Let the Games Begin....

And so we enter a period of global peace and harmony as nations lay down arms and compete in the Games of the XXX Modern Olympiad, emulating the tradition of sporting camaraderie held in Ancient Greece.

Then, naked athletes would compete for the glory of their city state and in honour of Zeus, king of the gods. Men from all over the Greek states would travel to Mount Olympus, home of the deities to enjoy the sporting and religious tributes. Deities that held the destiny of man in their hands, as well as a small gold chocolate confection.

This week, whilst the capital of a former empire gets ready to host the modern Olympic Games, I embarked on a game of my own......


I set off from the starting block to race to the temple of Labtests to have my Tacrolimus levels checked before starting work. The race was on to beat the ancients who, despite having the luxury of eternity to visit, all turn up at 7am when the lab opens!

Tacrolimius  of course being my chief anti-rejection drug,not a learned Greek philosopher

I arrived at Labtests before long. The early morning fog rising and falling gave the landscape a barren and grey look. I hesitantly approached the entrance to the temple, armed with my Iphone and labtest blood requestforms.

I crept into the dark chamber, wary in case of otheroccupants…

And there they were, three drab crones huddled around thereception desk.

"The eyetest, the eyetest, give us the  eyetest", one hissed.

 I skirted past them and approached the dias, where a dreadful creature stood silently, hair writhing, her eyes searching in the gloom. I avoided her gaze and proffered my pathology form as a shield to deflect her obvious hostility. On her desk I stole a glance and espied her lunch; cheese sandwiches. Of course they were gorgonzola. Next to the sandwiches lay a small bottle of pills. Aha! She was a med user.

And then I was in the temple itself, with its medical paraphernalia.I noticed for the first time the computer terminal on the desk……it was an Oracle.

She consulted the Oracle, as I inhaled the vapours from her packed lunch: the cheese sandwiches of course being filled with Phila Delphi a……

Any way, time to cast a veil over these procedings……….

Glad to report that my Tacrolimus levels were fine, which is just as well as I don’t adjust well to dosage changes, in fact I am quite Zeusless at it.

La, la, la, la, la Look In!

Every week in the 1970's and 80's, hordes of British kids would descend upon newsagents and the local corner shop to grab this iconic junior pop and TV magazine. Quickly flipping through the pages we enriched ourselves with the latest TV news and pop stories. We feasted on a seemingly never ending diet of Smurfs, Abba, and Worzel Gummidge. Some weeks we even got free stickers.. Oh the very thrill of it.

But lets Look in to my recent Saturday with....La La, la, la, la, la    Labtests!

Every fortnight I now go to the local blood collection centre where efficient drones harvest my lifeforce  for onward collection and delivery to their central clinic. Armies of phlebotomists test and upload the results online for the requesting doctors, GPs, and consultants Auckland wide ,so that diagnoses are made and amended.

Therefore on Saturday I found myself at our local Labtests, as per the new requirements from the renal team. If you care to remember my regular bloods have been outsourced, now that I go to the renal clinic monthly.

I was ushered through to the treatment rooms, where I sat almost Beckett-like, waiting for Blood oh. 

A lady appeared and after a quick fumble and a short jab my bloods had been purloined. She peered at the specimen, like Dexter examining his handiwork.

This was far different from what I was used to at the hospital, I mused, contemplating the fun I would have with this scenario blogwise.

And then matters took a strange and unexpected turn....

Just then she spoke and asked me how was it long since my transplant (she could tell from the lab request form) and whether I knew the donor? Hmmm thats odd, thought I.

I replied in the negative, and then she just suddenly opened up and told me her sad but related story,

As it turned out she had lost her teenage son 5 years ago. He died suddenly in his sleep and his death wasn't discovered until late the next morning. He had consented to be a donor, and the family were all aware of this, but due to the time elapsed between the his death and discovery, the organs were not suitable for transplantation.

I sympathised, and felt quite uncomfortable at this point, not sure what she was about to say, My Britishness thrusting itself forward itself like a forcefield against emotion.

