Under Pressure

I find baking a very calming. It does nothing good to my waistline, but it does wonders at giving my mind time to work through anything that is bothering me. Since I began writing this blog, I have found it helpful for ordering my thoughts and now keep a notebook to hand for writing down the words that spring to mind between adding ingredients that might be lost if I waited for a more convenient moment to recall them. 

“What do my baking habits have to do with the subject of organ transplants?” I hear you ask as you reach for the mouse to close your browser tab.

During the weeks I waited to hear if I would be placed on the transplant list, I baked a lot.  I had so many worries, thoughts and plans going running around in my head. 

“Was I too sick to get on the list?”

“Can I deal with knowing that someone will have died so I could live?”

“Who was going to take care of my arthritic husband?”

“Would I be able to cope with the pain of major surgery?”

“How long would I be in hospital?”

“What if I die, will they cope?”

“I need to write a will.”

Baking was the one time I found myself relaxing and letting go of the constant strain and stress. Stress is one thing you really don’t need when you have any kind of chronic health condition. It can mess with your sleep patterns, blood pressure, mental health and your food intake just to mention a few of the more obvious ones.  We are all different and all react in different ways when under pressure. Waiting for a transplant is pressure with flashing lights and sirens.

Talk to your family, friends or your doctor. If you share the concerns and fears that you have, they will stop seeming impossible or overwhelming and become things you can ask questions about during your hospital appointments. Write them down in a notebook or record them with an app on your phone. The important thing is to ask the questions so that you can learn to live with the answers. So, use the things that works for you, that eases the stress. We are all different you just need to find what works for you. It may be walking, tai chi, yoga, puzzles or maybe even baking, the possibilities are endless.

Baking works for me on several levels. Firstly, it is methodical. You follow a recipe and you hopefully end up with an expected result. I am not an orderly person in my everyday life so baking offers a time when I can switch off and follow the instructions. Which strangely allows me to work through my issues and with the bonus of having cake to eat too. It also gives me a sense of connection to family. I learnt to cook with my Mother and Grandmother. Many of the things that I bake are from recipes that have been passed down over the years After lots of practice, I finally get results that taste pretty good. For me baking is my thing, music helps too but I’m not so sure that Mother would have approved of Pink Floyd playing in the kitchen.

Nannie’s Norfolk Shortcakes

A short cake with dried fruit.

12 ozs Plain flour

4 ozs Lard

4 ozs Caster sugar

4 ozs Currants (any other died fruit can be used if preferred)

Cold water to mix

Makes approx. 12 cakes.

Rub the lard into the flour. Add the caster sugar, fruit and mix together. Add water to create a soft dough. Roll out to a thickness of about an inch. Score lines diagonally creating diamond patterns and cut into pieces. Place on baking sheet and bake at 200c/180c fan for 7 minutes before rotating the sheet and baking for a further 8 minutes or until firm and starting turn brown. Leave to cool on the tray for 10 minutes.

AWAKENING – Post Transplant

There are sounds in the darkness. Machines. Beeping alarms and mechanical movements, regular and methodical. People moving around, their voices soft, words indistinct, almost muffled but soothing all the same. Everything is distant like being in deep fog. Someone moves close by. Coldness runs along my arm. The sounds die away, and the heavy smothering darkness returns.

My mind dances with vivid scenes, none of which make any sense. It’s loud here in my head with words that overwhelm my brain, spinning away on tangents previously unthought of and beyond my comprehension. As I reach to grasp the thought it slips away, replaced by another one, equally bizarre and strange. I move, and pain fills my world. It clears my mind and returns me to reality.

Pain, bone deep. More pain than I have ever felt before. I take a shallow breath, then another. The pain is still there. Pain is good. There is no pain in death. Or beyond it hopefully. The soothing voice is back. I turn my head and try to open my eyes. A figure stands beside me, speaking, and I can hear her words, but I cannot connect with their meaning. They are just noise. I try to move again. The pain intensifies but the figure comes into focus and the words work their way into my brain. I can understand them now.

“We’re just going to move you to the High Dependency Unit, Sally. Once we are there, we can get you more comfortable. This should help with the pain.”

The cold runs through my arm again. This time the darkness doesn’t fall but the pain does retreat. I want to thank the voice, but that is beyond me at this moment. The moment when the memories of the past six months flood back into my brain.


The hospital appointment that started me on this path was the week before the Christmas of 2013.  During which the Doctor explained, “One of the tests we monitor is for a cancer marker as you know. We have spoken of this before. The bad news is that the last blood test show it has increased three-fold. It indicates that there are cancer cells there. Until we get the MRI scan done and the results back, we will not know how far it has spread. I’ll see you again as soon as we have the results and we will work out a plan then.”

As he spoke, I pushed down the anger and frustration I felt inside at the situation I found myself in. As a young girl, not yet in my teens. My family had visited my Uncle Jack as he struggled through the late stages of Liver Cancer. The once big builder who would lift me in the air and swing me around had vanished. In his place was a shriveled ghost of a man laid in a bed waiting to die. In the arrogance of youth, I had silently vowed that wasn’t how I was spending my last days. However, this was not the place to allow those emotions to escape. The Doctor and his predecessors had worked miracles over the past twenty-five years to keep me alive and as healthy as possible. Without them I wouldn’t be sitting there in the first place and for that I would always be grateful. I would do all I could to put off the days when it was me laying in the bed waiting for the mercy of death.

