If you know me well, or you read my blog, you might know that my beloved boyfriend is bravely and 'kickassingly' fighting liver disease. The latest news from the doctors is that he is doing much better than they expected and is continuing to defy medical logic +/or common sense. This is partially because he actually does what he is supposed to do. He takes his medication, he goes to his medical appointments. He is kind and appreciative to every medical professional who crosses his path. He gets his blood drawn when he feels like there is nothing left to give. And basically, he is a tough, stubborn, kickass, belligerent Irishman. Or he would not be with us. Period.
You might think that writing about this would be depressing. And don't get me wrong, there are depressing moments. There are moments when you seriously doubt your own capacity for strength, and his. Its not the easiest thing in the world.
On the other hand, you start to have these profound moments. Special things that happen the seem to mean more to because of all that is going on. A rainbow follows you to one of your best friend's housewarming party, just when you really needed a boost badly. Heck, the fact that he felt well enough to go for a bit was a huge deal. If you saw that rainbow on a regular day, you'd think, "gee, that is lovely." Vs., "wow that has to be a sign of beautiful things to come."
I've always done a pretty good job of appreciating small beautiful moments. I thank my parents for that. That is not a new skill for me. At the same time, is kind of like everything is heightened now. The good, the bad, and the ugly. A long soft backrub from someone so sick seems like a beautiful gift. Other days,he falls on the ground and it feels very ugly and frightening. He says, "I love you," with such intensity and sincerity that it goes through my soul. Minutes later:A brilliant man, he loses his place in the conversation and looks scared and confused. It feels like a constant rollercoaster of beauty and pain.
Peter has about 4 and 1/2 more months before he is eligible to even begin the wait for a liver transplant. Then its about matching and other complicated things like that. He is working very hard at making sure that he does everything within his power to make sure that he is ready, willing , and able when the time comes. It is something to watch and admire, and learn from. Focus. Strength. And he still manages to find moments of beauty for us along the way.
Friends and family, well we both draw from their amazing strength and support. And even strangers, like our nurses, blow us away with their many beautiful kindnesses. We have acquaintances offering us support in ways I have been incredibly inspired by, and learned from. Ive always loved finding ways to help other people. Now, I look at each one of these people along the way as a lesson in how I can be a better person going forward. No, I wasn't a big jerk or something before all of this. I was always a pretty nice person. But there is nice, and then there is putting your life's focus on making this world a better place in any small way possible.
I do cry. Ive probably cried more in the last couple of months than I have in my entire life. I do say directly to God, "what the eff could I have possibly done to deserve this?" And then I snap out of it and find my way.
Today we went to the water and spent time with good friends. We felt the great water breeze. Enjoyed the beauty of where we live and being together. And Peter, looking at the water, said, for the 20th time this month, " We live in a magical place." Maybe we do.
You might think that writing about this would be depressing. And don't get me wrong, there are depressing moments. There are moments when you seriously doubt your own capacity for strength, and his. Its not the easiest thing in the world.
On the other hand, you start to have these profound moments. Special things that happen the seem to mean more to because of all that is going on. A rainbow follows you to one of your best friend's housewarming party, just when you really needed a boost badly. Heck, the fact that he felt well enough to go for a bit was a huge deal. If you saw that rainbow on a regular day, you'd think, "gee, that is lovely." Vs., "wow that has to be a sign of beautiful things to come."
I've always done a pretty good job of appreciating small beautiful moments. I thank my parents for that. That is not a new skill for me. At the same time, is kind of like everything is heightened now. The good, the bad, and the ugly. A long soft backrub from someone so sick seems like a beautiful gift. Other days,he falls on the ground and it feels very ugly and frightening. He says, "I love you," with such intensity and sincerity that it goes through my soul. Minutes later:A brilliant man, he loses his place in the conversation and looks scared and confused. It feels like a constant rollercoaster of beauty and pain.
Peter has about 4 and 1/2 more months before he is eligible to even begin the wait for a liver transplant. Then its about matching and other complicated things like that. He is working very hard at making sure that he does everything within his power to make sure that he is ready, willing , and able when the time comes. It is something to watch and admire, and learn from. Focus. Strength. And he still manages to find moments of beauty for us along the way.
Friends and family, well we both draw from their amazing strength and support. And even strangers, like our nurses, blow us away with their many beautiful kindnesses. We have acquaintances offering us support in ways I have been incredibly inspired by, and learned from. Ive always loved finding ways to help other people. Now, I look at each one of these people along the way as a lesson in how I can be a better person going forward. No, I wasn't a big jerk or something before all of this. I was always a pretty nice person. But there is nice, and then there is putting your life's focus on making this world a better place in any small way possible.
I do cry. Ive probably cried more in the last couple of months than I have in my entire life. I do say directly to God, "what the eff could I have possibly done to deserve this?" And then I snap out of it and find my way.
Today we went to the water and spent time with good friends. We felt the great water breeze. Enjoyed the beauty of where we live and being together. And Peter, looking at the water, said, for the 20th time this month, " We live in a magical place." Maybe we do.
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