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.
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