Sandi Parsons, Proud Book Nerd

On Monday 30th July, at Warwick Senior High School the Donate Life, Writing for Life 2018 competition was launched.
High school students around the state have been invited to “step into the minds” of someone affected by organ donation.

As a participating judge, and lung recipient, I asked to be part of the launch.

The full text of my speech follows:

Where did storytelling start? Historians have many theories, but most agree that storytelling has been part of human culture longer than the written word. Today, stories are an intrinsic part of human life. Books, movies, TV, music, how our news is reported, religion and of course our art, because the phrase a picture paints a thousand words is not meaningless. Stories are everywhere.

So why do stories play such an important part of society and culture today?

We use stories to understand and make sense of our world. Stories pass on wisdom to the next generation, they share and impart values, they teach us and allow us to walk in another’s footsteps. Stories do this more effectively than facts, because they engage our emotions as well as entertaining us.

Storytelling has a natural ebb and flow. The stories we read are akin to breathing in, and the stories we write are exhaled. As a writer, you need to step inside someone else’s shoes and examine their truths to find your story.

What better truth to explore via storytelling than organ donation? The United Network for Organ Sharing say that,

“Without the organ donor, there is no story, no hope, no transplant. But when there is an organ donor life springs from death, sorrow turns to hope and a terrible loss becomes a gift.”

To me, organ donation is a family, who on a dark day and in the midst of their own grief, say yes and consent to saving the lives of others. It is medical teams who work together to pull off miracles, to give someone without hope the opportunity to have a future. All to save the life of a stranger.

I say this to you, with borrowed breath, from borrowed lungs because seven years ago it was my life that was saved.

Seven years ago, I had three weeks left to live. I was in respiratory failure, my body succumbing to the war it had fought against Cystic Fibrosis. I was housebound, on oxygen, and I was dying. Despite this, I clung to life by my fingernails because I had hope. Hope that a family would say yes. Hope that this was not where my story was going to end.

To both the family that said yes and to the medical personnel that worked in the surgical theatre, I was a stranger. They didn’t know that I wanted to see my fifteen-year-old son grow up, that I wanted to hold a printed copy of my first book in my hands. They didn’t know that I hadn’t yet been to London, or Rome or that I wanted to see Loch Ness. They didn’t know that I had more books left to write, or that I hadn’t yet married the love of my life. But still, they saved my life.

Organ donation showcases the best of humanity, it is a gift that should be celebrated, and I can’t think of a better way to do so than in a story.

For the second year, I am honoured to be a judge for this important writing competition, to those of you who plan to enter, my advice is that the best storytelling touches the emotional heart of the subject. I wish you all good luck on your writing journeys and look forward to reading your entries.

You can find out more about the program on Donate Life’s website.

May is Cystic Fibrosis awareness month, and this year I’m doing 31 Days of on Facebook and Instagram. Please feel free to follow me.

May 26th – May 31st

31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis. May 26
Survival is a team effort

My decision to stay at home did not mean I was the sole person responsible for my health. I was surrounded by a team of people that were working together to keep me alive.

On a practical level, Mum was chauffeuring me to multiple appointments each week. Grant was preparing food, in charge of the hygiene requirements to keep my various medical equipment sterile, and in the last few weeks he took on the task of sorting out my IV medications and pre-preparing them for me. (All the while, both of them still had to attend their day jobs.)Dale, my homecare worker from Cystic Fibrosis WA, came twice a week to take care of light housework and assist with physio treatments. John, my homecare nurse from CFWA, came once a week to change the dressing on my port.Physio staff from both hospitals compiled exercise and muscle strengthening programs for me – which I refer to as “pilates in bed”. In addition, Jamie did my lung function at clinic until it dropped that low that measurement pointless. (My last official measurement indicated that only 10% of my lungs were working.) Also at clinic, Paul the dietician kept an eye on my calorie intake and weight loss while Dr Joey kept an eye on my blood sugar levels.

Sue, or Aunty Sue as she is affectionately known, our Clinical Nurse Specialist, looked after my various scripts (including getting them filled) along with arranging my weekly tub of supplies full of syringes, saline, alcohol wipes etc and had them ready so that each Monday Mum could exchange an empty tub for a fresh one. Sue would also take blood from my port, and collect sputum samples to save me the walk to Path West. (Sue is an incredible woman and has an uncanny ability to read her patients. The less attention she pays to you the better, when she starts doing all of your fetching and carrying you know things are getting serious!)Uncle Gerry saw me in clinic once a week and would then liaise with Dr Mike to keep Royal Perth updated with my status (important for your ranking on the transplant list.)Behind the scenes were people I never saw. The pharmacist checking my various medications to make sure there were no contradictions, pathology staff checking all my various samples and various researchers over the world who developed new medications and technologies that had gotten me to this point (the new improved enzymes, ciprofloxacin, azithromycin and Pulmozyme).

