I think I am finally loosing it (stop sniggering at the back there). No in all seriousness, I am sitting here perfectly calm and composed on the outside, but that is merely because I know my lungs won’t tolerate the amount of screaming, crying and howling that the fear and frustration inside wants to create. Merely blogging about this brings forth a whole new torrent of emotions as I know people in this same situation will read this and they must be feeling like I am but I have to write or I will go mad.

Three people I know have had false alarms in the last week. Three people. All at Harefield. None of them me. There, that sums up the entirety of this entry really, me me me me me.

That is part of the twisted nature of this whole waiting game; the people who support you, who you rely on and talk to and who need you right back are also waiting. So whenever you hear of a friend being called, there is a surge of elation for them, followed by a drop of sheer despair. Completely illogical really, as just because one person gets a call does not mean another wont, but somehow in my head alarm bells start ringing that I will slot into the 50% whose chance never comes. Then follows the obligatory guilt for having the sheer audacity to even contemplate “why not me” – why should it be me more than any other person? The answer is it shouldn’t, and I know that, but we all have an in-built survival instinct and are all craving for this second chance.

Worse than all of that is the fact that in all three cases the lungs were not viable, so I cant even celebrate that a friends new lease of life is beginning; all of these people are still waiting, still needing and still hoping. I know how crushed I felt in the summer when my call turned out to be a false alarm, so I don’t know why I am envious, it is a cruel position to be in, to have the possibility wafted under your nose and then to have it snatched away. Not to mention contemplating the three people who died and donated those organs in the first place, my head is spinning and is a whirlpool of thoughts and emotions, although sadly at present the woe is me element is winning.

When I am feeling frustrated and helpless like this I like to get up and do something which at least makes me feel like I have some sort of control over which way my destiny is headed, but at this second I have no new ideas feel like I am running out of steam. Sometimes things are out of your control and you have to ride the wave, I try really hard to do that, but cant help wanting to steer it in the direction I want to go. I am just having one of those evenings where I can physically hear the clock ticking away, echoing in my head. And I am feeling the least confident I have ever felt that I will ever get this transplant.

Disclaimer: moody rant written in place of self-indulgent tears mentioned in first paragraph, or storm-out/manic hoovering mentioned in previous blog, as lungs much prefer me bashing the keyboard about a bit.