December 21 marked Sunreturn, the winter
solstice. This is the day we cherish for indicating, in all its brevity, a
reversal of course. Now, undergirding colder and still colder days crowned with
mounds of unmelted snow, is the slumbering promise of spring. Scarce hours of
winter sunlight creep forward as the planet spins round the Sun, propelled
toward warmth and light and verdancy. We wait in hope for crocuses and
groundhogs and jacket weather.
One year, seven months, have passed since
I was first listed for transplant at Cleveland Clinic. The waiting wears on me
more now than it did at the beginning. Initially, I could mostly forget the
reason I’d transformed my occupation from nurse-midwife to lady-who-lunches. My
faithful friends made the wait seem self-imposed, a sabbatical staycation of
sorts. In a new city with fewer lunching companions, my major weekly activities
focus on caring for my health: doctor’s appointments, pulmonary rehab sessions,
nurse coordinator check-in’s. There are fewer distractions from the reasons I’ve
interrupted my life in Boston to move to Pittsburgh.
It’s been a hard year, one of repeated
accommodation and mental readjustment down the continuum of my changing
physical abilities. It’s uncomfortable to acknowledge the steady progression of
new “normals,” each slightly less robust than the old. I often feel stuck,
suspended between a past and a future when my body obeys my mind, to live in a
present when the response is intermittent. This sense of liminality also
applies when I attempt to plan for the future. It’s much easier to fill the day
with tasks to pass the time than to prepare a timeline with a fixed endpoint.
And yet each new normal is just that. Some
days, I'm walking out the front door before I remember that the fifty foot length
of tubing attached to my stationary oxygen tanks is poorly adapted to riding
the elevator. I can almost forget my fifth limb. Likewise, my weekly routine of
pulmonary rehab and mentoring feels like my “job” for now, as distant as it may
seem from twelve-hour labor shifts and prenatal visits.
Still, I glean moments of transcendence wherever
I may find them: in morning meditation, in the four part harmony of Sunday
morning hymns, in words of love from true blue friends. In comparison with
those of the planet, my troubles are small, and I know that my blessings are
many. I am fed, clothed, and sheltered. I am loved by my husband, my family, my
friends. I live in peace and security, safeguarded by a building with a doorman
and excellent health insurance.
This seemingly ceaseless wait will end
soon. One day I’ll write to you of dancing with Peter, running along the
Allegheny or the Charles, sitting through a movie marathon, all with no regard
for oxygen tanks or shrinking energy stores. What are you allowed to ask for when
you pray for a transplant, knowing that more life for you inevitably means
another life’s termination? I ask for peace, and patience, and perseverance,
and for the richest, fullest life imaginable for my donor before his or her
lungs become mine. While I wait, I
receive the love that each of you sends: kind words, positive intentions,
lovingkindness meditations, intercessory prayers, love vibes. I send it back
with gratitude for your compassion and empathy.
Thank you for waiting with me. Spring is
coming.
Happy New Year!
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| Phipps Conservatory Botanical Gardens |
