March 9, 2009

The aftermath of a liver transplant gone wrong.

16 months ago, my partner donated her liver to her father.  The transplant went fine, but he died from complications related to pulmonary fibrosis.  She asked for some thoughts, so I’m writing them now.  What did I learn?

I learned to love through quiet witness rather than screaming devotion.

I learned to love through a gentle touch on the shoulder rather than cradling.

I watched my partner’s heart break, and saw cracks in my own from a shattered dream?  a botched plan?  

I saw my partner rise with grace from despair, holding a newfound knowledge.  I see glimpses of that knowledge and know the fullness of it.  But I don’t know what rests in the center.  I know only that it’s hers and that I’m a proud companion.  I see the heroism, and the weight of normalcy in the same moments.  

I didn’t see it coming, but felt the world shifting as it happened.  Gone were self-centered concerns from the moment of “yes.”  First grave concern for her, then him, as it should be for me.  But it never lifted - it just got heavier and finally broke.  Grief came rushing and consumed us more than any surgery, any day of confinement in the hospital, any part of it. 

Would I have said “no” if my knowledge ran deeper?  If my intuition screamed?  It wasn’t my decision to make, and I wouldn’t change it if I could.  I have wishes, but no regrets.  I know more of life.  I know more of love.  I know more of giving than I ever have before.  

Mostly, I was participant and witness to an exchange of love truly beyond the expression of words.  And my heart has held love differently ever since.

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