Tuesday April 19

After weeks of flirting and flip-flopping, transplant and I are hand-in-hand: It's official. Today I signed the dotted line and, following a few inappropriate jokes about diseased lungs and death, was listed. Let the wait begin!

It was quite the day of build-up, we arrived at Toronto General around 11:30 and didn't see my Coordinator until around 12:30. We briefly chatted about where to go once I receive the call, travel restrictions (I cannot travel more than 2.5 hours away) and activated my pager. I then briefly saw a man about drawing my blood (they always seem to get you!) and hurried along to meet the surgeon, then we waited... and waited... and waited... and apparently set a new record for longest wait time to meet with the surgeon (2 hours, yay us?). I ended up reading through my entire chart by the time my name was called. P.S. Mildly fatty liver? Fatty pancreas? Pfffft! I'm deeply offended.

Last week I turned the corner, finally: my WBC inched below 11, meaning my infection was under control for the first time in months, wheezing nearly vanished, and shortness of breath decreased--all good things. I embraced this positive news with a practiced sense of caution, and sure enough hours later was served up another challenge: I had to change rooms... to a semi-private.

No one likes a semi-private, but I'm not fully opposed, since I've endured it several times before and I'm no princess (officially). But something about this move set off a mental quake; when your health deteriorates before you, when your body crumbles and chisels away at the life you once knew, you cling to the familiar (whatever that might be). This might be a stretch, but it reminds me of 'normalcy' in disaster zones that is maintained by keeping to routine, be it going to church, attending school, or playing a game of chess (as I assume chess is the post disaster game of choice). My 'normal' was creating my own space in an otherwise very abnormal home and the second my security blanket was ripped away, I felt far more vulnerable than I have in a long time. My illusion of control was suddenly very clear; I haven't really had that much control. 

I was rather surprised when I noticed I had a missed call from 'unknown' yesterday morning, although it  should surprise no one that I didn't pick up since a) I rarely pick up my phone, and half the time my cell refuses to work anyway and b) Unknown, really? Do I want to speak to you? Not talking to strangers is a golden rule in life. However, these days 'unknown' usually means a phone call from TGH or Sick Kids (trying to rope me into another study [I've already done 5 billion]... I played the transplant card and I don't think they'll be calling... ever again).

After checking my messages, I confirmed that the call was from my transplant coordinator and she wanted to discuss the results of Thursday night's meeting. Following a brief sweaty-palmed game of phone tag, we finally got in touch and she delivered the verdict: