I Never Thought We'd Be Here

Truth be told, before anyone told me I needed one, I never believed I would survive a heart transplant. The wait would be too long, or I'd be too sick — I was certain it would never happen in time. When non-cardiac doctors first started bringing it up around age 12, my response was immediate and firm: I didn't want one. If I was going to die anyway, why bother getting my hopes up?

In January 2019, I went in for my biannual cardiology and liver appointments — the usual rotation of doctor's visits, scans, and bloodwork. Everything came back clean, except for one small thing: a single blood test, off by one point.

It sounds minor. It wasn't. The test measured a protein produced by the liver, and while it had fluctuated before, I had always been able to calibrate it against how I actually felt. This time, something was different. I scheduled a follow-up with my liver doctor, who assured me there was no way anything was seriously wrong. We spent a couple of hours combing through previous imaging, lab results, and appointment notes. On paper, everything looked fine.

Somewhere in that visit, I gave up. Not because I was convinced — I still knew something was wrong — but because I didn't have the energy to keep pushing. I didn't have time to play find the medical ailment, and I told myself that whatever it was would surface eventually.

I hated being right.