She asked whether I had written a letter of gratitude to the donor family, to which I affirmed that I had, but only after a year because of my fear of intruding into their grief. At this she wistfully told me that she would have been so very happy to have received such a letter if her son's organs had been transplanted. The knowledge that even a small part of her sons body could be  providing an enhanced quality of life, or even life itself, would have made her so proud and helped her at the time. 

As it was, unfortunately she wasn't given that opportunity. At this point, even my sense of reserve had been cast down and had collapsed, leaving lumps in my throat and tears welling.

Life can change in a heartbeat.

Like this blog which was looking at the written exploits of Worzel Gummidge, Chris Tarrant and the Phantom Flan Flinger, but instead evolved to recount the sad tale of a would be donor.

Like turning the pages of a magazine, suddenly everything can change.

Once upon a time...

In a land far far away, there lived a mischievous little pixie called Andrew.

Andrew loved to spend all day making people laugh, and eating lots of food, even though he was not really supposed to!

He lived by the seaside in an old tumble down cottage which had lovely views out to the harbour.

It was old and ugly and needed lots of work doing to it, but Andrew was happy there.

One day the  little pixie was playing in his garden when he met a wicked witch. She booed and hissed and cursed the poor little pixie on the spot.

As time went by he got sicker and sicker and found that he could not carry on living in the old drafty house anymore. So he put the little cottage up for sale with the help of the lovely fairies at Old Mother Harcourts.

With a big flash bang wallop, and following an extensive marketing campaign with lots of open homes, advertorials in the NZ Herald and the North Shore Times, the cottage was sold!
Pixie Andrew then moved to a lovely new shiny castle near the sea. Here he was able to concentrate on getting better whilst he was still cursed by the wicked witch. He liked his castle very much. It was big and new and had a very pretty view. It had lots of rooms and was next to a pretty wood, where he could talk with the birds and animals.

He went to see the good wizard who arranged for some medicine for him . Eventually the little pixie felt much better and soon decided that the castle was too big and too shiny for him.
Boo hoo cried Andrew, for he really missed his water views. It was time to move to a different wood, where he could practise renovating and decorating, and making a new nest.

So he spoke to Mr Barfoot and Mr Thompson who agreed to help him move to his new house with a river view, development potential and realistic capital gain.
And so they too began a strategic marketing campaign with plenty of open homes and internet advertising:

http://www.barfoot.co.nz/479082
Andrew was very happy and excited, soon he would be living in a new home.
Then the good witch Glenda appeared and said "There's no place like home! A home is not just bricks and wood, but happy memories and a loving supporting family, no matter where you live. And can I have my ruby slippers back?"
She then disappeared with a poof! , and Andrew and all his friends lived happily ever after.

THE END

So Strange...

Steve Strange actually, lead singer and fashion personae of the New Wave 80's band Visage. Exponents of the New Romantic craze that morphed together androgynous style, moody electronic music, and flamboyant excess.
When not running his Blitz nightclub in London's West End, he could be espied in David Bowie's Ashes to Ashes video

But enough of fops and fashionistas. My visage these days is adorned by glasses. Over 40 years of diabetes has affected my eyesight, leaving me with optical adornments from Specsavers.
Quite dependant on them for reading and computer work, they have become an essential part of my daily life.
So imagine my disgruntlement when I tripped over Jinsy the boisterous kitten, completely shattering the aforementioned spectacles. Almost blind I considered using sticky tape to repair them, but this was a crime against Fashion.

Rather grumpily I arranged instead for a replacement pair to be ordered from the local optician, who asked me to come in for an eye test.
Unaware that my visual organs had been revising for an exam, I duly went anyway.

Now, in the after transplant care manual, it does advise that whilst taking prednisone, the steroid, it is wise to avoid changing glasses, or having eye tests, due to strong distortional effects that the drug can have on eyesight.
That would be a big oops then. Still needs must when kittens cause optic disasters.

Expecting to hear that my eyes were wildly distorting I feared the outcome, let alone the expense of having an incorrect pair made up. I laboriously described my medications, to which the optometrist raised her slightly bushy eyebrows, which hovered like circus trained caterpillars upon her visage.


