I am thinking about what I want to do after my tranpslant.
That’s first on the list.
Eat, pray, love. That’s what the book which became a major motion picture advises.
Only I won’t be able to eat for fear of the obesity epidemic that is prevalent amongst the post-transplant community.
And only I won’t pray, because I don’t believe. But I will bear an eternal and enduring sense of gratitude for my donor. I will think often of that person, probably at the most significant moments that await me in the coming years. I will live my best life for them as well as for myself.
I will love, and love better than I have of late, because I will be free of the bitterness that currently colours my relationships with my friends; I will also have shaken off the monkey on my back that has made me selfish and unwilling to give too much of myself to my family.
This is the year dot again. My new life will be one long holiday. The destinations are lined up in my head. Weekends to start with, not too far from home. Then long-haul. All the way to the other side of the world, to places where dialysis has never even been heard of.
To be free to go out for a walk without my mobile phone. Or be free to not worry about the fact the film is showing in one of the lower floor cinemas in Dundrum where there is no reception. Or decide I just don’t feel like talking to anyone today, so I’m going to turn the damned thing off.
On my tummy. Without being attached to a machine. Once the pain of surgery has passed, this will be my single greatest joy.
I will be that proud of my scar and that delighted to be without tube, I foresee a lot of flashing and invitations – nay, commands - of “here you, look at my tummy”.
You have been warned.