Monday Morning

It began as a fairly typical Monday morning: Nathan left at silly o'clock (at the start of each week his taxi picks him up at 4 am which, in our past lives, would have constituted Sunday night rather than Monday morning) and I was kept awake by the loud rattle of the furnace. I'm cautious about criticizing my furnace in this blog as it took a long period of industrial (in)action last week, but it shouldn't sound all furious and fired-up during the early hours of the morning: we keep the thermostat turned low while we sleep and heap duvets and blankets on our bed instead.

The moon was stunningly beautiful when I went downstairs to investigate - a crystal edged crescent hanging in the East, with the sky already pale enough to see the outline of the mountains - and the inside of the kitchen windows were also crystal-edged with frost, the olive oil was frozen, and the fresh herbs sat in glasses filled with ice. It took me a little while to make the connection between the panicking furnace, the frozen kitchen contents, and the window which had come loose from its frame when Nathan tried to fasten it shut at some point during the weekend.

By 5.30am, I had taken the window unit to pieces, cleaned off the snow, run my hands under warm water until my fingers would bend again, and refitted the window so that the outside was outside and the inside was inside (and never the twain should meet). By 5.45am, I'd lit the wood-burning stove in the hope it would give the furnace a rest.

The kittens don't like the cold and refuse to go outside. Instead they have transformed my house plants into an assortment of climbing frames and outside toilets, reminiscent of some of the less salubrious playparks we used to live near in London. Before making breakfast, I was cleaning cat shit out of plant pots, sweeping soil off the floor and complaining loudly about my lot in life to the dog. The dog doesn't do well in cold weather either. He's a feisty little rescue dog who likes at least 2 hours exercise a day, but that's simply not possible at the moment so he spends his days barking to go out and barking to come in. Being inside worries him because he knows the chipmunks and glove monsters who live in the trees outside will stage an attack on our house if he doesn't keep them in check; being outside worries him because his feet start to freeze and he can't stop shivering.

So, I was complaining, the dog was barking, the kittens were running amok, the furnace was rattling and then I found the letter. Some of you might know from my earlier blogs that a bone graft was used in the surgery to fuse my broken neck. There among the titanium pins and screws are fragments of bone taken from a donor. I didn't know this was going to happen before my surgery - at that time our thoughts were on living wills and the possibility of my permanent paralysis - but as soon as I learnt about my donor, I wrote a letter to his family expressing my thanks and explaining how significant the donation was towards my recovery. I wrote that it was thanks to the donor that I am able to hold my children and, believe me, I have held my children very close since my fall.

I didn't know my letter had been answered until this morning. I was irritable and cursed as the envelope wouldn't open, assuming it was junk mail promising me a guaranteed lottery win, cheaper car insurance, a new career, free pants, or more of the same when what I really needed was a new furnace, double-glazing, better behaved kittens, and an all weather dog walking solution.

My donor's name was Danny. His wife's letter told me about their 40 year long happy marriage and their 6 grandchildren whom he loved to take fishing, about their foster children and his career as a pipe foreman. She wrote about her gratitude that I'd been able to benefit from his death and said: 'Even though I miss him, I know that a part of him lives on, and for that I am grateful.'

Pat, Danny's wife, also wrote that she'd never really considered the implications of being a donor before and I can understand that. When I die I want my body to be sent off to the nearest teaching hospital so they can admire my surgeon's handiwork, but I know it's important to other family members to be buried in woodland, or cremated and scattered in significant places. Whatever you want though, and I hope it's far off for each and every one of you, perhaps you might want to register as a donor at the US Organ Donor webpage or the NHSBT in the UK.

Sometimes we read things - see things - live things - which create a hiatus in our lives, completing altering our perspective on what is happening around us. It's still Monday morning, the dog is still barking, the kittens continue to cause their own special brand of chaos, the furnace sounds as though it might not make it through the day, and the children were late to school - but I've got this letter in my hand and it reminds me that I'm here, that I'm living it, and that makes everything different.