Fast Flight

by George Ivanoff

  As she disappeared into the cockpit, Dillon leaned his head against the window. The cold glass felt good against his forehead. Below, hundreds of lights were twinkling.

  What had Igor called them? Little explosions of joy in the lonely blackness.

  Right now, they just made Dillon feel alone. He was so far above them, and he couldn’t get down. He was separated from the lights – isolated.

  He tried to connect the dots, but it just wouldn’t work. There were no pictures, no patterns. Just chaos. And in that chaos, he knew, one of those lights was the hospital where a liver waited for him.

  Dillon had spent all this time fearing the transplant. But now that it was in jeopardy, he suddenly realised how much he wanted it – how much he craved the life it offered him. He choked back the sob that tried to push its way up.

  Flick came bustling back. ‘Everything is going to be all right,’ she said. ‘Igor said that flight control were working on getting us down immediately. And I’ve spoken to the hospital. There will be an ambulance waiting when we land, which will take you straight there. It will be okay.’

  Dillon nodded, but wouldn’t allow himself to get his hopes up. He looked back to the window. Still, the lights were just lights.

  ‘Good news, people.’ Igor’s voice was cheery. ‘Buckle up. We’re coming in to land.’

  ‘See?’ said Flick. ‘I told you it would be fine.’

  Mum sighed with relief.

  Dillon felt wobbly, like a tub of jelly. He must have been holding himself so tense, and now that he relaxed, he felt shaky. He was sure that if he had been standing, he would probably have collapsed.

  ‘I guess this flight wasn’t quite as boring as you were expecting,’ said Flick.

  Dillon nodded and looked back out the window. There, in the lights, he could see a smiling face – welcoming them as they descended.

  As with the takeoff, Dillon was glued to the window for the landing. The aeroplane touched down at 3.55 am.

  ‘My stomach always flips when a plane lands or takes off,’ said Mum, when they were down.

  ‘Does it?’ asked Dillon, his attention returning to the cabin. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

  When the plane had taxied to a stop, Flick released the door and lowered the stairs. Igor emerged from the cockpit as they were about to disembark.

  ‘Apologies for the delay,’ he said. ‘But we have you here now. Good luck, young man. I hope that all goes well for you today and in the future, and that you see the lights from the night sky many more times.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Dillon.

  Flick led Dillon and Mum along the tarmac towards a waiting ambulance. Dillon took one last glance at the aircraft; its white body with streaks of red and blue bathed in the airport lights.

  Could I ever fly a plane like that?

  ‘And this is where I say goodbye,’ announced Flick as the ambulance driver stepped forward to meet them. ‘It’s been a pleasure accompanying you on a mostly boring flight.’

  Mum laughed and Dillon grinned.

  ‘Who wants to ride up front?’ asked the ambulance driver.

  Dillon looked immediately at Mum, who nodded. ‘Sure. I don’t mind sitting in the back,’ she said.

  The driver didn’t say much on the journey, preferring to turn up the radio. Majestic classical music resounded through the vehicle as it sped along the Tullamarine Freeway towards the large cluster of lights that was Melbourne. The strings soared and the trumpets blared, the piano danced and the symbols clashed, all in perfect accompaniment to the passing view.

  There weren’t many cars on the road just after four in the morning. The ambulance streaked along, passing the few vehicles that were out there. Dillon connected street lamp to street lamp as they went, creating a glowing line from airport to hospital on the map in his mind. He didn’t really know the layout of this city, but he imagined the route as a swirly sweeping pattern, meandering and beautiful.

  Dillon was disappointed that they drove without the siren. He would have liked the drama of flashing lights and wailing sound. It would have made the drive more of an event. The driver laughed when he asked about the siren and simply said ‘we don’t need it’ without any further explanation.

  There were a few more cars when they got off the freeway.

