Tonight marks seventeen years since I got the call that would change my life. I feel a little odd after realising that the call came on a Friday and today is a Friday. I wrote this piece (and the two that will come after) two years ago. The gravity of this night will never be lost on me.
I’m finding it hard to concentrate on my study today. It’s that time of year. It’s Transplanniversary* time. The 22nd will mark fifteen years since I was (at least this is how it felt) thrown back into life after being ripped from the tenuous march to death. This is a photo me on my 21st birthday on New Years Eve (my actual birthday), 1997. Between Christmas and here, I knew I had to put myself on the transplant waiting list. I’d been remarkably unwell at Christmas and the days after, but by some strike of grace, I was pulsed with energy for my twenty-first birthday. Looking at this photograph now, I look so serene and calm. Just like any normal kid. I look at this picture and think, ‘Pretty. Pre-transplant boobs. No scar. BT. Before Transplant.’
But when I peel away the layers of this photo, I was anything but…
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