I got my second heart transplant! I did! August 18th.
Yeah. It has been almost three months, I know. I was(am) so overwhelmed by the immensity of it all that I haven't really had time to process it, let alone relay any reliable information back to anyone.
That can all come later.
For now, I want to write a little soap box. Because I am upset.
An old friend died today. Charli.
Just a few minutes ago, actually. Charli and I had a bond only two dying kids can have. We knew. We got it. She confided in me and I in her about the daily stress and emotional baggage of living/growing up with a terminal illness. Her day-to-day was a bit more involved than mine at the time we were friends, what with her stomach hole and port-a-cath (it leaked sometimes when she overdid it at our work, Sonic), but we gave each other strength, understanding, encouragement, and sometimes justification for questionable behaviors. Like her smoking when she had a lung illness, and me drinking with a heart problem.
While part of me understands it might be a good thing for her to finally not have to fight anymore, another stronger part of me resents that fact immensely.
My mom said when she delivered the news "She's been fighting so long, now she doesn't have to fight anymore". She never HAD to do anything!
She never agreed to "fight" for a pre-determined length of time, that was her choice, and it wasn't much of a "fight". The use of that word just pisses me off! Fighting? Fighting what? The very word implies there is opportunity to win, there is something to win in the first place, that the victor will regain some normalcy. It isn't a fight if you will never win, it's a struggle. Charli knew no other existence than one beset with the realities of having Cystic Fibrosis. It was as much an irrevocable part of her as her awesome ears or her very personality. Just was.
Normalcy.
There is nothing good about Charli being dead, simply because she didn't choose it. It chose her. She didn't give up, it took it from her. And there is nothing, nothing but tragedy and sadness from that.
At rehab the other day my trainer said "It's so inspiring, that you've lived through this twice and you deal with all these health issues and you remain so upbeat about it. I don't know if I could do it." Don't fucking patronize me. I'm alive, same as you, it's just the way it is that I have to struggle to stay that way. I guess that's why Charli and I and those who are like us are the way we are. Because we deal with it- and unless you've experienced a life constantly on the verge of ending, beset on all sides with the promise of extinction- You'll always think you aren't sure if you could deal with it. You can, believe us. Or you die.
We aren't your fucking heros, we are neither pathetic, nor noble, nor stronger than you, we don't walk through life "fighting". We live, in the best way we know how, struggling until we don't struggle anymore. Not that much different from you. Yet vastly different, alien even.
To you, Charli. I'm sorry this happened, at this time, before you were ready. But if you were done living, I'm happy for you that you've moved on, and I wish you peace and comfort wherever you go.
I'll always keep you in my thoughts.
