It's none of your business -- continued

I gave a small shake of my head and told her that, actually, I’d like to try to help her. Then I went into the pitch I’d worked out over several other tries at getting people to stop smoking. How I shouldn’t even be here today, how smoking gave me COPD which has no cure, and how I was one of the lucky ones. I had a double lung transplant.

During my short speech the color had drained from the smoker’s face. Thinking we were somewhere on the same page, I smiled softly and told her I’d seen her smoking outside before she came into the restaurant. I got a completely unexpected response. She suddenly pushed back from the table, hissed that it was none of my business -- and then started crying.

In the next ten minutes, sitting at that table, I learned a number of things. First, the four of them had a pact to stop smoking. Two of them were still sneaking an occasion cigarette. They were a quartet of close, very supportive friends. And I should be extremely careful about sticking my nose into other people’s business – but not give up my campaign. All of them thanked me for giving them new incentive to stop smoking.

Of course, I apologized before I left. I don’t know what they thought of the glass of Chablis I asked the waiter to pour them.

It's none of your business!

I go out for lunch alone quite often. Why I’ll get to in another blog. What I want to discuss now is one particular lunch. I was at my usual table with a good view patrons inside and also out on the patio. I could see the entrance and, through the glass doors, the sidewalk on the outside.

 

That was where I first saw her; an attractive, middle-aged woman with dark shoulder length hair. She stopped before entering the restaurant and checked her watch. Then she took a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lit one. She stood there smoking and checking her watch until she finished the cigarette, dropping it on the ground and crushing it under her shoe.

 

When she came into the restaurant, she glanced around a moment, then smiled and waved. I watched her as she joined a table for four with three other women already seated.

 

I should mention here that when I came home from my transplant I promised myself that at least once a month I’d try to get someone to consider quitting smoking. This woman seemed like a natural for this month’s attempt.  She hadn’t been checking her watch while waiting for someone. She’d been checking her watch to see how much time she had to smoke. From experience, I knew that when you’re that addicted, you can use some help.

 

Since I’d finished my lunch, I asked my server for the bill and paid it. Then I got up and walked over to their table. I excused my self and asked if I could talk with them for a moment. They were all taken aback, but the smoker who turned out to be the most outgoing of the group, ask what they could do for me. I borrowed a chair from the empty table next to them and sat down.

 

(TO BE CONTINUED IN TOMORROW’S BLOG)

 

Remember the bad old days

I’ve only started on this new life, but I think I’ve traveled far enough to offer a small piece of advice. At least something that’s working for me.

When you get frustrated with the side effects of your meds, angry with your transplant team for their seemingly emotionless responses, afraid of what might happen next, or feeling alone and depressed, think back.

Back to before that telephone call.

Back when you struggled for each breath, dreading the next hospitalization, and wondering if you’d get out this time. When you spent your days and nights at the end of a length of plastic tubing connected to an oxygen generator. When, try as they might, the people around you couldn't hide the sadness in their smiles.

Remember the bad old days. And you'll realize how good you've got it now.

Pills...pills...everywhere!

 When you get a transplant of any kind, you know you’re going to be on immunosuppressant medications for the rest of your life. And, depending on your transplant team and your own individual situation, that may be only the beginning.

 

In my case, besides three anti-rejection drugs, it also includes an antibiotic, something for acid reflux, my prostate, my Cholesterol level, my heart and my blood pressure, an anti-viral, plus Iron, Calcium and magnesium. And naturally, some have to be taken more than once a day.

 

 I counted them a few minutes ago: 10 pills in the morning, 2 at 2p.m. and 8 in the evening. And you know what I think? It’s a very, very small price to pay for a chance at a new life.

 

I hope you have a caregiver like mine. She keeps track of the supply, and puts them all in the right box in one those giant pill organizers every Monday. All I do is take them.

 

 

 

To shake or not to shake

The doctors all say we shouldn’t shake hands with people, but I make exceptions. I don’t tell them, of course. The doctors, I mean. However, at social functions like a wedding reception, a birthday party, or anywhere I’m being introduced to people I don’t know, I smile and shake.

 

Putting you hands up like you’re being arrested or jamming them in your pockets and trying to explain is embarrassing for both of you. Invariably, it also leads to that conversation I’m tired of having, and labels me as “the transplant guy” for the rest of evening.

 

I much rather be thought of as the guy with the bottle of Purell in his pocket. Just be careful not to touch your face with your hands. And when you can do it without being obvious, wipe your hands with Purell.

 

By the way, I do the same thing with old friends. But I don’t try to hide it with them.

 

 

Time off

I’m always talking about sticking to the routine; take your meds, keep your hands clean, exercise, etc, etc. But you should remember to take time off. Contemplate your navel, do some reading, find a friend on Facebook, whatever. Just be you instead of that transplant person.

 

That’s good for your health, too.

 

Camellia Rose

I’m sure everyone has different feelings about the place they stay during their early recovery. I have a warm attachment to the place we stayed; a bed & breakfast in a gorgeous Victorian house on a tree lined street not far from Shands Hospital in Gainesville.

Here’s what I wrote while we were still there:

Camellia Rose

Deep in the flora

Of a tropical paradise

Down where palms stand tall

Spanish moss clings to oaks

And gators growl

I found my beautiful

Camellia Rose

Our affair began

The moment I set eyes

On her graceful, classic form

And I knew I would never

Seek shelter in other arms

Once she opened herself to me

If ever I must leave

Be it only for a single day

This lovely flower

Will forever remain in my heart

As if I began a new life here