Six months

Today has a strange feel to it. It rained a little last night, not enough to soak things through but instead just get them a little wet. This morning there were droplets of ice on my car’s windshield, and a thin band of ice holding the door shut. The door opened with only a little extra effort, as though it were just a wee prank that autumn was playing on me. I honestly had to chuckle a bit when the door resisted my initial attempt to open it and I ended up jerking it free with (as it turned out) a tad more force than was necessary.

So far, the rest of the day has followed suit. Today is presenting me with a series of problems that (so far) have turned out to be somewhat less than they originally appeared to be. Each time I have used just a little more force than was necessary to solve the problem. I don’t feel badly about it; there was no way to identify in advance the exact nature of the reason behind the problems. My actions have all been of the order of using a little too much force to open a stuck door. No damage done, no hurt feelings, but just a bit of wasted energy.

This is the six-month anniversary of the transplant. I’m not sure how to feel about that, but it seems like I ought to be feeling something. The thing that is foremost on my mind is that six months ago today, a child died. Six months ago today, my life intersected with another family’s loss. Six months ago today a piece of me died, and should have taken me with it. Instead, six months ago another family stepped in and gave me the missing piece I needed to live.

The Elizabethans (along with the Greeks, the Hmong and the Visayans of the Philippines) considered the liver to be the seat of emotions. My upbringing and culture tells me differently, tells me that emotions are in my head (or, if I’m feeling poetic, in my heart). But so often now I feel “cut off”, and it’s so symbolic that my liver too was “cut off” that I have to wonder.

In doctor lingo, my “graft has taken”. The new liver is functioning absolutely normally. But in emotional terms, the graft is still in the process of taking root. I don’t feel the same way about some things now, after the operation. I imagine that’s normal. I’m still groping for the proper words, the proper outlook, the proper attitude. I’m finding my way. But it’s a slow process, slowed down even further by insecurities I didn’t even know I possessed until all this happened.

I mentioned, weeks ago, about the ridge in my fingernails. It’s nothing more than a subtle raised band that runs straight across each nail. It represents the period of my surgery. The nail above the band is nail grown before the transplant. The nail beneath the band is nail grown after the transplant. Well, the band has been trimmed off of most of my nails. The only nail that it remains on is the thumbnail of my right hand, which seems to grow somewhat more slowly than my other nails for some reason. Even there, though, the edges have just about reached the point where the quick gives way and the nail frees itself from the finger. It’s only a matter of weeks until that too is trimmed off, and I’m left with nothing but new growth. My skin has replenished, my hair has grown out, even my very bones are growing thicker and sturdier again under the management of my new liver. Physically, I am not the person I was last year this time. I have become an amalgam of two lives, joined so that one might live. It is a strange thing to be, this mixture of middle age and youth, sickness and health, despair and optimism.

I don’t know that I’ll ever find a way to express it. I’m still figuring out how to live with it. I have a feeling that, once I work my way through to the other side of this, it will be just like my iced in car door from this morning. I may be using just a little more effort than necessary to get this door open, but no harm will be done by it. I might even have a good chuckle at myself afterwards. That’s what life is all about anyway, isn’t it?