Whose heart is it anyway?

I’ve been thinking a lot about organ transplants the last few days. I’m not really sure why to be honest, as I don’t qualify for either the heart or kidney transplant lists.

But I’ve found myself really wanting to encourage people to discuss the issue with their families, because even though you might not want to think about it, should the worst happen, it’s a bloody hard decision for your family to make on your behalf. And the sad truth is, many people refuse to agree to their loved ones being used for organ donation, because at the time that they are asked, they are in a place of grief and shock where they just want to keep their loved one how they know them.

Not making it clear what your wishes are means that instead of potentially saving someone’s life, your healthy organs will go to waste. And that makes me a little bit sad to be honest.

Personally I find the concept of a heart transplant quite strange. More so than a liver or a kidney. Even though the logical part of me knows that, at the end of the day it is really just a physical organ like any other, the illogical part considers it to be, well…the heart of me.

Think about it, how many sayings revolve around the heart? ‘She has a good heart’, ‘Listen to your heart’, ‘The heart wants what the heart wants’…What if that heart isn’t really yours? Would it change some fundamental part of you?

I know that even when I had frequent blood transfusions, I could feel my body reacting to this new blood as if it was a stranger that shouldn’t be there. I could feel it in my veins, and interestingly with the testing machine I use, I have shown up issues that I know are not mine if I test myself after a transfusion – is this the energy of the bloods previous owner?

The most dangerous thing about any organ transplant, but especially the heart, is the risk of rejection. Your body KNOWS this thing doesn’t really belong to it and acts like it is an alien, desperately trying to remove it and make you you again. So even though it’s there to save you, quite often the new organ is actually what kills you.

So I have been wondering lately whether a new heart would change who I am. Would I suddenly start liking Marmite and Celine Dion? (god forbid not!) There are so many tales of things like this happening, or even of people falling in love with the donors previous partner, that try as I might I can’t think of the heart as a purely physical object. It is made up of cells which hold the very essence of you.

Would I have a heart transplant if I could though? Probably, if I had exhausted all other possibilities. I think it would take a long time for that heart to feel like mine though…if it ever did.  Would I be less me? I hope not. But in a strange way I’m quite curious to find out…

So, what do you think? Is the heart just a physical organ, or would having someone else’s make you different to who you were before?

Fear and Loathing in North Somerset

I had a really good week last week, I went away for a few days and got to catch up with lots of people and even had an excellent evening at Laughterhouse in Basingstoke. It was great to be out and about and socialising and doing lots of things again.

But then comes the payback. Now, I don’t think I could ever be accused of having a ‘Pollyanna’ attitude, but I do try my best to keep a smile on my face and to be as quietly optimistic as possible. That’s been really hard the last couple of days though, so I apologise if this post is a little more depressing than I would like.

Since I came back home on Friday two things have happened:

First, the fear set in. My heart would not behave itself at all and I admit I started to get quite scared. Now, this isn’t really like me, but I think this new found fear stems from being on my own again. It’s the knowing that if I dropped dead tomorrow, I probably wouldn’t be found until my cat had already used me as dinner.

Not the most pleasant of thoughts I know, but I did say I was going to be honest! Anyway, I took some herbs for my heart and some flower essences for my mind, and both settled down somewhat. But then came problem number two…

I hate being a sick person. I’m 26 years old and I don’t want to have to weigh up everything I do and the toll it will have on me. I want to be able to go out dancing and enjoy myself without knowing it is going to cost me dearly. I want to be able to have a life, without that life nearly killing me.

I resent the fact that having a good few days has left me feeling awful and today I hate this body and this illness and all the things it restricts me from doing. And that’s dangerous because it can mean that I don’t pay attention anymore and push myself too hard because I don’t want to be that sick person who can’t do things.

I remember being 16, with a supposedly terminal illness, and just packing my bags and getting on a plane to Australia. Everyone thought I was mad. Was I scared? Probably a bit. But mostly I just wanted to enjoy the time I had left. And I did. I traveled and partied and had an amazing time. And I didn’t die. In fact I came back healthier than ever.

So, what’s changed in those 10 years? Well, a lot of water has gone under the bridge for a start. But more importantly, my illness has changed too. I can cope with tiredness, I can cope with pain, but when your heart is playing silly buggers and you can’t breathe it’s a very hard thing to ignore.

For what seems like the first time in my life, I am finding myself restricted by this body of mine. And I don’t like it very much. But I have faith that it won’t always be this way and that is what keeps me going. However, I also have to learn to accept my limitations, even if I don’t like them very much.

Fear and loathing have definitely been the order of the weekend, but hope and cheeriness shall be restored by Monday morning…