A bird in the hand

In my hand (well, trapped between the keys of my computer) is the equivalent of a new-born spring chick – the completed manuscript of my first book. Key words to note: completed and manuscript. After a gestation period longer than that of an elephant, my book made its first appearance mid March. Since then, I’ve fed and watered it, burped it, changed its nappy and passed it around a few people for admiration, validation and reassurance at my ability to be a responsible parent.

Over the last couple of months we’ve grown together, my book and I, and I’m now faced with the terrible realisation that I need to send it out there, into the world, to find out if it can make it on its own.

spring chickOkay, that’s more metaphor than enough for one blog post. The reality is this: I’ve written a memoir based on the sixteen days I spent on the urgent transplant list, waiting for a new heart. Sounds morbid? It’s anything but. I won’t lie, there are dark days but throughout, the narrative sparkles with joy and laughter. Above all it’s a love story, not only mine with Mr D but also the one with my friends and family. For sixteen days I waited, on the brink of death, for someone else to die. Difficult both physically and emotionally. I didn’t wait alone. On Christmas Day, my donor and their family gave me a gift more precious than any other. My own friends and family made sure I was (and still am) able to receive and make the most of it.

book birdBut I digress. This post isn’t about the content of the book, it’s about how to set it free. How and when do I release my Caxton bird-in-the-hand skywards in the hope that it can fly?

To get to this stage, the first edit was easy – read-through and correct all the obvious spelling and grammar mistakes. Next, kill, or at least mutilate, all my darlings (at least most of them – the ones I missed were culled by a couple of ruthless editor friends). Follow this with reading for continuity, flow and cadence. And then the hard part.

Close reading and editing. Sentence by sentence, word by word, until my eyes crossed and watered. This stage, in my experience, is the trickiest. Get too up-close-and-personal with the narrative and you run the risk of losing sight of the bigger picture: maybe it’s okay to use that verb again, perhaps there is no better word than this one. It’s difficult but worth it. Which leaves me with the shiniest and most robust version of my manuscript.

champagne uncorkedLike every anxious parent (I’m wringing the last droplets from this metaphor), I’ve equipped my fledgling with all the survival skills at my disposal, what happens next is out of my control. It’s time to leave the nest. To fly.

If I succeed in publication I’ll celebrate, likewise if I don’t. A manuscript, complete, is an achievement in itself and should be celebrated. As the saying goes (I think), I’ve come a long way to get this far: time to pop the bubbly!

Now, what to do with the empty nest.

Friends for Life

The reason, in case you’re wondering, why you haven’t heard from me for a while is that I’ve been writing – yep, you heard correctly, and most days at that! The structure has finally come together and the LPoW now has a shape I can work with. The most recent chapter included a section about friends and that, combined with a recent art exhibition I attended, inspired this blog. Let me explain.

Just over a week ago, Mr D and I travelled to Glasgow to meet one of my fellow transplant patients and visit his art exhibition documenting his remarkable story. ‘The Shared Heart’ features portraits of many of the hospital staff, painted by B from photographs he took whilst still in intensive care. His wife is also an artist and she had, with his permission, photographed his period of recovery beginning immediately after his operation whilst he was still unconscious and ending a month later when he left hospital. In addition, several of her sculptures were on display, representing her own emotions through their difficult time.

I’ve met several people who’ve had heart transplants and each of them has their own incredible story to tell but what has always struck me is the positivity and resilience that radiates from them. Some of them I know a little better than others: P, a woman whose baby was delivered prematurely by emergency caesarean section so that she could be put on the list for an urgent transplant, has one of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen and never fails to lift my spirits; C, a man who received his new heart just hours after being listed, whose optimism for the future is addictive; and B, whose story includes over 3 months in intensive care, kept alive by an artificial heart, and getting married on what was believed to be his death bed.

untitled (5)These are just outline sketches of their stories because they are their stories and theirs alone to tell. What I have in common with these people (other than our second-hand hearts) is the understanding that were it not for the love and support of our family and friends we would, most likely, not have survived.

In ‘The Shared Heart’ there were two pieces that I found particularly moving. The first was one of the sculptures – a glass bowl filled with water featuring a face looking up from the bottom. It represented the times when B’s wife, so overwhelmed by the situation, would swim in the pool of the hotel attached to the hospital and sing under water to release her emotions. The other was B’s portrait of his wife; the lingering haunted expression behind her eyes, visceral and raw, captured in the way only someone that knows her well could do.

And here’s the reason I wrote this blog. Friends.

The love of family and their concern for your well-being is oftentimes a given; they’re part of you and you of them. Friendships are courted and nurtured; some become something more and, if you’re lucky, some last a long time. And I am lucky. I’ve mentioned them in my blog before but writing about my transplant experience made me really appreciate the value of true friendship. Seamus Heaney, one of my favourite poets, captures it with grace and eloquence in his poem ‘Miracle’.

Not the one who takes up his bed and walks

But the ones who have known him all along

And carry him in –

Their shoulders numb, the ache and stoop deeplocked

In their backs, the stretcher handles

Slippery with sweat. And no let up

Until he’s strapped on tight, made tiltable

and raised to the tiled roof, then lowered for healing.

Be mindful of them as they stand and wait

For the burn of the paid out ropes to cool,

Their slight lightheadedness and incredulity

To pass, those who had known him all along.

To my friends: thank you.

The Way We Look

This morning I looked in the mirror and searched for me. I knew I was there but I couldn’t quite make me out. Over the last three days, my face has morphed Kafka-esque into that of a hardened- drinking, outdoor-weathered, apoplectic beetroot. It wasn’t unexpected.

I’m back in hospital, being pumped full of high dose steroids to counteract an episode of rejection picked up in a routine biopsy at the beginning of the week. It’s not uncommon, they tell me, for this to happen in the first year post-transplant. Add to that the fact that they’ve recently changed me onto a new anti-rejection medication and there’s even less of a surprise. But still it needs to be treated. And now, in steroid overload, body bloated, I wait and trust in those that know best; until the next biopsy at the beginning of the week.

The way we look

The last time I didn’t recognise myself was a fortnight ago. I stepped out of a bedroom into a full-length reflection and all I saw was happy. A smile devoured most of my face and dimples swallowed up the remainder. My boots were high, my dress long and jewels lit up my marginally-less-mussed-up-than-usual, hair. A gaggle of girls, glasses of fizz, a rainbow of nails and autumn sunshine crowded into the farmhouse sitting room. Outside, bagpipes summoned people to the barn. The room emptied of all but a few and my dad, smile rivalling my own, hesitated on the threshold, unsure whether to cross over into the smog of perfume and hairspray and girlie indulgence.

On the way out my best-friend L stopped me: ‘You look great, and just the right amount sexy. Take time to breathe, remember the day, it’ll be over before you know it. Don’t miss it.’ We followed her out, across to the barn, a purple streak in glitter sandals: my nephew with his painted nails (the girls loved helping him with that); my gorgeous niece and soon-to-be step-daughter, all clunky books and sassy cute; me and my dad. One of my closest friends piped my progress, another tried to take photos before bursting into tears. I hardly noticed the rain.

For a moment, as I rounded the top of the barn, I couldn’t see him. Amongst the crowd I spotted others – my oldest friend looking exactly as she had when we met in high school but with (slightly) more glitter; another ready to clack together her Dorothy heels. And then he was there, Mr D – be-kilted in crazy spray-painted leaves, looking at me in a way I’ve never managed to look at myself. We disappeared inside our smiles.

That’s the look I remembered this morning, in front of the mirror in the hospital bathroom. And in a moment of magic, the beetroot disappeared and I realised I was there all along.