For 6 or so months, my life was filled with expectation. No matter how hard I fought them, no matter how much I tried to stay in the moment, no matter how grounded I tried to be, it was impossible not to feel what loomed in the future.
Through it all, in spite of the anxiety and panic and frustration bordering on anger at times, I was fine. Very often emotional toast but, for the most part, physically fine.
On the other side of this, I'm not so fine. At least not yet. I'm getting more fine by the day, but I'm in an entirely different place. My body has gone through just about its biggest smack down ever. Even though I gave birth twice, drugs weren't such an issue. And what left me was supposed to. This time I gave up an integral part of my basic biology. There's healing to be done. Incisions to mend. Shock to overcome. Gas to pass. New pathways to be created at fundamental levels.
Partnered with these physical challenges is the death of expectation. It's over. We're done. One of my kidneys has a new home. There's no more waiting and planning and hoping and praying for all to work out.
It worked out.
But all that energy still needs to disperse, to dissolve, to get re-directed, re-absorbed, re-focused. Only I'm not up to the task.
I'm beginning to think though, that the past 6 months is going to be my new project. To have lived through this truly life-changing experience is something most people never get to do. And this story has so many more sides than just mine that deserve to be told. A transplant takes two just to start with. And from there, there are so many who played integral parts.
Once the title comes, I think I'll be ready to start.