It's been forty five days since my transplant. That's not a magic number or anything, just a point of reference for where I was and where I am.
Physically speaking, I'm a different person than the one who (barely) walked out of the hospital. Those first days home had me wondering why on earth our toilets were so low to the ground. It took me a while to realize that in the hospital, there are safety bars all over the place, and you become used to using them. I am happy to report that as my legs have become stronger, toilet height is no longer a focal point.
Nausea remains an ongoing problem. Six days out of seven I wake up in the morning feeling queasy, an unpleasant way to start the day. First I take the under-the-tongue nausea medicine, then munch on some Ritz crackers, keeping the emesis basin close by. I can always pop an ativan, which is the only drug that really seems to work for me for nausea. Unfortunately, its anti-anxiety properties induce a mild state of catatonia which leaves me no choice but to take a nap.
I don't want this to be a litany of my symptoms. On the wellness side of the scale, I feel stronger and I'm trying to do the occasional household task, even though I'd rather not. I've probably used up my daily quota of cognitive energy writing this post. So be it. You, my dear readers are worth it.