Her dire predictions however proved to be baseless. My eyesight was exactly the same as the last prescription.

Further proof that my medicines have appeared to have stabilised after a year.

With my new glasses my fizzog now portrays a more retro style, but not quite as extreme as the Blitz days.

Oh and kitten may be fitted for his own glasses.so to avoid collisions in the future.

The Hobbit, or there and back again.

Less of a small hairyfooted character from the mind of JRR Tolkien but a fiendish method of attracting your attention...
On Thursday last, I set off as usual for my fortnightly renal checkup. Much like Bilbo Baggins in search of  Smaug's treasure, only less golden and more medical,(and with perhaps less dwarves).
I sped along many furlongs, passing though the bush on the Whangaparaoa road, Mirkwood-like in its' sinister impenetrability (thanks to Rodney District Council's Bush Management Plan), I espied a couple of spiders bound to my wipers by their webs. I defested them with a quick wash. Along the way I encountered several other cars and their occupants...
There were two trolls in a Silver Mondeo, a host of dwarves in a Toyota MPV, and of course Beorn in his Saab. The road progressed ever onwards, and I entered the misty mountainous terrain of Dairy Flat (are you sure? Ed) where fog was proving problematic for many travellers.

Traffic ground to a crawl, and as I hit the motorway queue at Tristram Road, it snaked along like a dragon's tail...
My phone rang, Ring Ring, it was my precious renal nurse, Janene, checking on my progress. 
I was a tad late because of the traffic and she couldn't yet see me in reception, in fact I was invisible to her eyes.
Eventually I arrived at the clinic, next to the Lake (Pupuke actually, and that does indeed fit most excellently).
I slowly crept along the passageway, invisible to the receptionist (because there was a wall in the way, of course), and entered the lair of the phlebotomist. The blood test went predictably, with much blood letting,  such was the ferocity of the old dragon, she was Smaug like in her pains to draw blood, full of hiss and venom.


I withdrew to the safety of the clinic waiting area, and was soon hailed by my precious, Janene nurse of this kingdom. She ushered me in....

The lair of the renal physician sparkled with many a silver utensil, the jewel encrusted blood pressure monitor adjacent to my left. Whilst draped around his neck dangled a valuable stethoscope with its worm like grip on his neck.
It remembered my mission to carefully pilfer a valuable token, a prescription of expensive renal medications, and not to get distracted by the worm.


We bantered courteously and I could feel the eye the Doctor searching for me as he spoke. He played a game of riddles, motioning slowly with his great hands as he rasped:
"When was your operation?"
Mmm a tricky one, My mind whirled as I tried to anticipate the correct answer....
"July last year" Oh great Dr Smaug.
"Indeed it is, which of course means for you...?
Yikes, I gave a little start, imagining myself to be burnt asunder, or at least given a particularly unpleasant medicine as a response.
"Since it has been a year since the transplant, you now only have to attend clinic on a monthly basis, with fortnightly blood tests at your local convenient Labtests. Great Eh?


Yes, I looked forward to soon fingering the orange ring of Labtests...

Indeed I was heartily pleased with myself and as a reward quickly grasped his proffered prescription and ran for the entrance....


After a swift journey, I was back in my homely hobbit hole, with just a few minor incursions from orcs, goblins and a pair of viscious wargs, in time for lunch.

I reflected on my journey, there and back again indeed. I had become so used to attending fortnightly, it had become a bit of a habit. 

It would make an interesting tale, though no one surely believe it, as I dont possess the skill of Johnathan Ronald Ruel.

Perhaps instead I should persuade Sir Peter Jackson to make a film of my exploits......

Thank you.

Dear Donor Family,

This time of year marks two anniversaries, which although distinctly polar in aspect are joined by a common thread. On 1 side there is your family, remembering the first year following your loved one’s passing.  On the other is my family, marking the first anniversary of my transplant.

I cannot imagine your grief, your sense of loss and the void that opened up following the events of last year.