  Dillon’s heart skipped a beat as they approached the Royal Children’s Hospital, the gleaming structure ablaze with light. It was strikingly beautiful – curves and glass and coloured panels. It didn’t look like a hospital at all. But it was. A hospital full of children.

  They pulled into an ambulance bay and hopped out. It was the middle of the night but things still seemed busy. There were other ambulances parked around them. A little kid on a stretcher was being unloaded from one, and off to the side a small group of nurses chatted intensely.

  Their driver took them to the reception desk, where Mum gave their details and filled out forms. It seemed a bit like checking into a hotel. Not that Dillon had ever actually done that – but he’d watched people on television. And then a plastic name tag was secured to his wrist.

  It felt like a long time, but he finally found himself in a room changing into a hospital gown. He thought it was really stupid, how it did up at the back. Even when it was tied up, it was as if his gown was gaping and his bum was out on display. He climbed into the bed as quickly as he could and waited some more. Mum sat on the chair by his bed.

  Soon, a nurse came to take a blood sample. His blood would be put into a machine and separated to create what was called a serum, which contained his body’s antibodies. Antibodies were what helped your body fight off sickness. But they could also react with other foreign elements … such as a transplanted organ. His serum would be mixed with white blood cells from the donor organ. And then the doctors would check to see if the antibodies reacted – if they would fight against the donor organ.

  Dillon imagined his antibodies as soldiers, going to war against potential diseases. He hoped that they would recognise this new liver as an ally rather than an enemy. He had a silly cartoon-like vision of tiny troops charging a massive, bloated liver in the middle of a green field. The liver had a face with a frightened expression and it held a white flag in its pudgy little hands.

  ‘Attack!’ yelled the captain, and just as the troops were about to strike, a courier on a World War II motorcycle raced up with a message from headquarters: ‘Cease fire! Do not attack!’

  Dillon chuckled as he hoped that his antibodies would listen to the advice from headquarters.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Mum, looking at him curiously.

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Dillon.

  Mum was going to question him further, but the surgeon came into the room – Doctor Jason Leang, or Doc J as he’d told Dillon to call him. He had straight black hair with just a few strands of grey, in a neat side part, and wore blue pants and a white shirt. Dillon’s eyes were drawn to his striking green bow tie – so bright it almost glowed.

  ‘Good news,’ announced Doc J, adjusting his round, wire-rimmed glasses. ‘The donor liver is a match. We’re going to prep you for surgery right now.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness!’ Mum put a hand to her face. She looked like she was about to burst into tears.

  Dillon’s stomach clenched. This is it, he thought. It’s really going to happen.

  And then his stomach was fine.

  And he wondered how he should be feeling.

  But at this moment in time, he didn’t actually know how to feel.

  I should be excited, but I’m not.

  I should be scared, but I’m not.

  I’m just … here!

  I think I’m ready!

  It was like going out to bat. Anxious until he was actually there.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Doc J, watching him carefully.

  Dillon realised that he probably looked strange just staring and not speaking as he took it all in. ‘I’m fine.’ Dillon’s voice was calm and level. ‘It’s ju
st been a long wait, and … and I think I’m ready for this.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Doc J. ‘Glad to hear it.’

  As the surgeon left the room, Mum jumped up and rummaged in her handbag, pulling out her mobile phone.

  ‘I’ve got to call your father,’ she said, stumbling from the room.

  Dillon put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. His life was about to change. So many things would be different. It wasn’t just that he’d no longer need the light box – he’d have more freedom, to go places and do things.

  A smile crept onto his face. I’ll need equipment.

  ‘It turns out that your dad has already booked a flight,’ said Mum, coming back into the room. ‘He said he had a good feeling about things and that he couldn’t wait. He’s taking a seven-thirty flight. So he’ll be here when you wake up.’

  ‘Can I have a mobile phone?’ asked Dillon.

  ‘What?’ asked Mum, a little taken aback by the question. ‘What brought that on?’

