Up The Farway Tree

I'm pleased to report that I successfully escaped from the hospital on Thursday and am now relaxing back at home. Andrew has taken a few days off work, and mum is coming to stay for a few days at the end of the week to help me out (and no doubt try to make me eat something every 2 minutes). The good news is that I've spoken to my transplant co-ordinator about my weight loss and at the moment I can remain on the list. However he did stress that should I be called in the near future and "arrived looking like a skeleton" they would be unlikely to proceed with the surgery, so I have to make every effort to improve the situation. He wants me to call next week with an updated weight...no pressure or anything.

I was particularly relieved to be home for the weekend, as yesterday was the 2nd anniversary of losing my sister to CF. She has been on the transplant list for 2 1/2 years, but sadly, time simply ran out. We had a family gathering at my parents house, which was a lovely way in which to remember her.

I must say that the expression 'time is a great healer' is, for the most part, true; in that the rawness of the wounds fade, the sharpness of the pain dulls and the memories become ones that more often make you smile than make you cry. Yet there is still not a day goes by that I do not miss her with all my heart. Those moments in the day where something happens to make me laugh or cry out loud, and for a second I think 'I must tell Frances Ann about that later', and then remember I can't. When I see something in a shop that I know she would have loved, and I have no one to buy it for. When I say or do something I think is hilarious, then realise the only other person who would agree is her. The awkward instant when you meet someone new and in polite small talk they ask if you have any brothers or sisters, and you don't know how to answer. To say "yes" no longer seems truthful, yet to say "no" is to deny her very existence.

In the most selfish way, I truly thought when my time came to be listed for transplant, she would be there to guide and support me through the journey, having already been there herself. Although she is not with me in a physical sense, I have come to realise over the past 2 years, that she will always remain with me..through my memories, my thoughts, and through the belief that I will see her again. When I write about window cleaners and motorised beds, I can hear her laugh; when I write about buying handbags and shoes, I sense her approval; when I write about this journey towards transplant, I know she is beside me. Every step of the way.