Third
Week Post Transplant
Feb.
20-26, 2005
My mom has come to visit for two weeks to help. I so much appreciate her cooking. What a relief from hospital food! It is also nice to have her company.
I have a lot of energy, probably due to the prednesone. I should be exhausted. I think a lot of it is nervous energy from being in the hospital. I feel keyed up. Yet the energy has allowed me to work at my desk. I am now all caught up with the piles of paperwork and bills.
Being home is wonderful. Still, I brace myself for someone to walk in the room unexpectedly, but of course, it doesn’t happen because there are no nurses or patient care assistants here to check up on me. I’m shedding the anxiety of hospital living, trading it for the peace of living at home.
The new bed is so comfortable. Still, when I’m lying down, it takes effort to move from one side to the other and before I move, I have to ask myself if a new position is really worth the effort to get there. By the end of the week I could roll over in bed from one side to the other more easily.
Before going to sleep I lie on my back and place my hands over various parts of my body, checking in with them, asking them how they’re doing, thanking them for doing such a good job. I place my hands over my heart and welcome it home. My body loves this peaceful, introspective time of night.
One night I was so tired I didn’t even stay up to watch the end of Monk, a favorite TV show. I just went to bed much earlier than usual. Bed has been a retreat for me. A safe haven. A place of rest.
As I wait to fall asleep, I don’t get frustrated that I can’t sleep. Instead I look around the room so grateful that I’m home, out of the hospital and free of constant interruptions. I revel in the quiet and safety of being home. I think a part of me is still relaxing from the hyper-alertness and a shield of self protection you have to wear during the hospital, just to protect yourself from people coming in whenever. I don’t think I’ve relaxed this deeply in years. Maybe never before in my life.
I live in a dreamy, restful place. Resting in bed till mid-morning, getting up to take medicines, then going back to bed. Resting. I make sure it isn’t depression by imagining what I might be doing if I had a bit more energy. A few things come to mind, and I’m assured I just need the rest.
This afternoon I went for a walk up and down the road, to Jack’s driveway then to Bonny’s and then back again. Tomorrow I’d like to do it a 3rd time. Then home to cool down with the physical therapy exercises I’ve been given.
This week I don’t have any pain. But my body is stiff and limited in its movements. I find myself moving very carefully, as though I’m holding myself together until the pieces come together of their own accord. I’m so glad I’m seeing Kim Pelletier, my physical therapist, I think her treatments are making a huge difference in the quality of my recovery. I’ve not had any pain in my scars at all, maybe because much of the skin on my chest is numb. The nerves will eventually grow back.
The people who call are so happy I have a new heart. Most of them don’t know what to say. They are awed by it, speechless, and so very happy for me. I’m not sure what to say either. How much I can or should say. My heart is my heart. I love my heart. It is mine. This is the truth I live by. Where we will go and what we will do together I have no idea. It is a friend. My mom pointed out that it is a part of me that she and dad didn’t make. A part I got on my own. I welcome this heart into my body and I encourage all my cells to invite and welcome it too. We are living together as one. We need each other to stay alive. We will be together for as long as we live. It is my commitment to take care of this heart as best I can, and I say this not only for my own well-being, but in gratitude to the donor and their family.
Tuesday Bob and I went to Boston for my 2nd heart biopsy. To take a biopsy, or piece of tissue from the heart, the doctor has to insert a catheter into the jugular vein on the right side of the neck, then thread it through the vein in the chest until it reaches inside the heart. With tiny clippers a pinch of heart tissue is removed. They take about three or four pieces of tissue. Biopsies let the doctors know if my heart is being rejected by the body, and if so, to what degree.
What a different experience my second biopsy was than the first, which I had done while I was still in the hospital. This particular doctor did the procedure in half the time. It went so fast I was amazed. A few times I said “ouch” but by the time the word was out of my mouth, whatever had caused the pain was over with. My test results were again great: no rejection. Biopsies will take place every week for the first four weeks. Then every two weeks for a month. Then once a month.
I’m still feeling a little shell shocked from the entire experience. I have no idea how my recovery will go, nor do I have expectations. It will come as it comes. I have physical healing to do from the surgery. I have recovery to do from two years of heart disease, some post traumatic stress from the adventures that got me to the hospital this last time, and I have a blank slate to fill in as to what happens next in my life. I surrender this filling-in to Spirit. Certainly a higher power has been so closely at work for me these past two years, and particularly these past few weeks. Likely it will stay and keep me exactly where I should be.
I am unable to see very far into the future. I know there will always be changes to face. Right now these changes are on a manageable level. They involve trips to Boston for biopsies, and I learned today that early next year they’ll do a heart cath. Neither of these are pleasant procedures. Yet I am still alive and I have no symptoms. I recall before the transplant that never a second would go by that I would not be aware that I had a weak heart, despite how peaceful and asymptomatically it behaved. No longer. My heart is strong, though it still feels a little unsure of its new surroundings. It is a healthy heart. I no longer have heart disease.
Every night before I go to sleep I thank my heart and ask if it wants to say anything. By giving a voice to my organs and cells, I recognize their conscious individuality. I understand my heart needs rest too. It has undergone some remarkable changes. It needs to heal and recover and grieve for the loss of its previous owner. It also feels the love I have for it and feels protected. It likes having its voice heard. I think it uplifts the entire me.
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