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Badge of survival

Not many brides would be happy to thank their lucky scars...


Published by: Keeley Henderson and Jean Jollands
Published on: 23 August 2012

My boyfriend Shane stared nervously at me as I lay
in my hospital bed. Suddenly, he reached into his pocket and handed me a little red velvet box. Inside was a gold diamond ring.
‘Will you marry me?' he asked.
‘Yes,' I grinned. ‘If I live long enough!'
After what we'd been through, we'd developed a wicked sense of humour. It was a way of coping.
Just months before, we'd had everything ahead of us. Life was hectic with my kids Adam, 15, Andrew, 13, Billy, 11, Rachel, nine and Cerys, seven. They adored Shane, my bloke of four years. We all loved spending lazy days on the beach - he'd be the first rolling up his jeans for a paddle!
I'd recently been diagnosed with dilated cardiomyopathy, after suffering several attacks
of breathlessness.
‘A virus has attacked your heart, causing it to enlarge,' doctors had admitted. ‘The heart's beating too fast and isn't pumping blood properly.'
‘What does that mean?' I'd asked. The doctor explained it should've been doing 60 beats per minute, but was doing 145.
‘Without a heart transplant, you'll be dead in two weeks,' he'd said. ‘What?' I'd gasped. ‘This is a joke!'
Yet antibodies in my blood meant my body would reject most hearts. ‘Two weeks,' I'd kept whispering. ‘Two weeks.'
‘We'll get through this,' Shane'd sobbed.
Now, as he proposed, I thought back to when I'd first met him at a local social club. We'd got on like a house on fire, but it'd been two months before I'd seen him again.
The club had organised a day trip to Whitley Bay. I'd tried the cheeky approach to get him to notice me.
‘Lend us £20 for Whitley Bay,' I'd grinned.
I'd only been joking, but he'd started rummaging in his wallet!
He was everything I needed, but now I wondered if I'd live long enough to be his wife. He must've read my mind, as he leant in close to me now.
‘We will marry,' he said.
Thankfully, doctors stabilised me with drugs. Shane stayed at a hospital flat and the kids visited every weekend. They were staying with relatives, but we did our best to keep things normal.
‘Tell me about school,' I'd smile. Listening to them babble about spelling tests, I could forget for just a few minutes.
But two months after the proposal, I woke to find my face, arms and legs had all swelled up.
‘You have fluid retention,' my consultant said. ‘It's a sign your heart has drastically deteriorated. There's nothing more we can do.'
‘What about a transplant?' I panicked, my eyes darting between his and Shane's.
‘You're too ill,' he stressed. ‘Maybe it's time to say goodbye to your children.'
‘He's wrong,' I raged to Shane later. ‘I'm feeling better than I have done in ages. I'll beat this.'
‘I know you will,' he said, determinedly. ‘I'm not letting my fiancee go anywhere.'
But I had to prepare my children for what might happen.
My sister Elizabeth, 37, had warned them I was poorly but, as they came to my bedside, my voice crackled with emotion.
‘There's a chance Mummy might not be coming home,'
I whispered, sensing their fear. ‘Doctors might not be able to find me a new heart in time.'
‘It's not fair,' Billy cried, bursting into tears. If my heart hadn't already broken, it was now.
Cerys stroked my hand. ‘You'll get better, Mummy,' she hushed. ‘They will find you a heart.'
Days later, I got my miracle.
‘New scans suggest your heart hasn't deteriorated further,' doctors admitted. And the hospital had been loaned a new machine that was usually for kidney dialysis. They were going to try and use it to lower my levels of antibodies so I could accept a donor heart.
‘It's never been used like this before,' my consultant admitted.
‘I'll try anything,' I said.
And, after 11 sessions, it worked!
One morning at 6am, three months after I'd first been diagnosed, a nurse woke me up.
‘Have a piece of toast, love,' she grinned. ‘You won't be allowed anything later, as you'll be going into surgery - they've found you a heart!'
‘That's amazing!' I gasped. ‘Call Shane!'
He was up in a flash.
‘It's happening,' he laughed.
That evening, I was taken into surgery, as Shane gave me one last kiss. Neither of us could accept it might be goodbye.
I wasn't allowed to wear jewellery, so Shane gently slipped off my engagement ring. ‘I'll give this back afterwards,' he vowed.
‘You'd better,' I grinned. The op took six hours, but it was a complete success. When I came round, Shane was beside me.
‘You did it!' he smiled. ‘So you'd better take this back now,' With that he slid my ring back on.
An angry 10in scar snaked from just below my neck right down my chest, but it was nothing compared to my life.
There was a risk my body would reject the heart, but my chances were good.
‘On average, a heart transplant patient will live for five years,' the consultant admitted. ‘But some live much longer.' Five years? I clung to the fact that he said some survive longer.
‘I've got a second chance,' I told Shane. ‘And I'm taking it.'
But as I recovered, I kept thinking about my donor. He was Christopher, a 22-year-old, who died after a huge asthma attack. I'd felt so grateful that I'd written to his family to thank them for their selflessness and for giving me such a precious gift.
It was another six weeks before I left hospital. Then I had to spend the first four months in bed. Shane had to give up his driver's job to care for me. ‘I miss what we had,' I'd moan. ‘I'd love to be able to go to the castle.' Before this nightmare, we used to love going to Dunstanburgh Castle and strolling hand in hand.
‘We should be grateful you're alive,' Shane insisted.
Slowly, my strength returned and I took walks to the shop, or helped peel some spuds. By the time the first anniversary of my transplant arrived, I felt fighting fit, but guilty.
‘How come I got to live and Christopher didn't?' I fretted.
‘He was obviously a good man who wouldn't want you feeling guilty,' Shane replied.
And he was right. My life had been saved and I couldn't waste it
So, six weeks before the second anniversary of my transplant... ‘How about we tie the knot on the date of my op?' I asked Shane. ‘Perfect!' he grinned. The only problem was organising it all!
‘I'll do your hair,' my mate Evelyn, 42, offered.
I ordered my ivory floor-length strapless gown online and, on the big day, I arrived at Morpeth Register Office in a white stretch limo. When I walked down the aisle in front of 50 close family and friends, I felt a million dollars.
My dress revealed my scar, but I wore it with pride. It was my badge of survival.
‘Beautiful,' Shane sighed.
Next January will be five years from the transplant, and I can never forget the doctors warning that the majority of patients don't survive longer. It's why I won't make promises to my kids. I don't want to break them.
But I don't focus on dying - I focus on living. A wonderful man saved my life by giving me his heart - and my amazing family gives me the strength and courage to make it keep beating.
Vickie Summers, 37, Amble, Northumberland