It's been a month since my last local check-up and I must admit that throughout the house trial and personal drama, I've been waiting to hear that I've relapsed. It's a different kind of sickness that occasionally plagues transplant survivors. Life starts to move forward and you begin to feel secure about your future, then the floor falls out from under you. It's already happened to me once.
This intermittent feeling has been plaguing me for the last six weeks and if I'm truly honest, I didn't think we'd close on the house due to some health catastrophe. The closing happened and our things came out of storage. There are only a handful of boxes left to unpack.
You'd think I'd be able to relax with that behind me, but I couldn't. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought that maybe fate was holding a trump card to be played at the very moment I relaxed. Sick, I know.
My hematologist told me I looked amazing and my numbers were nearly identical to last month. If not for the fact that I have a spine, I think I could have oozed off the edge of my chair. After checking my lymphnodes and palpating my abdomen he made the pronouncement that everything was perfect.
I've pushed the boogie man back into the broom closet and placed a chair under the doorknob. I plan on forging ahead and working on building my endurance up so I can really participate in this wonderful thing that is my life.