One year ago, I was digging frantically in the dirt, rooting out unwanted bushes that had been camping out for three years, untouched.
I was simmering tall pots of soup on the stove, baking bread and protein patties, with every intent of filling the freezer instead of my belly.
I was filing papers, updating bank information and beneficiaries.

One year ago, I busied myself with all the things, trying my hardest to “get ready”.

The problem was, I didn’t know how.

How does one “get ready” for the things that can’t be predicted? In 24 hours, I’d be lying in a hospital ward. No amount of preparation could predict how I would respond to anesthesia, or if my pain would be controlled, or if there would be complications with the surgery. No measure of planning would ensure that my kidney, cleaned and trimmed and carried across a threshold, would work well in a new home.

My frantic dirt-digging was, perhaps, an act of desperation against the unknown.

What will this feel like?
What will our next few weeks hold?
What speed bumps will we encounter?
Will this surgery be a success?

…Will I able to cope if it isn’t?

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Mom was scheduled for her one year post-transplant follow-up labs last week, and the sisters waited for her results update via conference call. We’ve had many such conference calls over the five years since Mom started dialysis, with varying degrees of breath-holding. We received a preliminary text message report just after noon:

“No return to clinic for 6 months!  Dad has Spring in his step.”

I hadn’t planned to cry on the pedestrian promenade as I walked across the university campus. But in consistency with the theme of this missive, my plans were an ineffective bulwark against my reality. A silent tear was all it took to crumble the thin wall of “being ok”. That breath I’d been unconsciously holding for five years finally came out in a shuddering sob.

For years we prayed for Mom’s healing. We waited for a kidney. We rode highs and lows, stagnated in the doldrums of no change, and held on to each other when change tumbled in.
That simple text message rent my heart as I realized that in all this time, I’d never really allowed myself to hope. I’d never truly imagined what it would be like if it all worked out, if the best outcome came to fruition. And yet, here it was. The thing I hadn’t dared hope for had come along anyway: Mom was better.

Hers is still a life-long journey of medication and clinic visits, but her energy continues to grow and with it, her “old” self: the church-volunteering, meal-prepping, trip-planning, friend-visiting, family-building Mom. What a joy it is to see her returning to the things she loves!

They say that “hope deferred makes the heart sick”; I can verify that hope realized makes a heart burst. ❤️