Lioness (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} elisem) wrote,@ 2006-09-27 13:53:00 |
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something to do in memory of Mike (John M. Ford): sign your organ donor card!
[Important P.S., which I am adding at the beginning, so I guess that makes it a prescript rather than a postscript: There are many good folks who, for one medical reason or another, are not eligible to donate things, and I don't want to make anybody feel put on the spot about that, or feel bad -- especially people who would love to donate, if they were only allowed to. I want to acknowledge that people do also support organ donation in other ways, whether it's driving a friend to the transplant clinic for appointments, helping as a support person in other ways, assisting with donor card drives, making sure medical personnel know about a deceased family member's wishes as soon as possible, or any of a hundred other things we do to look after each other on this earth. Giving this kind of assistance is part of making a transplant possible, and each and every one of us can do our part. Ya basically gotta do the part of the shared task that you can reach, is what I figure. And to those of you who do, bless you for it.]
Most of you probably already know that one of the best medical things that ever happened to Mike was the kidney transplant he got in November of 2000. Here is what I wrote then:
Thank you, unknown good person.
From: Elise Matthesen
Date: Mon, Nov 20 2000 12:00 am
Hi, you guys. Elise here. I am waaaaaaay tired, so this will be less
coherent and more, um, jazz improv than usual, but I wanted to post
before i go eat chocolate and get into bed with cats and Juan and books
and sleep. Before which, I will eat pasta, which the boonful Juanian
mammal of love is cooking for me. (Or, as he says, drowning for me; he
likes radiatore much more al dente than I do. I prefer them when they
are easily dented.)
Anyhow, I got home from the hospital a little while ago. Here's the
compressed version, sort of the music video of the whole deal, I guess:
I was sitting up late last night, about 2 a.m., about to answer a piece
of e-mail from an alt.poly person in fact, when the phone rang.
Transplant center, calling me, trying to reach Mike. A kidney. Call
Mike, say "A kidney." "Ohmygawd," says the Mike. Snow, bag of
cross-stitch, copy of The Last Hot Time, apples, cookies, neighbor with
car, picking up Mike at his door with his bag, loaded with dialysis
stuff for his maybe-last PD (peritoneal dialysis -- a kind which is
particularly good for diabetics, it seems, and which was, I believe,
developed in Canada; did I mention that I have a crush on Canada? just
another good reason) and notebook and Stuff. Drive. Headlights, snow,
ice, empty streets, giggling passengers. HCMC, our destination, and the
Trauma entrance, which is what we were told to use.
Check-in, blood draws, cool nurse named Dayton (he was very very cool,
and nicely acerbic) that makes Mike feel right at home. Wait, wait,
wait. Make important statements and wordless embraces. Mike is smiling.
Almost continuously. This is cool.
Phone call, crossmatch confirmed, all systems go. Grin like idiots. Kiss
Mike, and he disappears into surgery area labeled Pre-Induction. I
wonder vaguely if he is being sworn in to some strange legion. The
Legion of Three Kidneys. They don't take the old ones out; they just add
one. Huh. How... how poly of them, I guess. Heh.
Wait. Wait wait wait. Find out that the family next to us in surgery
waiting room is family of police officer badly wounded in line of duty
outside bank that was held up. Bank is Elise's bank, the branch she
usually goes to just before ten a.m. The takeover robbery was at just
before ten a.m.; Elise has been praying for health and recovery of
police officer since reading news. Find out that sister-in-law and
brother of officer Michael Blood are actually nearly neighbors of Elise
and Juan, and also that they are parents of fan Simba Blood. I think
Officer Blood has been upgraded to serious from critical; he's been in
surgery a lot of the time since the shooting. Elise makes resolution to
post note telling fannish types that Simba Blood's uncle is in need of
blood donations; many folks (especially other police officers and city
workers) are donating blood in the name of officer Michael Blood of the
Edina Police Dept., and several family members gave me hugs when I said
I'd be glad to pass the word along to fans about it, too. (I'll try to
make a coherent post to some fannish newsgroups as soon as I can, too;
feel free to pass this along, though if you feel moved to do so -- but
make it more coherent, if you can, OK? Thanks! ) Chat with people in
waiting room. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Surgeon appears. Says surgery went well. Kidney looks real good. Great
kidney. Good, then. Details, blood supply, hopes, expectations,
procedures. Recovery room, they say, and we wait where we are, "we"
being Elise plus Pamela and also Joel Rosenberg, who have slain the
fatted bratwurst and brought it to the hungry Elise.
Recovery says, "Almost ready to take him to room; gotta do renalgram
first." Think vaguely of postcards from Reno; also landshark. Get room
number. Walk there from waiting room to scout territory. On way back,
see gurney wheeled down hall. See familiar hair, high forehead, arched
eyebrows like which there are no other. Nurse raises eyebrow. That one's
mine, I say. And then Mike opens his eyes, and looks at me, and I say
"hello, my heart," and he says "hello, precious" and we very carefully
reach out and the nurse lets us, because we look so careful and intent,
I think, and we touch. just the tip of index finger, mine to his.
Go back, hug Obble, overflow in happiness, grab stuff, get to room. As
Mike is wheeled in, his phone rings. It is his
chosen-brother-of-the-heart Robert Jordan; they tell each other they
love each other. I hear Mike begin to exchange literary gossip and
critique.
That's when I relax, because somehow it reassures me that he's really
really here, and I think we got a good shot at all this being OK.
Wish us luck, please; there are many things ahead. But this is amazing stuff.
Oh. As they wheeled him away after we touched index fingers, I look at
my watch. Six p.m. Fourteen hours earlier, I got a phone call, and
since then, the world has changed.
Whoever you are, unknown good person who signed your organ donor card,
thank you. Thank you thank you thank you, a thousand million times, more
than there are stars or grains of sand or flamewars on Usenet. ;-) Thank
you. Your generosity will not be forgotten. Thank you for my beloved's
chance at more life.
Elise,
noting that she has no idea whether her parts will be useful or not, but
she has signed her donor card.
Mike's kidney came from what they called an unrelated cadaver donor, which means that some person out in the world signed their donor card, and when they died, their kidney was checked to see if anybody on the transplant list could use it. Mike came up as a six-for-six match, which is a really big deal good thing, and doesn't even happen all that often with relatives, let alone unrelated donors. His doctors and the transplant clinic were wonderful, and have continued to be wonderful all the way along.
I just spoke to the transplant clinic folks, and they want to get copies of whatever memorial appreciations of Mike there are. If you've got any message to them you'd like me to pass along, please feel free to put it here -- I will probably just print out this and take it to them, along with other appreciations that many good people are doing all over the net. The transplant clinic says that Lifesource, which serves the upper midwest of the U.S., has information on becoming a donor. (If you have other contact information for places outside this region, please add them. Thanks!) Also, if you want to send a letter directly to the Transplant Clinic to thank them for taking good care of Mike, their address is:
Transplant Clinic
825 S. 8th St.
Suite 800
Minneapolis, MN 55404
They also have a fund which they use for patient support, like transportation or other things; if somebody wanted to send a memorial there, it should be directed to the Surgical Transplant Memorial Fund at the address above.
[Important P.S., which I am adding at the beginning, so I guess that makes it a prescript rather than a postscript: There are many good folks who, for one medical reason or another, are not eligible to donate things, and I don't want to make anybody feel put on the spot about that, or feel bad -- especially people who would love to donate, if they were only allowed to. I want to acknowledge that people do also support organ donation in other ways, whether it's driving a friend to the transplant clinic for appointments, helping as a support person in other ways, assisting with donor card drives, making sure medical personnel know about a deceased family member's wishes as soon as possible, or any of a hundred other things we do to look after each other on this earth. Giving this kind of assistance is part of making a transplant possible, and each and every one of us can do our part. Ya basically gotta do the part of the shared task that you can reach, is what I figure. And to those of you who do, bless you for it.]
Most of you probably already know that one of the best medical things that ever happened to Mike was the kidney transplant he got in November of 2000. Here is what I wrote then:
Thank you, unknown good person.
From: Elise Matthesen
Date: Mon, Nov 20 2000 12:00 am
Hi, you guys. Elise here. I am waaaaaaay tired, so this will be less
coherent and more, um, jazz improv than usual, but I wanted to post
before i go eat chocolate and get into bed with cats and Juan and books
and sleep. Before which, I will eat pasta, which the boonful Juanian
mammal of love is cooking for me. (Or, as he says, drowning for me; he
likes radiatore much more al dente than I do. I prefer them when they
are easily dented.)
Anyhow, I got home from the hospital a little while ago. Here's the
compressed version, sort of the music video of the whole deal, I guess:
I was sitting up late last night, about 2 a.m., about to answer a piece
of e-mail from an alt.poly person in fact, when the phone rang.
Transplant center, calling me, trying to reach Mike. A kidney. Call
Mike, say "A kidney." "Ohmygawd," says the Mike. Snow, bag of
cross-stitch, copy of The Last Hot Time, apples, cookies, neighbor with
car, picking up Mike at his door with his bag, loaded with dialysis
stuff for his maybe-last PD (peritoneal dialysis -- a kind which is
particularly good for diabetics, it seems, and which was, I believe,
developed in Canada; did I mention that I have a crush on Canada? just
another good reason) and notebook and Stuff. Drive. Headlights, snow,
ice, empty streets, giggling passengers. HCMC, our destination, and the
Trauma entrance, which is what we were told to use.
Check-in, blood draws, cool nurse named Dayton (he was very very cool,
and nicely acerbic) that makes Mike feel right at home. Wait, wait,
wait. Make important statements and wordless embraces. Mike is smiling.
Almost continuously. This is cool.
Phone call, crossmatch confirmed, all systems go. Grin like idiots. Kiss
Mike, and he disappears into surgery area labeled Pre-Induction. I
wonder vaguely if he is being sworn in to some strange legion. The
Legion of Three Kidneys. They don't take the old ones out; they just add
one. Huh. How... how poly of them, I guess. Heh.
Wait. Wait wait wait. Find out that the family next to us in surgery
waiting room is family of police officer badly wounded in line of duty
outside bank that was held up. Bank is Elise's bank, the branch she
usually goes to just before ten a.m. The takeover robbery was at just
before ten a.m.; Elise has been praying for health and recovery of
police officer since reading news. Find out that sister-in-law and
brother of officer Michael Blood are actually nearly neighbors of Elise
and Juan, and also that they are parents of fan Simba Blood. I think
Officer Blood has been upgraded to serious from critical; he's been in
surgery a lot of the time since the shooting. Elise makes resolution to
post note telling fannish types that Simba Blood's uncle is in need of
blood donations; many folks (especially other police officers and city
workers) are donating blood in the name of officer Michael Blood of the
Edina Police Dept., and several family members gave me hugs when I said
I'd be glad to pass the word along to fans about it, too. (I'll try to
make a coherent post to some fannish newsgroups as soon as I can, too;
feel free to pass this along, though if you feel moved to do so -- but
make it more coherent, if you can, OK? Thanks! ) Chat with people in
waiting room. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Surgeon appears. Says surgery went well. Kidney looks real good. Great
kidney. Good, then. Details, blood supply, hopes, expectations,
procedures. Recovery room, they say, and we wait where we are, "we"
being Elise plus Pamela and also Joel Rosenberg, who have slain the
fatted bratwurst and brought it to the hungry Elise.
Recovery says, "Almost ready to take him to room; gotta do renalgram
first." Think vaguely of postcards from Reno; also landshark. Get room
number. Walk there from waiting room to scout territory. On way back,
see gurney wheeled down hall. See familiar hair, high forehead, arched
eyebrows like which there are no other. Nurse raises eyebrow. That one's
mine, I say. And then Mike opens his eyes, and looks at me, and I say
"hello, my heart," and he says "hello, precious" and we very carefully
reach out and the nurse lets us, because we look so careful and intent,
I think, and we touch. just the tip of index finger, mine to his.
Go back, hug Obble, overflow in happiness, grab stuff, get to room. As
Mike is wheeled in, his phone rings. It is his
chosen-brother-of-the-heart Robert Jordan; they tell each other they
love each other. I hear Mike begin to exchange literary gossip and
critique.
That's when I relax, because somehow it reassures me that he's really
really here, and I think we got a good shot at all this being OK.
Wish us luck, please; there are many things ahead. But this is amazing stuff.
Oh. As they wheeled him away after we touched index fingers, I look at
my watch. Six p.m. Fourteen hours earlier, I got a phone call, and
since then, the world has changed.
Whoever you are, unknown good person who signed your organ donor card,
thank you. Thank you thank you thank you, a thousand million times, more
than there are stars or grains of sand or flamewars on Usenet. ;-) Thank
you. Your generosity will not be forgotten. Thank you for my beloved's
chance at more life.
Elise,
noting that she has no idea whether her parts will be useful or not, but
she has signed her donor card.
Mike's kidney came from what they called an unrelated cadaver donor, which means that some person out in the world signed their donor card, and when they died, their kidney was checked to see if anybody on the transplant list could use it. Mike came up as a six-for-six match, which is a really big deal good thing, and doesn't even happen all that often with relatives, let alone unrelated donors. His doctors and the transplant clinic were wonderful, and have continued to be wonderful all the way along.
I just spoke to the transplant clinic folks, and they want to get copies of whatever memorial appreciations of Mike there are. If you've got any message to them you'd like me to pass along, please feel free to put it here -- I will probably just print out this and take it to them, along with other appreciations that many good people are doing all over the net. The transplant clinic says that Lifesource, which serves the upper midwest of the U.S., has information on becoming a donor. (If you have other contact information for places outside this region, please add them. Thanks!) Also, if you want to send a letter directly to the Transplant Clinic to thank them for taking good care of Mike, their address is:
Transplant Clinic
825 S. 8th St.
Suite 800
Minneapolis, MN 55404
They also have a fund which they use for patient support, like transportation or other things; if somebody wanted to send a memorial there, it should be directed to the Surgical Transplant Memorial Fund at the address above.
