It’s been four years since I donated 60% of my liver to my husband. A gift that would ultimately have to be replaced, but which kept him alive for thirty days until a new one arrived. The first year we celebrated this anniversary was hard. Something about how you don’t know how stressful a situation is until it is behind you. The stress and strain we managed to keep at bay while he was wasting away in a hospital bed, resurfaced once the threat was gone.
“Old wounds long thought healed will magically, painfully reappear.”
Of all the deficiencies I am likely to have (Potassium has to be one of them. No matter how hard I try, I cannot manage to get enough potassium in my diet!) a lack of vitamin C has never been a problem for me. And still, there was this internal wound, freshly opened at the anniversary of this traumatic experience. It was ultimately a good and life changing experience, but it was filled with trauma. We were both grouchy and short tempered that first anniversary, and it took a while to figure out why and then once we did we were gentle with each other. Recovery is long and hard.
This year I don’t feel as though old wounds will open up. I have been opening them up every day as I write about what happened, about what it’s like to go through something like this, to be changed but not in the way you thought you would be. I’m looking forward to celebrating what we celebrate every year when April 14th comes around: how nice it is to not be in a hospital.