It was shortly after midnight...
After being diagnosed with liver disease during the mid 90’s, and after being exposed to “who knows what” at ground zero between September 11, 2001 and January 25, 2002, I retired my “public servant hat” and moved to Pennsylvania in pursuit of stability and a quieter way of life. My Wrangler packed to the hilt, motorcycle in tow, I arrived in Montgomery County, crowded my girlfriend’s apartment with albums, CD’s, motorcycle gear, golf clubs (you get the picture) and began what would become a daily explanation of my Bronx accent to the locals. I ran a few times a week and worked out a bit here and there, while I waited for some local company to appreciate my talents and charm, and hire me. No sooner I donned a flannel shirt and “duckies” (my idea of blending), I realized that I was in for a rough ride health wise; my liver was failing.
Test after test revealed the obvious; that I had developed Cirrhosis, but failed to pinpoint how far it had advanced. I slowly acquired a nice shade of green on my skin (most thought it was my carribean/southern european genes manisfesting themselves) and a lemony tint in my eyes, which I concealed succesfully with my glasses or so I thought...
Well after being poked and probed by every hospital staff member (I think the custodian donned a white coat too...) and loosing a few gallons of blood to the lab, I was placed on the liver transplant list at Albert Einstein Medical Center in Philly, May of 2004. I’ll spare you most of the “ugly” details of how my condition deteriorated; physically, mentally, emotionally. Let it suffice to say that I was no
longer able to heat a meal without risking a 3 alarm fire. I could no longer balance my checkbook (not that I could to begin with). I could no longer drive anywhere. A few bouts with encephalopathy complicated things further, for it took me into a deeper “fog”. My thought process was suffering to the point that what came out of my mouth did not match what was flowing in my brain. It was shortly after midnight, November 11 of 2004... when the phone rang. “Who the @#$% could be calling at this time of the night?” “. My girlfriend picks up the phone, looks at me with this “deer caught in headlights” look and hands me the phone. “It’s Einstein!”. Needless to say I couldn’t answer any of the questions
the transplant coordinator asked and I handed the phone back to the Mrs.. I fumbled through a quick shower, whipped out the razor when she chuckled and said, “You are going in for surgery, not on a date!”
The drive to Einstein took about an hour and as a good “recovering catholic”, rosary in hand, I said my “Oh God Oh S**t” prayer all the way there. As we walked into the hospital, on our way to “Tower 8”, I visualized a reception committee of people in white coats, masks and scalpels. Instead, a team of very sweet nurses and techs, dressed in this new age hospital garb adorned with happy little puppies, butterflies and flowers, all smiling and showing us the way to a room. Being a cynic at heart, I’m thinking they will be the ones that cause the most pain. Vial upon vial of blood was extracted from my achy body. IV’s were hooked up, all with the gentleness of “Vlad the Impaler”. In the meantime we wondered what came next; a phone call and a visit to the hospital does not necessarily mean one will get a transplant. The new organ must be viable, the patient must not have any type of infection whatsoever and must be in a condition to withstand this type of surgery. I had heard of patients that had been summoned for surgery 1, 2, 3 times before actually being operated on.
A little after 2 AM, a nurse comes in the room and with that erie smile, says,”Good news, all looks good and it’s a go! Let’s get you ready!”. Ready? Poked and probed beyond belief, and sporting the medical establishment’s idea of comfortable/easy access attire, again I wondered what came next. Meanwhile the Mrs. inspected every bag of fluids, every syringe and every blunt instrument that came within 25 feet of me. Considering I didn’t want to loose any “digits” nor any other appendages, I was glad she did! My ride to the operating prep area was uneventful, other than the gurney’s steering issue which reminded me of trying to find a decent cart in the supermarket. In there I see a few folks who are also waiting for some form of slicing and dicing. Next to me is a man with a hernia, and beyond him was another man with a busted wing. I told the Mrs. that I must be 3rd in line. Duh! She chuckled once more and told me, “No, you putz! You are going in as soon as the surgical team is ready for you!”. At around 6 AM, the green scrubs came for me; one of them being the anesthesiologist. He smiles and tells me his name, which I forgot immediately. I asked him to give the Mrs. something... anything, and put it on my tab. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back!”, I told her and started the count. 100... 99... 98....
13 1/2 hours later, an “octopus-man” version of myself was wheeled out of the O.R.; hoses, wires, IV’s, monitors, all attached to my mouth, nose, neck and abdomen.. I woke up from the chemically induced coma the next day, although it seemed like a week later. For a while I had a serious issue with the whole “time” concept. Anyway... I open my eyes and there, was my son and the Mrs., with a mixture of relief and worry on their faces, both speaking in “tongues” for the most part. I don’t remember when or how it came up, but I did ask about my donor; what did they know about him or her. He was an 18 year old young man. My heart dropped. As I looked at my son, I thought of a family somewhere grieving the loss of their kid. The post-surgery reports came back, concluding that the surgery was technically a success, that I did well and the transplant was just in time, for I had but a few weeks to live and would not have made it to the new year. Meanwhile a young man was being buried somewhere in the Delaware Valley...
Lou gets a transplant
Monday, May 30, 2005
