Lucky 13

Today is my 13th Transplantaversary. At this time 13 years ago, my body was tagged like a corpse, and for all intents and purposes, looked like one, too. On wrists and ankles, hospital bands displayed my name, date of birth, and hospital number, but in every other way, I was a generic body, checked out on the operating table with a fresh L-shaped cut made from my sternum to belly button, taking a sharp right across the mid-section of my torso. The doctors were in the process of figuring out how to replace my oversized, diseased liver with a stranger's, which ended up being not so easy a task. Following 12 hours of surgery and a 59-day hospital stay, today I carry more than just a physical scar of the now 80-year-old liver beneath, still functioning to keep me alive.

With each year that passes, another layer of meaning emerges from this major life event, and newly retrieved memories wash over me. This year, in the lead-up to this day, I was overcome with grief and sadness, though I could not have put a finger on why; I had not connected the dots and had all but forgotten this auspicious day.

Maybe my emotions were activated by an awareness of the aging process that is on a skewed trajectory due to illness, in a body that is no longer entirely mine. Or, perhaps my emotions are embedded in a more universal reality, that any potentially terminal illness raises existential questions with an urgency that is only understood when you have been confronted with a chronic reminder of your own temporality.

What is my purpose? What does it mean to truly live? Will I be remembered? Will I live to see my son graduate? When will I die?

I know that I am not alone in these questions.

I have, and still struggle with episodes of shame, insecurity, and embarrassment that my body is somehow flawed, even knowing another part of me has come to accept myself as I am, wanting to connect, and be seen - to listen, and be heard.

On this day, I am sensitive to how precious a single day of life is, that it matters. I am also in touch with how we measure meaning. I notice a shift in myself from the value in doing and achieving, to slowing down, and noticing. A part of this comes from my body not giving me any choice. As the years go by, I bear witness to my body changing. And, a part of this comes from a deep yearning be here, to be a part of something on this planet. I want to savour it, to get to know both 'it' and myself,

in the present, on a deeper level.

As I sat in my garden yesterday, I was overcome with the magnificence of the oak tree that towers over my little studio. The way the sun lit up the leaves; the mossy ecosystem of one branch, feeding a million tiny species. There is beauty and meaning in that. For me, it means I'm still alive, and for that, I am forever grateful, no matter how many years Lucky.