Bonus Fact: During this time, I had one job. All I had to do was keep breathing. It may seem easy, but the effort required to lounge around in bed all day and continue to breathe was causing me to lose ½ kg a week despite my calorie intake being three times the daily recommendation. I was clinging to life by my fingernails.

31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis. May 27
Friday, May 27th 2011 – Transplant

Grant had gone to work, and I was reading in bed, Monkey tucked in my armpit. Our house phone rang. It rarely rings, most people knew to call my mobile. Normally I wouldn’t have worried, but I had a feeling this phone call was important.

By the time I’d unhooked my Bi-Pap, hooked up my oxygen and made my way to the phone it stopped ringing. I shuffled back to bed and sat for a moment staring at my mobile. As I weighed up the effort it would take to unhook my Bi-Pap versus waiting a few more moments to see if my phone would ring, it did.

Lungs had been offered. Lungs that had been matched to me.

When Grant and I got to the hospital, there was a sobering truth to face. In ‘normal’ circumstances, I would be prepared for surgery while under general anaesthetic, then ventilated while the surgeon checked the lungs to confirm he was happy for the surgery to proceed. Dr Mike told me my lung function was at the point that if I were to be ventilated, and the donated lungs did not pass the surgeon’s inspection, I would need to live in ICU while I waited for another offer. The compromise was I would go through and have all the various lines installed and primed, and would only be ventilated if the surgery was to proceed.

It is said that your life flashes through your mind as you’re about to die. When you’re primed for surgery and waiting on your lonesome, your life doesn’t just flash, you have time for reflection. I’d had a good life. I knew I was rolling the dice for a chance to have a future, knowing that I might not be strong enough to survive the surgery. I also knew that these lungs were my only hope.

Bonus Fact: On the 27th May 2011, it was 65 Roses Day, and my Aunty Mary had been planning to take me to have lunch with my Gran. I sent her a text declining her invitation due to having a “better offer”.

Extra Bonus Fact: I wanted to have a Facebook status of “Hi Ho, Hi Ho – it’s off for lungs I go..” posted after the phone call to confirm the surgery was going ahead. “He Who Was in Charge of the Communication Device” vetoed it.

Extra Extra Bonus Fact: My expert updo (pictured below) was skillfully arranged by my ICU nurse who used a rubber glove because we had no hair lacky available.

Extra Extra Extra Bonus Fact: Dr Mike had I had a conversation about what to expect in the ICU, and he asked if there was anything in particular I was worried about.
“Yes,” I said, “I’m going to need that ventilator tube out ASAP.”
“Why the tube phobia?” he asked.
“No phobia, but I think it’d be easier to complain without it.”
He didn’t look amused.

31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis. May 28
Monkey

At home, Monkey was slowly deteriorating. Grant asked my team when I would be allowed to see her, as he was worried she wouldn’t make it to see me come home. The clearance, he was told, would be given when I had all tubes and drains removed to minimise the infection risk. It was a goal to work towards.

8 days after my transplant, I had my final chest drain removed and on the 9th day I was cleared to leave my room. On the 10th day, Grant took me down to the carpark in a wheelchair where Monkey was waiting.

My beautiful girl, who had stuck with me through thick and thin, who over the years had spent many nights in the bathroom sitting next to me when my enzymes hadn’t worked quite how they should, who had stayed up late to sit with me while I injected my last dose of IVs’ for the evening, and who had been my constant companion ‘looking after’ me while I’d been waiting for the call that would change my life, was now too weak to jump out of the car yet at the same time was practically jumping out of her skin with pleasure to see me.

So, I gingerly climbed in the back seat and sat with her. My Monkey, who had never ever liked anybody to breathe near her, sat thumping her tail and sniffing my breath. Because my breath was carrying a message, it told her I was no longer dying, and because of this, she knew that she didn’t have to hang on to look after me any longer.

Bonus Fact: My oxygen cord had a limit of 20 metres. In the beginning, I could walk a little faster than Monkey could, so she’d sit on my oxygen cord to make me wait for her. Towards the end, as she was sleeping more and more, she started sleeping with my oxygen cord wrapped around her paws, so she could wake up if I moved.

31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis. May 29
Life Post Transplant

On the 9th day post-transplant, I had my first shower standing up in seven months. Afterwards, I remember looking at my battered body in the mirror. I was covered in scars, dressings and bruises and all I could think about was how great life was. Because I could breathe.
I was filled with a simplistic pleasure in knowing the enjoyment of something that most people take for granted. I could breathe, walk, and talk, all at the same time again.