  ‘I’m getting a new liver,’ said Dillon. ‘One that works. I won’t need to sit in a light box anymore. I can go for sleepovers at Jay’s house. And I won’t need to be half an hour from an airport, either. So I’ll be able to go places: school excursions, school camp. And if I’m going to be away from home all the time, I’ll need to stay in contact with you, so I can let you know when I’m ready for you to pick me up … and stuff.’

  ‘All the time, huh?’ Mum laughed. ‘I guess you have a lot of catching up to do. You have missed out on so many things.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘I’ll think about it and talk with your dad when he gets here. We’ll let you know after the operation.’

  ‘Cool!’

  From thereon in, things were a bit of a blur. Dillon could hardly believe it was all actually happening. He had waited for so long. He’d hoped and wished, wondered and imagined, but it had always seemed like such a long way away. It was almost as if it was going to happen to someone else.

  But here he was in a hospital bed in Melbourne. An IV drip was attached to his arm. An anaesthesiologist came to visit, and nurses fussed over him, testing his blood pressure and heart rate. And everyone asked him his name and date of birth, checking it against their forms and the plastic band that had been attached to his wrist.

  I guess they want to make sure they put the right organ into the right person, he thought. Have they ever got it wrong? But the question just scared him, so he tried to push it away.

  And then he was in the operating theatre, everyone gathered around, his mum holding his hand.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Dillon.

  ‘Eight-thirty,’ answered Mum. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Strawberry, mint or cola?’ asked the anaesthesiologist.

  ‘Huh?’ Dillon looked confused.

  The anaesthesiologist held up a mask. ‘I can put an insert in the anaesthetic mask,’ she explained. ‘You have a choice of flavours. Or nothing at all, if you’d prefer.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dillon. ‘Cola, I suppose.’

  Dillon wondered if she had meant smell rather than flavour. And then it suddenly occurred to him that someone must have died in order for him to get his new liver.

  He’d always known that would be the case, but this was the first time he had ever really thought about what it meant. It came as a shock. He had spent all this time worrying about his own situation and now he realised that there was someone in a much worse position. A real person. Someone who had passed away. And doctors were going to take that person’s liver out of their body and put it into his. This person’s death is what would be saving his life.

  Who was that person?

  How did this person die?

  Is it a kid like me? Or someone older? Would an older liver last as long as a young one? Would a grown-up liver even fit into my body?

  Is it a boy or a girl? Are girl livers the same? Does it make a difference?

  Whoever it was would have had family and friends – people upset at their death. He was curious to know how they felt about a part of a person they cared deeply for being put into someone else’s body.

  His body.

  He would have a piece of another person inside of him. In a way, that dead person would live on. Sort of. Through him.

  He had a sudden urge to know who that person was.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the nurse. ‘Who did my liver belong to?’

  The nurse looked confused.

  ‘My new liver,’ Dillon explained. ‘Who did it belong to? What was the person’s name?’

  ‘Oh,’ said the nurse. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s against policy to give out any information about the donor,’ said Doc J. ‘All I can really do is assure you that the liver is healthy and a good match for you.’

  Dillon wanted to know why it was against policy, but he didn’t get the chance to ask.

  ‘I’m going to put the mask on now,’ said the anaesthesiologist. ‘Start counting backwards from one hundred and see how far you can get.’

  ‘I’ll be right here with you till you’re asleep,’ said Mum, giving his hand a squeeze. ‘And both Dad and I will be waiting for you when you wake up.’

  ‘One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight.’ Dillon started counting. ‘Ninety-seven …’

  What would happen to his own liver? No one would want it, surely, because it didn’t work properly.

  ‘Ninety-six …’

  Will they throw it out?

  ‘Ninety-five …’

  He imagined the blood-soaked liver being tossed into a wastepaper basket.

  ‘Ninety-four …’

  Or maybe I can take it home with me?

  ‘Ninety-four …’

  He imagined it in a jar, floating in liquid, sitting on his desk at home, where he could watch it while he did his homework every afternoon.

