Signs of Spring; Thoughts of Winter

One of the great signs of spring made its appearance in my area last week. It’s my favorite sign of spring, as a matter of fact. Yeah, crocuses and daffodils and robins and new green leaves are very nice. Potholes emerging on busy streets, with victimized hubcaps strewn haphazardly along the side of the road have been known to amuse me (so long as none of the hubcaps aren’t mine). Spring jackets and pastel shirts can make one feel almost liberated after spending a winter bundled in woolens and layers. But the real sign of spring for me will always be the “Now Open” sign at Rita’s Original Water Ice.

Those of you not living in an area with a Rita’s probably know this treat better as “Italian ice”. Maybe you’re unfortunate enough to live somewhere where the only flavors available are lemon and cherry. My sincerest condolences if your only familiarity with this treat is those little frozen cups you purchase at the supermarket. You know not what you’re missing.

I broke my long winter’s water ice fast with a medium from Rita’s on Sunday. Half was lemon, the other half was kiwi-strawberry. It was the first time I’d done that particular combination, and it was absolutely wonderful. I was hoping that they would have tangerine for their opening spring weekend, but I think I managed to overcome the disappointment.

At the risk of boring you with a yet another update on the MELD standings at my hospital, this is the way things stood at the end of last week:

I remain firmly entrenched in the 11-18 range, though I’m waiting for official confirmation of my standing based on last week’s bloodwork. Another one of Dr. Liver’s patients got his new liver a couple of weeks ago, and he’s acting very optimistically that I’ll get mine soon. I have a feeling that most of this is just his form of morale boosting, but it’s still contagious.

With the encouragement of one of the nurses who regularly assists Dr. Liver when he does the paracentesis on me, I took my contribution sheet for the American Cancer Society’s Walk for Life with me last Friday. She felt that most of the nurses working the short procedure unit would gladly kick in a few bucks towards my fundraising. It turned out to be rather awkward for me – only two of the nurses contributed. I felt a bit put on the spot, but I really appreciated the support of the two who did sponsor me. The walk isn’t until June, so I should have plenty of time to collect other sponsors (assuming I don’t end up getting the transplant between now and then). I have someone lined up as a back-up walker just in case I can’t do my hour on the track for whatever reason, but I fully anticipate being able to manage this. In previous years I made it a point of pride to lap most of the other walkers on the track with me, but this year I’ll just plan completing as many circuits as turns out to be reasonably possible. I anticipate lots of rest stops this year.

I heard a segment yesterday of “All Things Considered” on the local NPR radio station as I drove home. It was perhaps one of the saddest and yet uplifting things I’d heard in a while. The full transcript can be found here: Laura Rothenberg Remembered. Laura was a teenager suffering from cystic fibrosis, and tapes of her observations and thoughts became one of the “Radio Diaries” that are featured on “All Things Considered”. She died last week from the disease, and the reporter she worked with presented a segment remembering and honoring her. The thing that hit me hardest were the final words they played from her diary:

“I definitely think about after I’m gone. When I was younger, I used to try and plan my funeral, where I’d want it, how many people I’d want to be there, what it would be like. I’ve always been scared that people would forget about me. Eight years go by and, you know, someone who dies isn’t the first person you think of when you wake up necessarily. But I’ll find a way so that people won’t forget about me. You know, I’ll give friends things of mine that they’ll always have.

At twenty-two years of age, she found a way to articulate something I haven’t yet quite found a way to put into words. She put it in a nutshell. I’m scared people will forget about me. I don’t fear death, but I fear non-existence. I try now more than ever to give friends of mine pieces of me that they’ll always have. I think that’s part of what this diary has become – a way to be sure there’s a piece of me left behind to be remembered. With any luck, this piece of electronic memory won’t need to be used that way for a long time. But there’s a certain solace in knowing that these words are being read by people who will perhaps remember the Salamander when the end of entries does come.