10th February 2003

Miranda’s Tale

I began to itch and scratch a lot. I tried lotions and potions but it got worse. Soon I was suffering from severe indigestion and I noticed that the whites of my eyes were now yellow. My GP sent me for tests and warned me that it could be cancer. Why did he have to prejudge the results and cause me unnecessary fear and worry? It was not cancer but liver disease, although the prognosis was hardly comforting. The GP told me, and the local hospital confirmed that I had no more than three years to live. Visits to the hospital clinic did nothing to relieve my symptoms and my condition rapidly deteriorated. My face was drawn and I was losing so much weight that my family could see me just wasting away. I was excessively tired and spent much of my time resting.

None of the other patients attending the local hospital clinic displayed symptoms like mine so I asked why. I learned it was a clinic for diseases of the colon, but, as there was no consultant specialist in liver diseases, they saw those patients as well. My GP's response to my worries about this was to upbraid me for not having come to terms with my condition and its consequences. I knew that I needed to change my GP. A single-handed doctor had just started up in the village so I went to see him. He was angry. "You should be going to Addenbrooke's" he told me "and that is where I am sending you." He was the first of the many who played a decisive part in ultimately saving my life.

At Addenbrooke's my drug regime was altered, the level of toxins in my blood reduced, I put on weight and my energy returned. The itching and the jaundice were still present but I was able to lead an active, useful and enjoyable life. I was reprieved; the three years death threat had been lifted. I enjoyed regular Autumn and Spring breaks in a rather primitive holiday home in the Algarve and hard work at home cultivating my garden. After dispelling, almost, the misgivings of my Addenbrooke's doctor, I even enjoyed an adventurous but luxurious holiday in India. Life was good.

But the clock was ticking, the drugs were at their limit, and the blood toxins were rising. The stage had been reached where, to survive, I would need a transplant. The hospital assessment took five days and at the end of it I was offered a transplant and placed on the list to await a donor organ. This was a difficult time and I went through it without ever really believing that one would become available. We had a bleeper for when we were out and not near our phone. More than once we thought it bleeped but it was a false alarm. The bleeper was only telling us that it needed new batteries. After six months the call came on a very wet and unpleasant Saturday evening. None of my sons could be contacted so I had no choice but to drive myself even though I knew it had not been recommended. I think it helped. It gave me no time to dwell on what was about to happen. Early next morning my husband, sons and daughter were there with me. Fearful of the possible outcome, I said goodbye to them all before being wheeled off to the operating theatre

I was told that I was fit enough not to need intensive care but would go instead to a high dependency unit. I must confess that that worried me. I am not young and it sounded to me as if I was being given second best. I could not have been more wrong. There was always someone there if I wanted them and the care and attention I got was outstanding. No one could have felt safer or been in better hands. I moved through rapidly and was soon out in the main ward and trotting off to the Concourse for a cup of tea and a bun or to sample their breakfast. I went in on Saturday 25 March. Thirteen days later, on 7 April, they wanted to send me home. For my family and I it seemed much too soon so I was kept in hospital over the weekend. I know now that my fears were groundless for I made steady progress from then on and feel fitter and healthier than I have been for decades.

My donor was a keen dancer and was only forty-seven when she died. It has always saddened me that the joy and happiness that my family and I have enjoyed was only possible because of someone else's loss. I met some of the families of donors at the 2002 UK Transplant Games and it was clear that they gained much comfort from knowing that some good came from what for them was a tragic loss. I found that a help. I cannot forget what I owe to my donor and her family.

I cannot forget either what I owe to the members of Addenbrooke's Liver Transplant Unit team. They are uniquely wonderful. They provide the highest quality of surgical, medical and nursing care with humanity and humour. I know they are the finest anywhere because they could not be better.