It's Three O'Clock, and All Is Well

    My wee-hours time is definitely well spent, however.
    In fact, while our condo is quiet and peaceful, I do some of my best reflective thinking.
    Lord knows, I have plenty to think about.
    A brief synopsis…
    Three years ago, a routine physical revealed elevated liver numbers.
    A biopsy and much blood work later, Dr. Todd Stravitz, medical director at the VCU Medical Center’s Hume-Lee Transplant Center, gave my condition a name – primary sclerosing cholangitis – although he made clear that his diagnosis was one of exclusion.
    I researched PSC, of course, and learned that it was a nasty autoimmune disease with no cure except a transplant.  I learned also that it could progress so slowly that I might actually outlive its ravages.
    That was comforting to a point, but it would not come to pass.
    A year or so ago when symptoms and lab numbers intensified, Dr. Stravitz removed the “diagnosis of exclusion” tag.
    One thing led to another, and as I began to fade this past summer, my life became a must-win test of strength and tenacity.
    So here I am, four-and-a-half months post-transplant, lying blissfully in the comfortable bed in our downstairs den and searching for meaning as the rain beats against the siding.
    I have no idea when, where, or why my odyssey began.  
    My doctors don’t either.  
    The only rationale I can discern is that it was a God-given gift that challenged me to be the person who I always aspired to be.
    I reconciled early on that there would be no what-ifs, no cries of “Why me?” and no worries about the inconveniences and discomfort ahead.
    In fact, there would be no worry or fear at all.   To lament my plight, surreal as it was then and now, would be a waste of energy and a sign of weakness.
    Instead, I would savor this lyrical passage in my life, accept what I couldn’t change, and doggedly address the challenges before me using my resolve and spiritual grounding and the heartfelt prayers of four generations of my family and a legion of friends in the Collegiate community and around the country.
    This was by no means some phony tough/crazy brave mentality.  It was who I was then.  Hopefully, it’s who I am as I walk the very slow road toward recovery.
    So how did that attitude evolve?  
    Honestly, I’m not sure.
    Perhaps it was watching friends deal with health crises without complaint.  
    Perhaps it was seeing my parents, members of the Greatest Generation, lead exemplary lives.
    Perhaps it was recognizing that many were watching, and it was up to me to set the best example I could.
    Perhaps it was my well of faith that allowed me to remain serene and optimistic, even as the clock ticked down.
    I’ve moved on, though.
    In the time since I returned home, I’ve pondered God’s plan for me now that He’s graciously granted me an extension.
    While I still don’t understand the whys – before, during, or after – and probably never will, I’ve made several steadfast commitments to my family and friends.
    I will use my platform to endorse organ donation with the hope that, ultimately, no one else will have to deal with the uncertainty that I did.
    I will follow doctors’ orders, be patient, listen to my body, and do everything possible to regain my strength, energy, and stamina.
    I will use my experiences to encourage others who are enduring life’s crises.
    I will honor my donor, an 84-year-old woman from Wilmington, NC, whose family bequeathed me the greatest gift imaginable.
    I will live with renewed passion, joie de vivre, and commitment to serve others.
    I will strive each day to justify “the miracle.”

    Rain continues to pelt the siding.
    The forecast for the next 24 hours is cold and wet.
    There’s a good chance of a wintry mix.
    Doesn’t matter.
    It’ll be a beautiful day.
               -- Weldon Bradshaw