In the midst of this turmoil and emotion you bravely took the decision to allow your loved one’s organs to be donated, thus bringing hope, life and transformation to so many other families.

I was fortunate to receive both a kidney and a pancreas from your loved one, 

and I just wanted to write and say thank you.

I had been a diabetic for thirty nine years, with a daily routine of injections, medicines, dieting and the ever constant threat of diabetic hypos and attacks. Diabetes also slowly affects circulation,  the nervous system, eyesight, immune system and major organs. In 2005 I was diagnosed with End Stage Renal Failure, with my kidneys failing. When my kidney function reached 8% of normal output, I was put onto dialysis for the next three years. This involved hospital visits three time a week, each lasting four hours, as the dialysis machine filtered my blood, taking over from the diseased kidneys.

Dialysis is a very exhausting process with numerous dangerous side effects, and severely impacts on life expectancy, quality of life and mental wellbeing. I was always unwell, tired and generally felt a burden on my family and friends.

Suddenly all this changed last year when I received the call that was to change my life.

I was very lucky to be given back the quality of life I had previously enjoyed, all thanks to your brave and generous decision to allow your loved one’s organs to be donated.

I can’t express mine and family’s continued joy and appreciation at your sense of generosity, and want you know that the operation was successful, and I continue to benefit from it on a daily basis.

With heartfelt thanks and respect to you and your loved one.

A transplant recipient.

Last of the summer whine.

Blissfully unconscious during the whole operation and most of the post op slumber,  I was told later that the double organ transplant surgery lasted a whopping 8 hours! All went well, and according to my surgeon, my new mate Bill, as soon as the new kidney was connected to the blood supply, it became engorged and red, a very positive sign. The pancreas, being a small little wormlike object, was more difficult to attach, but it too was entombed within my interior.
I remember little about the post op recovery, except for the bright lights, banks of monitors, tubes being inserted into my throat, a legion of doctors who swept in and out periodically, and the socks!
My legs were swathed in thick vein supporting compression stockings, to minimise the very real threat of Deep vein thrombosis. This potential killer is 8 times more likely to affect post surgery due to potential damage to the blood vessels during the op, and the complete lack of movement in bedridden patients.

Attractive hosiery.(Not, I repeat not my legs in picture!) They are like wearing a nest of visciously struggling wasps. Thoroughly frustrating, but concentrated the mind away from the pain of the wound.
I remember being so focussed on the irritating thigh high socks, and becoming quite irked. As if the staff had forced me to wear something so oppressive on purpose for their amusement!
Luckily I drifted in and out of sleep for the next day, and due to copious amounts of self administered morphine shots, avoided much of the searing pain I had been expecting. 
Though I still had plenty of discomfort to whine about!
Not least my gorgeous appearance, and yes, that is really me

Smooth Operator...

Sade's 1984 single encapsulates Sunday 4th July 2011 for me really...

I remember being prepped in the pre op suite, where I was introduced to a plethora of doctors, nurses, and my surgeon, Bill. He appeared delighted to meet me, and we shook hands from under the blanket, like you do.

After meeting the anaesthetist  (my second favourite person of the day, after the surgeon) and many other dignitaries involved in the pre care, post care and actual operation, I was getting a bit tired. Like a child at Christmas anxiously waiting to open his presents but first having to go to church before the excitement could begin)

And suddenly we were off! I was wheeled down the corridor to operating room 2, which was a large bright clinical room (and so it should be of course), with a marvellous vista overlooking Auckland through the floor to ceiling windows. 

How marvellous! A room with a view; not that I would be in a position to gawp down from the seventh floor.

I shuffled myself onto the operating table, my gown spilling open exposing myself to the world. Modesty seemed somewhat pointless at this stage in the proceedings.

As Bill the surgeon joined us, Mr Anaesthetic started his magic, clamping a nebuliser to my mouth and nose. I was asked to count down from 10.

I remember the radio was on in the background, with Dire Straits on the air, hopefully not a portent of the future. Curiously they asked if this station was OK for me, perhaps I should have asked for Sade. 

No need to ask
He's a smooth operator......10.....9.....8...............zzzzzzzzz