4 October 2002

Progress was halted by a big crashola, bad LFT numbers, fevers and whatnot triggering the usual rounds of tests, X-rays and scans in gigantic machines. Eventually test number 1,271, the old swallow-the-camera trick, showed two stones blocking Joc's main bile duct, which were removed by an assortment of knives, balloons and baskets passed down the camera tube in a sort of teddy bear's nano-picnic.

Use of the term 'stone' had me at least frowning for a while, since gallstones are far from rare and sometimes come with a donor liver - but we were assured that such stones or plugs can and do form in as little as two weeks from the action of static bile on a sludge of dead and discarded liver cells from the rejection process. ("Charming", say some of Joc's more delicate lady friends, as we answer their questions with perhaps more detail than they expect.)

That was almost a week ago, and J has been on IV antibiotics and under close scrutiny since then. No Chardonnay poseur is as alert as me to the nuances of hue, saturation and luminance of things yellowish-green as we watch the sometimes-hourly changes in Joc's bile drainage. I am pleased to report excellent colour and tone for the first time today, coinciding with an apparent return of appetite. This makes me as happy as any Jewish mother, which Joc frequently accuses me of being as I clap my ear to her abdomen to listen for sounds of avctivity within.

In fact one of the more worrying symptoms was Joc failing to complain about the food, although it is true she did not eat very much of it either. Today we returned at last to our suture-splitting jokes about the hospital menu. Ward prize for effort goes to 'Chicken Cacciatore with Vegetables in Season', the latter apparently meaning 'Within the Use-Before Date'. As a special incentive to eat, J has been presented with a secret menu by the dietician, which offers proper food with English names like 'pie' and 'chips' to patients who need to gain weight rapidly.

Although I left the hospital only 90 minutes ago, sweet Joc has just called me to report a successful and painless installation of the night's drip line by one of her favourite doctors, so that I can sleep easy. She is running out of veins, thanks in no small part to the clumsiness and callousness of the anaesthetists who prepared her for the ERCP procedure. Maybe they are all failed date-rapists and drink-spikers, who knows, but the nurses uniformly describe them as 'animals', for their slab-of-meat attitude to patients.

J has come to know the best vein-piercers and line-inserters - due to the ever-present problems of infection, and the irritant effect of the drugs on the veins, lines and needles can stay in only for 48 hours before being replaced elsewhere. Hopefully this will be J's last night of drugs or blood - unfortunately they had to invigorate her with two units of blood to withstand the ERCP procedure. She said she got quite a buzz and now understands all that Dracula stuff at last...

Joc continues to progress well physically, walking twice a day and with nearly all dressings removed. Although the staff are at pains to reassure her that the big scar will become less prominent, Joc says that she will wear it with pride. Apparently they used to use a three-cornered 'Mercedes-Benz' incision but now use a reverse ell, which looks most impressive when held together with a neat line of staples like a giant zipper.

So now we will make no plans, and just wait and see what happens. The last week has been disappointing and hard - only I can imagine the Room 101-like feeling Joc must have had when they wanted to jam yet another large tube down her throat - but we have been buoyed by visits from hale and hearty transplantees five and six years down the track, whose stories and experiences make us realise that these problems are indeed just 'hiccups on the road to recovery', as the doctors keep saying with sometimes irritating cheerfulness.

Love, JH.

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