In a development that has sent shivers down the spines of the Windsors and prompted a frantic re-stocking of the Buckingham Palace first-aid cabinet, Norway’s Crown Princess Mette-Marit has been placed on the lung transplant list. The palace, in a statement that read like a ransom note from the Grim Reaper, confirmed that her royal highness ‘suffers from a progressive lung disease’ and that a transplant ‘is the only viable option’.
Now, I don’t wish to be churlish about a serious medical condition, but one cannot help but notice the timing. Just last week, the British tabloids were in a frenzy over a minor crease in Prince Andrew’s morning suit. Now, suddenly, we have a full-blown royal organ crisis. It’s almost as if the universe is trying to one-up itself in the absurdity stakes.
Let us consider the logistics. A lung transplant is no small feat. It requires a donor, a surgical team, and a great deal of hope. The Norwegian royal family, normally associated with skiing and a quiet, understated charm, now find themselves in the unenviable position of waiting for a pair of perfectly good lungs to become available. One hopes they have a better system than the British NHS waiting list, which would likely see the princess posthumously receive a lung from a 90-year-old smoker.
Meanwhile, UK royal doctors are on standby. Standby for what, exactly? Are they ready to perform the transplant via Zoom? Or perhaps they are merely standing by to offer moral support and a stiff gin? The palace has not clarified, but one imagines a scene of utter chaos: royal physicians in top hats and tails, bickering over who gets to hold the scalpel while a footman fetches the leeches.
The real story here, as ever, is the preposterousness of royal medicine. While the commoners are left to rot on waiting lists, the royals have ‘standby’ doctors. It’s like having a Michelin-starred chef on standby for a frozen pizza. But let’s not be too harsh. The Crown Princess is a human being, and illness is democratic in its cruelty. It merely reserves a table at the front for those with titles.
I propose a new protocol: every time a royal falls ill, a charity gala airlift should be organised. Not for the treatment, but for the spectacle. Imagine the bidding war for the first post-transplant royal sneeze. It could fund the entire Norwegian health service for a decade.
But back to the matter at hand. The princess’s condition is described as ‘stable but serious’. A phrase that reeks of royal understatement. Had she been a commoner, the headline would read ‘Woman on Death’s Doorstep’. Instead, we get ‘Crown Princess on List’. It’s the linguistic equivalent of putting a lace doily on a tumour.
And what of the donor? Some poor soul will have to die so that a royal can breathe. The great wheel of life turns, but it makes a dreadful creaking noise when it brushes against a monarchy. One can only hope the donor’s family receives a commemorative plaque and a lifetime supply of lutefisk.
In summary, this is a tragic event for the Norwegian royal family, but it also serves as a grim reminder that even the most blue-blooded among us are merely renters of our own bodies. The crown princess needs new lungs, the UK doctors are on standby, and I am once again reminded that the universe has a sick sense of humour. Pass the gin.
