of the experience she and my Dad had on the day of call number 2!

They live near to Plymouth so had quite a trek to get to the hospital and didn't have the advantage of flashing lights and sirens.

The phone call came in just as Rob and I were going to bed. I had been holding a Christmas play meeting in the house and Rob had been to guitar club. As soon as the Phone went and I knew it was Jenni,  I knew immediately what it was. We both knew that we were in no fit state to drive as it was past midnight so we decided to go to bed for an hour or so, we woke bleary eyed and packed a bag each, to tide us over for a couple of days, I don't think either of us thought that it would go ahead after the last aborted mission to London just a few weeks earlier.  We knew that Jenni had arrived at the hospital but had been reassured that nothing would happen for a few hours so we stopped for a coffee on the way to wake us  up and have a leg stretch. We reached Hampstead at I  think,  about 7.30 we had contacted our son Paul in America who had spoken to Jenni to send his love and best wishes and Caius Jenni’s boyfriend has been keeping us up-to-date with what was happening.  We had just arrived in Hampstead, literally less than a mile to the hospital but it was rush-hour and the traffic was at a standstill. Caius had told us that Jenni would be going down to theatre and that she was being prepared, at this point I started to panic because I was frightened that I wasn't going to get there before she went down. I spoke to her on the phone and told her I loved her and we will be there as soon as we could. Rob  dropped me outside the hospital and I ran to the ward but she had gone. I then had to find the theatre. I rushed to the desk and then saw Caius, so I knew I had missed her and that she had already gone down. The tears started and wouldn't stop. It was sheer grief and sorrow at not being able to hold my daughter’s hand. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her and how fantastic this opportunity was going to be for her future. I wanted to tell her not to be frightened and to be reassured that she would see all of our smiling faces  when she came to later that day. I wanted to hold her hand and touch her face for that moment in time when despite all the confidence I had in the team looking after her I was still afraid that I might lose her. I was so glad that Caius had been with her so she wasn’t alone. The nurse came out of the anaesthetic room and told me that Jenni wasn't asleep yet, so I was able to get a message to her and took some comfort in knowing that she knew we were there ready to welcome her back to us. 

We waited for 10 hours, pacing, drinking coffee, nodding off, trying to read . We had regular bulletins telling us that the old liver was out… New liver was in…. She was doing brilliantly … She was in recovery … She was in intensive care where we could go and see her. 

And there she was, a radiant smile on her face, looking tiny in amongst all the drips, lines, drains and monitors, but that smile, I will never forget. She said ‘I love you mummy, so much and I was so worried that you would be upset that you didn't see me, but I know you love me and Caius was with and I'd spoken to  Paul, I was Ok” 

We couldn't believe how awake and lucid she was .

It was clear though that she was under the influence of drugs, namely fentanyl, because she was singing songs and reciting poems the most  memorable being “I wish I was a glow worm, a glow worm’s never glum, 'cos how can you be grumpy when the sun shines out your bum”!

Another point of view

So, I've been a little quiet on the blogging front lately...

Good news! I've been recovering from my transplant which took place on Thursday 29th October. 

I have also been looking to give some alternative perspectives to the whole experience and so have asked a few of my nearest and dearest to write about 'The Call'.

This is the first instalment of those perspectives and comes from my wonderful other half, Caius. 

Me, My Man and our Pup :)

7:59am….

The doors closed behind Jenni and I wouldn’t be able to see her until after the operation. I don’t know where I am, or where to go, or what to do, or who to call. The emotion takes over.

A nurse on her way on to her 8am shift touches my arm and asks if I okay and if there is anything I need. I don’t know what to say. I can’t move.

Rewind 10 hours and Jenni and I are clambering into bed after a regular evening of rest and relaxation for Jenni (recovering from her second bout of Cholecystitis) and dish washing for me post-cooking. We fall asleep curl into one another, Coco at the end of the bed. Silence, peace, content.

Midnight…..

We both wake up to the hum of Jenni’s phone whirring on silent. Jenni answers, I recognize the calm voice on the other end.

Out of bed, hospital bags out of the closet, clothes on the right way round. At least they gave us the benefit of two hours sleep.

The liver is a match, the ambulance is on its way. T-minus 90mins. We’ve done this, we had everything fine-tuned. Jenni opts for a bath whilst I start hunting for the last essentials: iPad, chargers, iPod….. got to load up those audiobooks.

1.30am

The ambulance turns up, we jump in help the cockney driver to drive through Bristol city centre to the motorway, then we both conk out. The next thing we know, we are entering London, driving through empty streets and pulling up at the Royal Free.

3am

We don’t know where we are going, making a bee-line for the ward we went to last time. Redirected to the right ward, checked in.

Everything is different. There is immediacy in everything the people are doing. Tests (17 vials of blood!), scans, questionnaires, plans of action. Is this happening?

5am

It’s going ahead, its happening. I feel excited for Jenni, scared about if things go wrong, anxious about what to expect after the op, alone and responsible with the lack of her parents in the mix (racing past Reading by this time)

Jenni and I take the time to cuddle up on the bed, to take just a moment before this reality becomes real.

They send in some tranquilisers for Jenni to calm her down. This causes her to get the giggles and acted completely loopy and stoned. Hilarious.

6am

They want to take her down soon but are waiting for the 8am shift to start to make the process smoother. 

7:45am

We are off. Jenni is welling up. Fear, excitement, trepidation, missing her parents (who are battling the morning traffic but are so close)

7:55am 

In the lift, on our way to surgery. My hands are shaking, but I keep up the brave face.

7:59am

The take her away from me

Will I see her again?

Silence

8.07am

Jenni’s parents exit the lift. They’ve missed her by 8 minutes! I feel their pain. They couldn’t see their little girl before she left. The nurse that took us down appears from the door and offers to pass on a message. At least Jenni will know we are here.

8:25am

So what do we do now? We have up to 12 hours to wait around. Relocating to the local café we start arranging things. I have a list of appointments to rebook for Jenni, people to notify, friends and family to keep apprised. Jenni wanted me to get in touch with people when and only when she was under the knife.

Rob, Sarah and I all need to arrange accommodation for the next week or so. 

Now at this point I am on fire! The adrenaline is surging and I am Mr Reactive! Ticking off the tasks, making the calls, making sure everyone knows what is going on. When I run out of things to do, I’ve got hours to kill before Jenni is (potentially) out. With Rob and Sarah going out to look at some shops and accommodation, I decide going to work (in the London office) is a good idea.

I actually get a couple of hours of work done, no-one knows what I’m doing there. I don’t mention Jenni. I don’t know why. I guess I wouldn’t know what to say but really I think it’s because if people start getting concerned around me and hugging me I might lose it. I can’t, not yet.

I go to a meeting in the city (rearranged) then head back to the hospital. By now it’s approaching 7pm and we are told we can go in very soon.

Jenni came around and we were allowed in to ICU at 7.30pm. I won’t lie, it was like being on board a spaceship; all futuristic and cool. We scrub up to see our girl.

Cables, tubes, beeps, blips and the hissing of oxygen. People could be terrified by the sight of all that… technology. But all I can focus on is Jenni. She is awake, she is calm, she is beautiful.

She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen