Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Where are you on "The List"?

Hello, dear ones!

Last week marked two milestones for me. First, seven years of marriage with my wonderful husband, Peter, have been such a gift. In the Canticles, Solomon extols the virtues of love. "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it." (SoS 8:7) Peter and I have faced many floods together in the past two years, both related to my declining health and the ordinary struggles of daily life. But doing the work of loving another imperfect person as well as I endeavor to love myself is a source of renewed joy and gratitude as we walk through life as partners.

Second, I came through my first set of major pulmonary testing since our move to Pittsburgh, scoring with respectable, if not flying, colors. Since our return from Cleveland Clinic, lots of you have kindly inquired about my status and wondered about my placement on "The List". For solid organ transplant candidates, "The List" both is and is not a document ranking patients with end-stage organ failure. The transplant waiting list is actually a pool of eligible recipients, all deemed sufficiently ill to require a replacement organ, but sufficiently healthy to rebound from the stresses of surgery with renewed vigor. Lung transplant candidates are assigned a Lung Allocation Score (LAS) based on multiple factors including age, blood and antibody type, disease diagnosis, relative lung function (disease severity), BMI, distance walked in six minutes, and minimum oxygen dosage at rest. The LAS attempts to balance the likelihood that a person will survive another year without a transplant with the likelihood that the person will thrive post-transplant. Scores range from zero to one hundred, with an LAS in the mid-thirties as the minimum for transplant listing. While sicker patients have higher scores, this alone is insufficient for a match. When an organ becomes available, an algorithm eliminates obvious incompatibility: candidates with the wrong blood or antibody type, height, and other medical factors. Remaining candidates are ranked based on still more factors, acuity and possibly proximity to the transplant center among them. For lung transplants, time on the waiting list rarely affects candidate selection; it's considered only as a tie breaker for two patients in the same geographic zone with identical scores.

While people often imagine jets zipping across the country, carrying organs in coolers to and fro, eighty percent of donor organs are transplanted to local recipients. The US comprises eleven geographic regions. Generally, donor organs are first offered within their own region, then to adjacent regions, and finally to more distant regions, in hopes of rapid transplantation and minimized complication. Removed from an active circulatory system, an organ's limited shelf life requires prompt transfer to another living host. While timing varies, lungs need to find a new home in approximately six hours, not enough time for zipping from Seattle to Orlando with an organ still intact. 

When I saw my pulmonologist in Cleveland last Thursday, she mentioned that she'd recently had a near match for me, an almost good enough set of lungs. She received an offer for the lungs of a six year old that were a suitable size, except that the trachea was too small an airway for an adult. Pediatric candidates receive priority for pediatric organs, but adults can receive these organs if they match donor criteria. While I felt encouraged that my transplant is truly possible, I wasn't sure how to feel about the potential donor. It's disheartening to think that a six year old's lungs are adequate to meet my body's oxygenation needs, and also to consider that a family had to contemplate donating the organs of their six year old child. So far I've been listed at Cleveland Clinic for one year and five months, and at UPMC for six months. Some days, it's disheartening to consider how long I've waited and how much longer the wait could be, but this is the only legal organ transplantation system we haveAnd yet I see the blessings of my life very clearly. According to the Organ Procurement and Transplantation Network (HHS), an average of twenty-one people in the United States dies each day while awaiting transplant. In the last two weeks, two of my pulmonary rehab cohorts have been taken to the ED during our sessions due to acute respiratory illness. For all my struggles, I enjoy my life in relative health. Though the journey is long, I'm still satisfied to be me.
Oxygen for Cleveland: squeezing R2D2 in X-wing fashion

Pittsburgh Symphony Association "Flaunting the Flutes" fundraiser

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Oxygen transition: Dalek invasion

Hello, dear ones!

It's finally happened! After several weeks of confusion due to dosage changes, supplier scarcity, factory backlogs, and scheduling mix-ups, I've made the transition to liquid oxygen. On Friday afternoon, Lance, the driver for my new oxygen supplier, brought two reservoirs filled with liquid oxygen. The barrel shaped containers bear a distinct resemblance to the Daleks, a recurring cyborg nemesis in the Doctor Who saga. With sturdy metal bodies and forward-facing tubular extensions, the waist height tanks seem primed to begin screeching "Exterminate! Exterminate!" Luckily, no Doctor Who villains have materialized to date.

Darla, my temperamental portable oxygen concentrator, is primed to enter retirement after mostly faithful service. In her place is my new ice princess, an insulated portable liquid oxygen container resembling a large vented thermos. Potential names for my new companion include Jadis (the White Witch in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe), Elsa (the ice princess in Frozen), and Tilda (the actress who plays the White Witch in the Disney film). I'm also open to further name suggestions.

To fill Jadis/Elsa/Tilda, I click her onto an appendage atop one of the Daleks. Locking the unit in place activates oxygen transfer. I keep one hand on the side of the container, watching as white tendrils wisp out of the reservoir, waiting for the knocking sensation that indicates a full portable unit. The gradual conversion of oxygen from liquid to gas covers the unit in frost by the time that it empties. Because I've transitioned from a battery-powered unit to a refillable tank, my outings have likewise transitioned from morning, afternoon or evening length to a mere two hours. I made several requests of my oxygen supplier for a second or even third tank to extend my excursion time. The UPMC pulmonary rehab staff seconded my request based on a desire to maintain my activity level and for emergency backup purposes. One faxed prescription later, I'm hopeful that another portable container will result from either an exhaustive search of the supplier warehouse or factory production of the requisite unit. If hope alone is insufficient, there's always persistence.

After Lance carted off my old home concentrator, the apartment settled into near silence. The low-pitched droning hum that sometimes overwhelmed conversation was replaced by the tinkling susurrus of air bubbles humidifying my oxygen supply. My apartment now sounds like a dentist's office, with the requisite fish tank burbling in the background. Reclaiming the quiet is curiously satisfying. My thoughts seem louder now, no longer drowned out by the constant distraction of the machine's interminable thrum. Peter is equally relieved by fewer auditory distractions.

Lance returns every Tuesday and Friday to replenish my oxygen supply. Liquid oxygen dissipates at an approximate rate of one pound per twenty-four hours.  With my increasing oxygen requirement, I expend the remainder relatively quickly. Still, once I have another portable unit to stretch my time away from home, I may actually increase in mobility. The new tanks administer up to fifteen liters per minute, more than twice the rate of my old concentrator. Despite persistent shortness of breath, pulmonary rehab has made me stronger, better able to perform my daily tasks. If I can muster up a bit more stamina, then watch out, Pittsburgh! I'm trotting down the river trail to Herrs Island.



Shout outs are in order: Thank you to my father- and mother-in-law, Peter and Denise, for your visit, and the bonus of my sewing machine, my desk, and a really big TV! John and Katelynn, you infuse the cliche of dinner and a show with tear-inducing laughter! Erin and Brigham midwives, you are the best! Thanks so much for including me in the baby shower!


liquid oxygen tanks
Dalek




Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Coffee shop tour: Part one

Hello, friends!

This morning, Peter dragged me out of bed to accompany him to one of his favorite coffee shops, 21st Street Coffee and Tea (www.21ststreetcoffee.com). Last night I (foolishly) agreed to tag along so that I could both get out of the apartment for a bit and get some editing done. But the day dawned foggy, with a hazy mist threading the surrounding foothills, the perfect sort of day for rolling over to steal another hour's rest. I felt it was best to comply with the day's obvious hints, but apparently a deal is a deal. Peter nudged me into the shower with promises of tea and pastries; the best of us is not immune to a bribe...

21st Street CaT sits near the corner of Smallman and 21st Streets in the Strip District. Historically, the area housed many mills and factories that gradually gave way to wholesale purveyors of fish, pasta, produce, and other foodstuff. However with the hipster invasion, it now additionally hosts trendy eateries, boutiques, and converted lofts, as well as a market with the most expensive bag of King Arthur flour I've ever encountered. (In its defense, Marty's Market also sells delectable chocolate covered gelato pops.) This is a great little coffe shop, comfortably spacious. The work of local artists lines walls of exposed brick. A lofted work space for telecommuters overlooks the coffee bar and multiple tables and chairs. There's a quiet buzz of background sound, enough to mask a conversation or phone call, but not so loud as to distract mental focus.

21st Street CaT brings in fresh pastries daily from two local bakeries, my newfound favorite, La Gourmandine Bakery, and Bella Christie Sweet Boutique. La Gourmandine is run by two French transplants, who make a nearly perfect traditional croissant. Light, flaky, buttery, beautifully layered, this is one of the top three croissants I've had in North America. Peter's apple walnut pastry from Bella Christie was almost as delicious with flaky crust surrounding cinnamony filling. And let's not forget 21st Street's beverages. Peter was lured here by their Intelligentsia beans, a longtime favorite, and ensnared by their coffee orthodoxy. The hardcore baristas reluctantly permit milk and sugar in their coffee but insist on dispensing it themselves in precise quantities. Efficiently friendly, they serve drinks and snacks with care. The shop carries Paragon tea in several varieties, including my favorite oolong Ti Kwan Yin. While bribery and coercion played some role in my visit to 21st Street Coffee and Tea, I'd gladly be bribed again.