Mid-April 2009

My phone rings and I find myself talking to Martha. It's been about six weeks since the procedure and I've eagerly awaited this call. No one has ever accused me of being an optimist. I tend to plan for the worst and hope for (but rarely expect) the best. Martha tells me that my recipient is doing well. The transplant appears to have been successful and he has recovered enough to go home. Other than that, the details are sparse. There's no prognosis, no talk of how much longer he might live. There's certainly no use of the word "cured." But under the circumstances this is the best news I could've expected. I picture a frail man being taken to his car in a wheelchair, pushed by his wife or maybe his grown son. He's still weak and tired all the time but there's a little hope for his future, a chance at a few more years. Maybe.