Today is 3 years since my Grandfather passed away.

It’s also 3 year (minus 12 days) that someone in Cape Town lost a 36 year old son in a car accident and in their grief managed to donated a heart to my Grandfather.

My Grandparents decided to put my Grandfather on the heart transplant list about 6 months prior to this (after a back op & complications his heart was left damaged, a couple of heart bypasses & pacemakers later; he was on his last at about 55 years old). Behind my back they made this decision, I remember them telling me when I visited them in Port Shepstone at Fish on River, I was against it, I cried and after my Grandfather appealed to me that he could not live like this anymore, I realised I could not either and gave in.

Also then I thought, a heart, it’s not going to fall out of the sky; people are on the list FOREVER! Let me just give them this, hope, this light of faith….

Less than six months later the call arrived, it was Mother’s Day, I had just moved to JHB and my Grandparents were visiting my Aunt in Jozi. My Aunt was already rushing them to the airport and my Mom was already on the phone to the hospital and heart transplant co-ordinator. I was at the airport in 30 minutes to meet everyone. Then the news arrives from my Mom: there were no flights left out of Cape Town, the last flight had left and all the on private pilot’s were at the Rugby and had been drinking, the clock was ticking and as you all know there is only a few hours that a heart can survive.  My Grandfather was not an ideal candidate for a heart transplant, he was over 60 – smoked, was on his second pace maker, almost died having his teeth replaced. This was it, this heart or nothing.

Let me tell you if you are ever in shit or have a problem in life, you want my family behind you! My Aunt Ellie is the BEST emotional support ever, my Mom Maria can organise anything in the whole wide world and will not take no as an answer and I can pull together anything come hell or high water!

In 60 minutes my Mom had tracked down a pilot who’s anniversary it was and was planning on taking his family out on this plane (which was some plane that was able to fly a lot quicker than other normal private plane’s) and after hearing the family was trying to transplant the heart, packed a picnic basket, rushed to the hospital and collected the heart and was heading to Durban. I got my Grandparents on a flight, my Grandfathers final flight, at least he got to fly business class, we sat in isle 3, his ticket 3C I was sure was a sign all would be fine… (and anyone who knows me well will know why).

We arrived at the hospital ahead of time, we started pre-op, filled in the forms, said our hello’s to the nurses. Everything I was all way to familiar with as I had spent most of my life in hospital with my Grandfather. Reading charts, speaking to Doctor’s and checking medication allocation became part of my life.

I paced the helicopter pad for at least another three hours while I waited for the plane to land and the ambulance waiting on the runway to bring the heart. It was cold (well cold for me from Durban) and I remember looking at a very bright star in the sky, pleading with whatever God is out there for this to work out.

The ambulance arrives screaming up the road, the cooler box was rushed into the hospital with me running behind it. We were ready, it was all systems go.

That night and the next 12 nights I slept in the hospital waiting room.

We had to beg my uncle, his only son to come to Durban. I really don’t care if you read this, I am angry that we had to still to this day.

The transplant was a success; apparently the old heart was the size of a rugby ball form all the trauma (something my Grandfather would have been proud of, he loved rugby)

The next few days were not such a success, behind the glass walls of the transplant unit I stood with my hand against the window. His platelets dropped, his body was weak and by day 12 it was over…. they stopped pumping adrenalin into his system. The heart rate monitor showed his heart beats dropped from 30 to 0 as the priest read his last rights and we all stood around the bed. I never want to go through that again…. I almost hyperventilated, it was a dream.

I could not speak at his funeral, I wish I had, if I had these are the things I would have said:

You are the most inspirational man I have ever meet, I will never love anyone like I loved you.

I miss being able to phone you and rant and swear and get level headed advise form you (Ouma is crap at it, she keeps telling me to stop saying the F-word when I try do it with her).

I will always be your favourite grandchild and the other grandchildren can just deal with that. I was born on the same day as you 3 March and that makes me liable for some sort of favouritism.

I was never just your grandchild; I was your long lost daughter.

I am sorry for busting you for smoking under the log cabin in Saint Lucia.

I am sorry for pee-ing on your foot when I was 3 but you told me that is how you get warts, so I was testing it out.

I am who I am because of you. I am fearless, I fight, I won’t give up. I drink and get up the next day with a hangover and start all over again. I know what I am worth. I don’t take shit from anyone. I am doing things with my life and I am going places. I am not scared to say “Fuck You”! And I can fire a shot gun.

I will buy a red coverable Merc so that I can listen to Tracy Chapman while driving it, and I remember waiting from you to come home from the Rugby.  I am going to go and look at the ice-bergs for you and take some of your ashes so you can too.

I miss you. I love you and I will always think of you.

You will always be remembered.

xoxo