  ‘Ninety-four …’

  He realised everything was blurry. And all the voices were muffled.

  ‘Ninety-five …’

  His mouth tasted of cola.

  ‘Ninety …’

  What number am I up to?

  ‘Nine …’

  I need to throw up.

  That was Dillon’s first conscious thought.

  He tried to vomit. Nothing came out.

  His eyes were closed. He had no real idea of where he was or what was happening. All he knew was that his stomach was churning.

  He retched and a thin trickle of foul-tasting bile escaped, dribbling down his cheek. Someone wiped it away.

  He felt hands on his shoulders, leaning him to the side, and something cold and metallic pressed to his cheek.

  He retched again. A little more liquid came out.

  Dillon was aware of movement and voices around him, but he couldn’t open his eyes. He was too tired.

  His stomach settled a bit and everything went away.

  Until he needed to throw up again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Somewhere, amidst all the spewing, he began to get a sense of where he was and what was going on.

  I’m in hospital, aren’t I?

  I had an operation, didn’t I?

  I’ve got a new liver … I hope!

  He finally opened his eyes. Mum and Dad were there, just like they said they would be. He smiled.

  People came and went. Mum and Dad stayed.

  He caught a fleeting glimpse of bright green.

  Dillon floated in and out of awareness. The only thing he was certain of was that he was thirsty. Scratchy throat, bone-dry mouth, parched thirstiness.

  People spoke. He wasn’t sure who was talking to whom. To him? To Mum and Dad? To each other?

  ‘Welcome back,’ said Mum.

  ‘You’re doing well, champ,’ said Dad.

  ‘Nausea is quite a common reaction to anaesthetic,’ said a nurse.

  ‘It was a textbook operation,’ said Doc J.

  ‘I’ve got flowe
rs here,’ said someone.

  ‘I’ll get water,’ said someone else. ‘He’s doing well.’

  ‘Nil by mouth for the first twelve hours.’

  ‘It’s already after nine pm.’

  ‘It will take some time for the anaesthetic to wear off completely.’

  ‘He’ll probably drift in and out of sleep.’

  ‘You don’t have to stay here all night.’

  ‘You should get some rest, too.’

  ‘We’d rather wait.’

  Dillon heard a mobile ringing. ‘Is that my phone?’ he whispered.

  And then he fell asleep.

  The following morning, Dillon woke properly. His mouth and throat were so dry all he could manage was a hoarse whisper. He was allowed to have a drink of water, and was told that he could have a snack later in the day.

  The nurses soon had him propped up and sitting in bed.

  ‘Wow,’ said Mum, staring at him, Dad beside her. ‘I think you’re looking better already. Your skin isn’t as yellow.’ She came right up to the bed and stared at his face. ‘And your eyes … they’re white.’

  A little while later Doc J stopped in to check on him. Dillon noticed that his bow tie was bright orange today. He looked over the charts at the foot of Dillon’s bed, where the nurses recorded their obs. He nodded and made ‘uh-huh’ sounds as he adjusted his glasses. ‘I am very pleased with your progress. Everything seems to be going well.’

  ‘You have … interesting ties,’ said Dillon.

  Doc J smiled. ‘Bow ties are cool!’ He hung the chart back in place and pulled up a seat. ‘Right,’ he said, looking from Dillon to his parents and back again. ‘I’m sure that you’re aware of how things will go from here on in. But I’d feel better if I went over it all with you anyway.’

  Dillon nodded.

  ‘The transplant was successful,’ continued Doc J, ‘and there is certainly no sign of rejection. We will, of course, continue to monitor you for the next few days before you are discharged. After which, you will be able to live a fairly normal life, with a couple of provisos. Firstly, you will need to take a daily anti-rejection medication for the rest of your life. I cannot stress how important this is. It is this drug that will ensure your new liver will stay a healthy part of your existing body. It suppresses your immune system so that it doesn’t reject the liver.’