The Big Transplant Evaluation

My brain feels fuzzy and cursive Zs are taking a long time to write.  I have taken to writing these posts out on paper before I type them because I don't remember why right now but I think it's something about how it takes longer and feels more thoughtful.  Something like that.

Anyway, TE Day.  The big Transplant Eval.

I ride in the car with X and Mama.  We hit tunnel traffic on the way up.  We don't talk about the reason we are driving.  We start talking about the LPGA.  Then about whether people choose to be gay or if that's the way they're hard-wired.  I think the latter.  X and Mama ain't so sure.  This is a meaningless discussion and goes nowhere.  We talk about facebook.  Mama thinks it's a scary place where predators wait for you to post a status that you're going to the movies so they can rob your house.  Or find you at the movies and rape and kill you.  Mama is a little bit paranoid, no?  I like facebook because I can keep up with what everybody is up to and see what's going on around town and stuff.  Mama and X ain't so sure.  This is just empty chatter.  We talk some more about golf. 

Me: Hey, Troy is moving back to town this weekend.
X: What?  That is so cool.  How do you know that?
Me: Facebook.  [smirks quietly in the back seat]

We have two hours of pointless rambling like this.

We get there in time and follow lengthy, confusing directions through this rabbit warren of a hospital.  They put us in an exam room very quickly.  I am pleased that there are three chairs and I don't have to sit on the biohazard waste can or the heating vent this time.  We wait a while.  I have no recollection of what we talk about but I laugh a lot.  We wait so long X and Mama worry we have been forgotten.  X and Mama have self-esteem issues apparently.

The doctor comes in.  We make introductions.  "You're the patient; you're the mother; you're the wife."  "I am the EX wife," I correct him.  He responds with the pausing puzzled face to which I have grown accustomed.  He moves on without comment.  Reviews paperwork.  Asks a few questions.  I have my notebook ready but nothing new to write down.

The doctor confirms that X's Spontaneous Bacterial Peritonitis back in February was indeed a near death experience.  I notice he isn't wearing a wedding band.

He examines X and breaks out the stethoscope.  X asks if he should keep breathing.  I laugh so hard I almost fall out of my chair.

The doctor says, "As long as you continue to stay sober, you should continue to improve.  If you don't stay sober, there is nothing I can do for you."  He delivers these obvious words with a gentle matter of factness.  The universe yells in my head that it is totally inappropriate to date your ex-husband's liver transplant doctor.

So, the upshot of all this is: No transplant necessary at this time.  Follow-up appointment in three months.

I feel numb.  I don't know why I feel numb.  This is not bad news.  He is not sick enough for a transplant anymore.  He is getting better.  As long as he stays sober, he will keep getting better.  That is good news.  But I don't feel crying and joyful like Mama, who hugs the doctor.  I feel numb and cautious.  I contemplate hugging the doctor but the universe responds with a resounding NO.  I suddenly cannot wait to leave the room.

If you don't stay sober, there is nothing I can do for you.  The implications of these words whirl in my head and steal my smile.  Out in the hall, Mama bounces.  She hugs me.  This is awkward.  We wind our way out of the rabbit warren as they chatter.  I am steps ahead of them wanting a cigarette.

The ride home is littered with more conversations I don't remember except the part when X reminds me that tomorrow would have been our 11th wedding anniversary.  I wish him a happy un-niversary.  He flips me off.  I laugh.

And now I'm home and my brain feels all fuzzy.  But not pink widdle bunnies fuzzy.  More like not quite awake from a nap and the light of day is just in the middle so you can't tell if the time on the clock is AM or PM fuzzy.  Still processing.