There was little I could say. And other than a polite goodbye and wishing him a good Christmas the appointment was done. As I left my thoughts were spinning. I wasn’t surprised by the news. It had always been a possibility. There was no way I was sharing this until it was one hundred per cent certain.  I could at least give the family a worry-free Christmas. Twenty-Fourteen didn’t look like being a very Happy New Year at all.


The MRI scan results came, and Liver cancer was confirmed. The news had left the family stunned. They rallied as a dose of Chemo was given during a short stay in hospital. Another procedure was added to my list of things I don’t want to do again. Recovering from the side effects and trying to keep everything as normal as possible we all waited for the results of more blood tests.

The Doctor had explained that even though the Chemo had helped by killing the cancer I was running out of time. My Liver was no longer functioning at a high enough capacity. My only hope was a Transplant. Next there was an assessment to see if I was a suitable candidate. I had to be fit enough to survive the operation and the recovery afterwards. After three days of tests and scans I headed back home to wait for an answer. Which would take longer than normal because of the Easter holidays. Just under two weeks later I was accepted on to the List, and told it could be weeks, months or even a year. A year that I didn’t have. My cousin had had a Liver transplant a couple of years earlier in Germany. Would I be as lucky?


The phone call came, less than a month later. A Friday night at the end of May, just as we finished Dinner. For such a momentous moment it was a very short call.

A Transplant Coordinator informed me, “Hello Sally.  It is possible that we have a Liver that might be suitable for you. Could you get yourself to the hospital as soon as possible?”

I was quick to assure her that I would be there as soon as I was able. I wondered in an abstract way how many of these calls she had made over the years. I confirmed that I did know where to go on arrival and managed to thank her before hanging up. Standing stunned for a moment that seemed to last forever. I had a chance, there was a liver. My heart was pounding in my ears.

The rest of that night is a series of snapshots moments as adrenaline took over. I had an overnight bag packed but it lacked essentials such as reading supplies, it was easily sorted.

With both of my children living with us there were no panicked phone calls. A quick conversation and the family decided that my husband would remain at home. His arthritis had become so bad it was difficult for him to sit in a car even for short journeys. Walking through hospital corridors would be even worse. My son would drive, and my daughter would come too so he wouldn’t be making the journey home alone.


I hugged my husband and kissed him goodbye. By this point I felt calm and strangely distanced from things. I recognized it as shock and let it go.

He held me close “Don’t you go dying on me. It’s too late for me to find someone else to look after me in my old age. See you soon.”

Coming from my emotionally stunted husband this was the equivalent of a sonnet, diamond ring and bouquet of roses. He had always been more likely to crack a joke at my expense than declare his affections.

The journey down to Cambridge, in pouring rain. The voice of the Sat-Nav echoed round the car. Arriving at Addenbrooks. The normality of a hospital admission. Strange that that had become so familiar. Tests, a shower and convincing my children to go home so their father wasn’t alone for too long. That it would be hours before anything further happened. Knowing they were both better at doing anything other than just sitting and waiting. That parting was much more difficult than the one with my husband. As I hugged each of them and they hurried away. Neither making eye contact with each other or me. Hoping helplessly to delay the inevitable breakdown into tears. None of that mattered as the door closed behind them and I wondered if I would ever see them again. I sobbed into my pillow and sleep eventually bought me respite.

Being woken up and the trip down to theatre for the transplant. Long corridors with a surprising number of people moving about considering the early hour. The wheels of the bed rattling in and out of the big lifts. Entering the operating theatre and shivering, it was much cooler here. Laying on the operating table preparations being carried out efficiently around me.

“Time to start. Let’s get you off to sleep. “The Anesthetist says. His eyes are kind and he smiled at me.

Cold runs through my vein. The room fades.


I’m alive.

I take a deep breath as the nursing staff move my bed and I am back in the present. I may be laying down but, in my mind, I am taking my next steps in my second chance at life. I am still not going down without a fight. I take another breath and there is less pain. I think of the lost life which has given me this chance, this gift.

“Thank you,” I whisper, “thank you.”.

The Journey Starts

Today I got up and cooked breakfast for my son. I did some washing and had lunch. This afternoon I am going to visit my brother to wish him a happy birthday. This may all seem very boring to you but to me it is now wonderfully normal.

Four year, ten months and few days ago I thought I had no future. My Liver was failing. Although I had just been placed on the transplant list, I knew that it was quite possible that I could die waiting. We have all heard on the news that there are many more people needing organs, than there are those who are prepared to donate. My cousin had been lucky enough  to have a transplant in Germany three years previously. That made it even more likely in my view that we couldn’t both be that fortunate. I was very wrong, however. After being on the waiting list for less than a month I got the call from Addenbrooks and rest as they say is history.

What I would like to do with this blog is share how I felt before, during and after I got through this massive undertaking. When they tell you that need a transplant it is very easy to think, “Okay I’ll have one if there is an organ for me.”  There is much more to consider. It requires hard work and a fighting spirit to come out of the other side. This is what I want to share, not all the gory details. You can find them in other places on the Internet. If you have medical questions however, you should always ask your medical team first. They know you best and they are the experts. I just want to offer the story of my journey to let you know that you are not alone. That there are people out there who understand your hopes and your fears.

This blog isn’t going to suddenly pop up completed overnight. I have only just started working on this.  The amount of time that has passed since my transplant was helpful in putting the whole experience into perspective. Now that I have reached that point in my journey, I am ready to share it. I just wanted to put something out there to break the ice and to get the whole thing underway. If you have taken the time to read this post thank you and I hope that you will come back to see how it all came about.