Home: July 13, 2022

I arrived home six days ago on July 7th, and it’s taken this long to get (mostly) settled, and to really start to think about what this all means. It still feels a little surreal because all three of my children are away at summer camp, and the house is eerily quiet. And yet, I am home.

Home. For me, home is Larry. Home is where I will try three kinds of cheesecake to see if I can tolerate one of them. It’s where family and friends can pop by. Home is where I will wake up in my own bed with Ruby beside me, watching me expectantly, her darting grey eyebrows the only sign of her eagerness for me to get up. It’s where the massive round pill, the one that gets stuck every time, starts becoming easier to swallow. Home is where I will heal.

Right now, home also means obstacles that haven’t been there since my last relapse. The stairs are just difficult, a combination of my overall muscle loss with transplant and my particularly uncooperative left leg; despite having installed second railings, I try to avoid climbing them more than a few times a day. And I swear my house grew in size in my absence, with every room is farther away that I remember. I am trying to see these things as tools for recovery, but it’s hard not to harbour a little resentment when I’m downstairs and what I want is upstairs. And yet, I know this is just the very beginning, and that I need to keep practicing patience.

A big challenge right now is my speed and stamina: my body and brain move slowly and get tired quickly. Pacing and planning are important, and the balance of activity and rest is a new juggle each day. I’m also trying to eat small meals and snacks frequently, and it’s surprisingly tiring to spend so much time thinking about food when you have little desire to eat.

Recovery is a full time job, and I’m grateful to have the time to dedicate to it right now.