These lungs are magnificent. They do what lungs are supposed to do, and they do it naturally and without effort.

That’s not to say that my recovery wasn’t without effort. I put in hours at the gym, followed by hours of walking. On the 3 month anniversary of my transplant, I walked 4kms in the City to Surf. It took me 56 minutes, which may not seem like much, but before my transplant, I couldn’t walk the full 20 metres on my oxygen cord without stopping.

Full recovery including adjusting to life post-transplant and the various side-effects of my new medications took 12 months. But every second of that recovery was worth it because even now there is still so much joy in simply breathing.

Bonus Fact: I have done so much in the last seven years, I’ve travelled, received industry awards for my library work, published two books and seen Jarryn turn 21. All of this possible because a family said yes to organ donation.

31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis. May 30
A Transplant is a Trade Not a Cure

On the surface, it looks like my transplant provided a cure, but that’s not the case. I will always be a person who has chronic health issues; I traded one set of health problems for another, the bonus being I am still breathing, still alive and ready to continue the fight.

My first complication had minor symptoms, my left hip ached, something that is seemingly innocuous. Investigations revealed I had avascular necrosis in my hip. Essentially the medication keeping me alive was also strangulating the small vessel that supplies blood to the head of my femur, causing that bone to start cracking. My team managed to stabilise the problem, but eventually, I will need a hip replacement.

Towards the end of 2013, I was displaying all the symptoms of post-transplant lymphoma – all my lymph nodes on the left side of my body had enlarged. However, it turned out I had a funky fungi instead, one that has a reputation not only for mimicking lymphoma but also for being fatal. It saw me embark on two years of antifungals — a treatment that caused massive damage to my skin and both precancerous and cancerous growths develop on my face, chest, arms and hands.

Bonus Fact: As far as my team are aware, I am the first person in Australia to contract this fungi after a lung transplant. There is no data on surviving this fungi on a long-term basis. Because of this, they don’t know if my funky fungi has been eradicated or if it’s dormant and may resurface again. The guys in the white lab coats were all very excited to have an opportunity to study something they had never seen before and nerded out over the results of my bloodwork, establishing that I contracted the airborne version of the funky fungi, and it then migrated to my blood, and not the other way around.

Extra Bonus Fact: Post-transplant lymphoma is caused by the very medications that keep transplant patients alive. Everything is a trade, always.

31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis. May 31
The Future

I hope that by sharing my story, I’ve raised a little awareness about what it’s like to live with Cystic Fibrosis. Now’s the part where I ask for a little help.

Recently, the first medication to treat the cause of CF was developed. It was unique in that every prior medical advancement had only treated the symptoms of CF. Getting Kalydeco on the PBS was a mammoth effort, but Kalydeco only treated a specific mutation of the CF gene. Orkambi is the latest medication. It treats the most common mutation of CF, identified as Delta-F508. It’s my mutation. I have a double Delta-F508 mutation.

As a person with Cystic Fibrosis who is post-transplant, Orkambi can’t help me – but there ARE people it can help, if only it were listed on the PBS. I can’t imagine how heartbreaking it must be to know that there is a treatment that doesn’t merely improve the quality of life but extends it, and not being able to access it.

To help those who can be helped by Orkambi, please consider adding your name and comments to the Pharmaceutical Benefits Advisory Committee
You’ll find Orkambi listed under LUMACAFTOR

http://www.health.gov.au/…/Cont…/PBAC_online_submission_form

Cystic Fibrosis Western Australia has played an important part in my life. As the end of the financial year looms closer, if you haven’t chosen a charity to donate to, I hope you’ll consider CFWA – they’re doing important work. Their mission is “Lives Unaffected by CF” Without their help, my life would have been significantly harder.

https://donate.cfwa.org.au/

And finally, if you’ve never had a chat about organ donation, talk to your family today. Let them know your wishes. Knowing their loved one’s wishes plays a huge part in families consenting to organ donation. It’s a hard conversation to have, but having that chat can save lives. It saved mine.

Bonus Fact: I have been extremely fortunate to arrive at May 31st 2018, aged 45, with the opportunity for more great years ahead. Many children born with CF are not so fortunate as the average life expectancy remains at 38 years.

Thank you to all the wonderful people who have helped me on my journey and without whom I would not be here to share this story. Thanks also to all of you who have taken the time to read my daily posts and share my trip down memory lane.

Finally, and most importantly, to my donor family, as always my eternal thanks and love for saying yes to organ donation in your time of loss.

XXX
Sandi

Missed the start of this?

Part 1 starts here

Sandi Parsons, Proud Book Nerd

Book Week 2018

Donate Life, Writing for Life 2018

31 Days of Cystic Fibrosis: Part 6 May 26th – 31st

May 26th – May 31st