And yes, I know I should be exercising more, but until these staple come out tomorrow I'm not pushing it. They have become decidedly uncomfortable (to the point where I'm taking pain meds at night when I go to bed, which I swore I wasn't going to do). The incision itself looks good - no redness, heat, weeping from the site. The staples are another matter though, with the entry sites looking rather red and irritated.
When my head is clear enough (not as frequent an event as I would like) I'm left to ponder things. The thing I return to most often, though I wouldn't say to the point of obsession, is my new liver.
I know a little about it, but only very little. I got it because it was small, and the others on the transplant list ahead of me were too large to be able to accomodate it. The next to last day of my hospitalization, I found out why the liver was so small. It came from a thirteen-year-old child.
I didn't expect that. I always imagined I would be getting an adult's liver. And it's taken me aback a bit. I always knew I'd owe a huge debt to the donor and donor's family, but somehow with this knowledge "huge" got even larger. Somehow I always expected that my donor would be someone who at least had gotten a little taste of life. I never even considered the fact it could be a child who'd never experienced many of the "firsts" that we all take for granted growing up.
And then there's perspective. O'Beast is licking my leg, reminding me that he has not yet received his breakfast yet. Life, for some of us, goes on as per normal. Life for others goes on, but it will always mean something just a little deeper from here on out.
I must feed the cats and attempt to feed myself. Life goes on.