So I have been waiting for my transplant call for 46 days now, 45 night of going to bed with the phone. I’m seriously not expecting the phone to ring any time soon. My pulse doesn’t quicken with it lights up in the late hours of the night. My boyfriend lives across the ocean and sometimes forgets that a four hours time difference plus beer plus phone means awaking the dragon. I’m supposed to have a bag packed with some very specific things that I haven’t bothered to assemble. My friend sent me a suggested packing list and I’ve gone so far as to deleted the things on there that don’t apply to me. So that is progress but I’m more concerned with figuring out who is going to take care of my Gameboy when I’m incapacitated. IF YOU DON’T WATER THE FLOWERS EVERYDAY THEY DIE and then my neighbours will move out and cockroaches will infest my house. (Seriously, don’t start playing Animal Crossing, it will take over your life). THAT, I have taken care of, Lauren will do it. Phew. Who says that I’m not preparing for transplant?
I have a friend or two who are teeming with excitement at getting the call, who can’t wait and just want it to happen already. Personally, I’m cool with it taking a while. I have come a long way since I started this journey 21 months ago. I can now talk about transplants without bursting in to tears, I no longer think that it’s likely I won’t live through the surgery. That took about eight months. Hurray for personal growth. Now, I busy myself with worrying about the minutia – how I’m going to be able to deal with not being able to shower and wash my hair everyday while I’m all stapley and tubey and bedridden after surgery. Seriously, if I don’t get to shave things and shampoo and slap on a little mascara, I don’t feel like a human being. I worry about not being able to dress myself and wear a bra because of stitches and sternal precautions. I worry that I’ll get the one surgeon who does the incision that goes directly down the middle of my cleavage. My vanity is apparently an obstacle in my road to health. I make no apologies.
My goal is to get through this surgery and come out of it some super version of myself. A better version of me. Carly 2.0. I don’t want become afraid of the world because of being immunocompromised, I don’t want to become some inspirational poster-girl who climbs Mt. Kilimanjaro, I don’t want to find Jesus. I want to come out the other side as bitchy, sarcastic Carly, who can breathe like a normal person but takes a few more pills and just move forward.
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