I am the one that usually replays the events in my head. The ones leading up to something important, the event, the results. I remember minute details and smells and where the sun was in the sky. These things are seared in my head.
For some reason, I am not connected to January 24th. It was the day of the transplant. We had two nurses, lots of pre-stuff. Two small bags of cells, some weird smelling stuff, oranges squirted all over the room to mask the smell and then we waited.
I was not focused on the transplant. I could care less about the transplant. The transplant meant nothing. I wanted new cells to grow. I wanted the whole thing to work. For the week before I had watched M-E go back and forth to radiation, I had watched her receive high doses of stuff they won't even take in a toxic waste dump, I watched her withdraw from the world in an attempt to heal herself. The damage to her body and spirit was yet to come. It was an awful time.
She does not remember most of the post transplant time. At one point she was shocked to find out that Whitney Houston had died. Now I remember that post transplant time oh so well. Bleak, cold windy, horrible time. Horrible, terrible, horrendous time. I have not been able to bring myself to even read the time of transplant. The anxiety it brings me is so great.
She emerged. She survived, she is thriving. I focus on February 11. That was when she her blood gave us proof it was happening as it was expecting. Day 18. That is the day I remember.
She is making herself brownies. She is celebrating, she is getting ready to a 'terrible' two once again.
I am just glad we are able to look forward to her threes, fours and forties....