November 4th 2024.
It's hard to believe that it's been 13 years since I received the call that changed my life. I was only three weeks old when I was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, a condition that affects the lungs and digestive system. So, you could say that my life was complicated from the beginning. My mom, Sam, became not only my parent but also my full-time caregiver, helping me with physio and making sure I stuck to my strict medication regimen to avoid infections.
Despite her efforts, I often needed intravenous antibiotics and was underweight for my age. But this was my normal, so I never questioned anything. I knew I would never have a normal life because someone with CF like me was expected to live only until their 30s. But thanks to advancements in treatments, those diagnosed with CF today are expected to live until at least 56 years old. I was determined to enjoy what I could of life.
My mom and stepdad, Patrick, gave me the best life they could, and I never took our family holidays for granted. But when I was 16, my health took a turn for the worse. I remember coughing and feeling a tightness in my chest while sitting at lunch one day. I managed to finish the day and even walked a mile home, but when I saw my prom dress had been delivered, I wasn't interested. Instead, I went to bed and fell asleep.
The next day, my mom took me to the hospital, where they discovered my lung had collapsed. I was rushed to the Intensive Care Unit and then to King's College Hospital, where a chest drain was inserted to remove trapped air and inflate my lung. After three weeks, I was set to be discharged, but on that day, I went to the bathroom and coughed up blood. We had to call an ambulance, and it became clear that I would likely need a transplant in the future.
I couldn't bring myself to say the word "transplant" - I called it "the T-word" and refused to believe it would ever happen. But things continued to get harder, and I needed oxygen at home, so we moved to an adapted bungalow. Then, one day before Christmas Eve in 2010, I received the call that I had been added to the transplant list. From that point on, all I could do was wait.
Christmas and New Year's passed without a call, and my quality of life continued to deteriorate. But on October 17, 2011, at 1:15am, I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing. It was a strange feeling as I looked around, wondering if I'd be home again. "Mum, I've had the call," I whispered, and she immediately sat up in bed, panicked. I was wheeled into surgery at 2pm, and when I woke up five hours later, I felt incredibly sore but took my first breath off the ventilator with pure joy.
I later learned that my old lungs were so damaged that I wouldn't have made it to Christmas that year. I wasn't cured, but I felt better than ever. After three weeks on the High Dependency Unit, I was discharged and slowly grew stronger with regular check-ups and anti-rejection medication. I was finally free to live my life almost entirely on my own terms, apart from daily medication.
I eventually took my A-Levels, went to university, and got a job in television production before earning a Master's in social work. I still tried to live life to the fullest by going on cruises, camping, and even visiting Disneyland. At 38, I met my partner, Sam, and we moved in together last year. My life now is so different from what it was pre-transplant.
I owe all of this to my donor, a 36-year-old woman who had signed up to the organ donor register. Without organ donation, the last 13 years of my life wouldn't have happened. Every year on the anniversary of my transplant, I light a candle and think of her whenever I'm doing something special. She gave me the best gift anyone could - a second chance at life. And that's a debt I'll never be able to repay, but I do my best to show my gratitude every single day.
[This article has been trending online recently and has been generated with AI. Your feed is customized.]
[Generative AI is experimental.]
