Here it is Monday late afternoon, and I'm in the kitchen with Marty, who's making lasagna. We're listening to Ruben Blades sing a little salsa. What's missing is, I'm not nauseated, haven't been in one whole week, and in fact have no idea where the emesis bucket is. Until a week ago, that pink basin never left my side.
With the sudden exit of nausea and it's violent concomitant effects, I feel like a new person. When you're in the throes of illness, it's very difficult to imagine the day will come when you don't want to throw yourself under a train. Everyone else naturally gives copious amounts of encouragement, which only makes you feel more ill, more isolated, even angry.
Less time being sick means I have more time to do things I like to do, more energy to spend doing things I haven't had the desire to do in the past few months. I'm almost living. I can now sit down to dinner with my family and do more than push the food around my plate like a 2-year old. I can stay up and watch ballgames (though not to the very end), and witnessed Andy Pettitte hit an RBI-single and eventually score. I went to a cross-country meet on Saturday, and actually broke into a trot so as not to miss a viewing point. I'm enjoying my son Mark's Fall break, the first time I've seen him since August 30. He has traveled many miles (most via subway), but I think it's fair to say I've covered a lot more ground.
To all you recent transplantees (and their caregivers): hang in there. It generally does get better. You have to believe that wretchness isn't your new permanent state. This is a mental feat that's highly challenging when you're sick and weak. No one will blame you if you rail and wail and growl now and then. I certainly won't.