She met me there, some version of my future self speaking to some version of my past self. The moment she showed up, something shifted in me.

I’ve walked this road before, and tracing familiar hallways was enough to make my blood run cold. I reached down beside me, my husband’s hand already reaching for mine, a physical reminder that whatever waited in front of us we would face it together.

I didn’t look at my phone once while we sat in the waiting room, my attention drifting back and forth between the present reality and the past one. Reminders of the last time I’d sat in this room arrived one by one: thoughts I’d had, people I texted. This was the exact same room, and the only thing that had changed was me.

He was late, but not by much, and apologized profusely for those 15 minutes. I had become used to sitting in waiting rooms for minutes, even hours past my call time, and while this brief blip of time felt like nothing in my mind his acknowledgement of me as a person whose time was valuable spoke volumes.

“It’s not the news we were hoping for…” His tone broke the silence, saying out loud what we had all been thinking. Again. We were back here again.

“I know it’s not what you wanted, I wish I had better news, but I’m not leaving you here. We’ll figure it out together.”

I want to tell you, as a patient, the impact of having those words said to me by a physician. I’m routinely looked over, dismissed. When my symptoms don’t match the standard I’m given a shove out the door, passed along to the next speciality, I become someone else’s problem. I’ve become a little bit jaded. So when a doctor looks me in the eye and says, “Ok, this didn’t work but this isn’t the end of the road, I’m not leaving you here” it says things words never could. It speaks of allyship, witness, belief.

We ran through every possible scenario, from most to least likely, and I watched as subconsciously my body braced for impact. Tears sprang to my eyes and I blinked them away as we discussed options that have until now only existed in my worst nightmares. We went over next steps, and I placed my hand over my tired, scarred little body, whispering to her, ‘ok, show us where to go next. Show us what you want us to do.’

To say I’m exhausted, depleted, frustrated and terrified would be an understatement. To say I trust my medical team, the deep wisdom of my body, and the person I’m becoming would be the deepest truth I have.

I sat there, breathing, hand curled around Cody’s as we tried to digest what this team of brilliant doctors had just told us, and the wisest, best future version of me was right there, curled around the smallest, most fragile and fearful part of me, and she said “It’s ok that you’re scared, because I’m not. You can be scared, I’ve got you.”

And in that moment I knew that despite not knowing what comes next, I know I’ll be ok. I am loved, I am safe, I’ve got me. The grace that has carried me this far will carry me home.

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The third way

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Things I’ve learned in 3 years of post transplant living