Image by Vlad Vasnetsov from Pixabay
It’s not the scariest consent form I’ve ever signed.
There are no guarantees about the effectiveness of this treatment.
There are no guarantees of the safety of this treatment.
There is a possibility of medication interactions (known and unknown).
There is a possibility of side effects (known and unknown).
Those ‘known side effects’ ranged from headache and fatigue to blood clots and cardiomyopathy.
Despite being a brand spanking new medication that’s ‘provisionally approved’ for use in Australia the benefits outweigh the risks.
A fire breathing Gene Simmons
My immune system used to dress like Gene Simmons in full KISS demon garb. He’d strut about on border security as the guitar thrummed to War Machine. A warrior fighting for my life. Determined never to let go.
Determined to win.
My immune system would take any help on offer and breathe fire at the invading nasties.
He kept up the good fight when I was coughing up blood. And on the days when I was too weak to fight, he clung tightly by his fingernails to keep me alive.
But that all changed when I had my transplant.
Cyndi Lauper, rainbows and unicorns
My transplant came with chill pills designed especially for my immune system. They calm her down so she doesn’t notice these foreign lungs and send in an invasion horde to attack them.
To keep the peace, she dutifully swallows a toxic cocktail each morning. An act that initially stripped her of her battle gear. Now it keeps her on a permanent vacation.
No longer a warrior on duty she floats in the sunshine. An endless holiday astride a unicorn pool floaty with rainbow coloured hair. And she’s always weirdly fascinated by the drink in her hand. Especially the little umbrella. It’s pink and twirly.
The tune in the background is Cyndi Lauper’s True Colors. My immune system is friendly to everyone and anyone. Everyone is beautiful and perfect. Everything is sunshine, rainbows, and happiness.
My immune system doesn’t have a care in the world.
Enter the vaccine soldier, stage right
Then the COVID vaccine marched on in, a soldier on the front line. The drums of War Machine provided the beat he marched to. He saluted and waved a critical piece of code. Directions to win the war, make antibodies and stop the COVID nasty in its tracks.
War was coming. It was time to prepare.
Nothing outside her little bubble of happiness fazed my immune system. That included the vaccine soldier. The pounding drums of War Machine didn't reach her ears. Instead, the music wafted, muffled by the chill bubble that surrounded her. Everything seen and heard in slow motion. Slow and garbled like a 45 record playing at 33.
My immune system wondered vaguely if she should show an interest. Instead, she decided it was too lovely a day to be bothered by nonsense. So she raised her glass and drank. Then watched the vaccine soldier with his all-too-important code wash out to sea.
No one ruined the surprise party
My immune system’s behaviour didn’t surprise the medical profession. This was precisely why they designed the chill pills with their toxic chemicals. To ignore threats and safeguard my transplanted lungs. But it didn’t change the fact that COVID was coming.
COVID marched to the beat of its own drum.
Spreading.
Mutating.
Relentlessly moving forward.
Still, my immune system sat on her unicorn. Calm and serene.
Enter the Evusheld guard, stage left
Feverishly the medical professionals and researchers worked. If my immune system refused to make antibodies, they’d have to manufacture some for her.
Miniature little guards choc-full of antibodies to stand watch on the perimeter. On guard, at attention and ready to protect my body and fight COVID.
Meanwhile, my lungs remain safe from attack from my immune system. Because she’s still on holiday, basking in the sunshine without a care in the world. Twirling her pink umbrella.
The new normal is here, ready or not
In the quest to get back to normal, to carry on and live with COVID, the most vulnerable were almost left behind. With a compromised immune system, COVID vaccines can’t save you.
But science can still come to the rescue.
I read the information provided by my medical team. I looked at Australia, US and UK data. I studied the (scarily) small numbers in the control groups when Evusheld was tested. Then I jumped on board with a (relatively) unknown and untested medication.
I’m carving out a smidgeon of that normality for myself. I’ve made it this far because of science and research.
And as for the scariest consent form I ever signed? That was for my transplant. But dear reader, I’ll be honest. I didn’t read the fine print. I knew there was a high risk I could die on the operating table. But I was going to die, anyway.
So I just signed on the dotted line.
Sometimes the T&Cs are inconsequential, and you have to take a leap of faith.
In Case You Missed It
I recently won the Coffee Times Challenge 5 with this hermit crab essay.
I Was a Fish Out of Water, and My Tank Was Dry
Main Course: Recipe for Realising You Really Do Need a Lung Transplant After All
Ingredients
1 set of manky lungs, verging on respiratory failure
1 thirty-seven-year-old with attitude
1 baffled transplant team
1 resigned Cystic Fibrosis (CF) medical team
1 (faulty) oxygen concentrator
1 flooded holiday destination
1 portable pharmacy
3 flights of stairs
1 elderly couple with walking aids
1 beach
Method
First, stir up the transplant team using the thirty-seven-year-old with attitude. Whip them into a frenzy by discussing plans to go on an overseas holiday. This must occur BEFORE official placement on the transplant waitlist.
The baffled transplant team will react like curdled milk. Do not panic; official transplant waitlist status has not yet occurred, and their objection is vetoed.
Insert the resigned CF medical team into the mix.
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Thanks for reading, Sandi xx