Here I am again. It's dark, quiet and all the rooms are filled with the rise and fall of sleep. The veins in my thin hands shine up at me from the keyboard. The only light that fills the space is the glow of my monitor. I am here tonight because my mind is wakeful. I cannot seem to find the sweet spot of peace.
My lifetime so far has been freckled with joy, adventure, extremeties of trauma and privledge and everything in between. The constant has been my ability to fall in love with life despite it's circumstance. This February, for the first time, I fell out of love with life and it almost killed me.
In the week that followed my liver transplant; my body was in screaming amounts of pain, I couldn't eat, my skin smelled from the toxic drugs and I vomited through the incision that spread from my breast to my hips. I was dehydrated and my veins were drying up so they couldn't adminster IV. I would need another hose in my neck to mainline fluids. The overwhelm and the pain came out of my mouth as I told the surgeon I needed to give up. He yelled as I hung for life on the edge of my bed and gasped through the pain, "you fought harder then anyone ever has to get this surgery. We do not give these to everyone. You owe it to your donor, the people who never got one and to the people who will die waiting to FIGHT now."
I felt the sting of shame and knew, at the same time, I did not posess the strength to fight. I thought, "Can't he see we have reached the point of no return?" However, given the lack of options he was presenting, I assured him I would re-engage the fight.
As I listened to his footsteps fade down the ward, I assessed my energy to make good on my promise. It was negative 200 and falling fast. I felt failure was a guarantee. At least I should warn my family. I did. They did not take the news well. They called for help and it came in the form of an acupuncturist who was willing to come to the hospital. He took down the cards that lined the windowsill and removed all my pictures. He took everything off my side tables except my water. Everything was too big, life was too demanding, the love I felt for the people in my life was incompacitating. He told me to focus on the very small. Eventually we narrowed life down to my son's fingernail. He told me to focus on that to keep the ember of life alive within me. It was important to keep my spirit and mind alive while I could not control anything physically. A fingernail I truly loved was truly all I could handle.
For 3 days I visualized my baby boy's fingernail, then finger, then simply his beautiful hand. I repeated "mind over matter" under my gasping breath for 3 nights and 3 days. I yelled at myself as I vomitted up my lifesaving drugs. Finally, on the 3rd morning I believed myself and held down my medications. I announced my new resolve to my family and the doctors who were overjoyed. 2 hours later, my blood work returned and I learned that my liver was in rejection. Here was the true test. But the 3 days of hardwork had paid off and my resolve was solid.
My committment to life hasn't wavered since then but the experience still affects me now. I see pictures of myself before I was sick and there is a lightness to my smile, a joy of spirit. My spirit still suffers from the prolonged illness and the shock of surgery. I miss the girl I was. I hope she's just hiding and not truly and forever changed. I don't want to be so tired, so easily overwhelmed, so inept at the simple things. Life will always be a gift that was given to me- forever. My heartbeat is a gift. Every word I say may never have been. That very fact continues to humble me, amaze me and bring me to my knees. Is there a normal in my new reality?
With gratitude and always love,
Michelle
