Behind the Velvet Rope
I don't mean to brag, but I've been inducted into a very exclusive club: I am now one of 3,945 people in the United States officially on the heart transplant list.
3,945. <--- See that "5?" That's me.
We learned that I made the cut last Thursday evening. I was making dinner and happened to check my email... and there it was, THE email we've been waiting on from the Transplant Team since January 8:
Sue: I am planning on listing you tomorrow, does that work for you?
Andrea: OMG, that's kind of a big deal. I wanted to be coy and say "it's just an honor to be nominated." But, WOW.
I am certain that the Transplant Team thinks I'm a complete weirdo, and they're not wrong. Also, reallySue? Does that work for me? These UW people really are incredibly thoughtful.
Derek was sitting in the living room and I called to him that I had some news. He must have known something was up by my tone because he walked into the kitchen (to be fair, sometimes when I think I have news it's not especially newsworthy, so he probably paces himself). He looked at me and I just blurted out "I made The List" and he wrapped me in his arms and I began crying.
We didn't know exactly what to do to celebrate so we pulled out the good champagne flutes and poured two glasses of Martinelli's Sparkling Cider and took the attached photo (Yay transplant-induced tee-totaling, she said sarcastically). It's kind of hard to tell, but I am wearing jeans, a bra, and a full apron covered in drawings of Calico cats because that is apparently what I wear when I make dinner and now it is immortalized forever... but at least I was wearing actual pants. There is no etiquette book for this, you guys. (Note to self: Write Heart Transplant Etiquette Book. At least 3,944 people will read it and with a target audience that size, what publisher wouldn't pick it up?)
Side note: Please ignore my giant man hand in the foreground of the photo. As you may know, I have T.rex arms so selfies are literally a stretch, even though I'm not the one holding the camera somehow. Still, the least I could've done is use my left hand so I could foist my newish wedding ring on everyone again... but I was kind of a nutcase, as you will see from the expression on my face.
Because we both felt kind of strange (and due to the aforementioned lack-of-handbook), we sort of just looked at each other for a moment and then I went back to cooking dinner, and Derek went downstairs to play the drums. As I listened to each successive song, I was a bit flummoxed by his selections because they went like this:
Highway to Hell
Don't Fear the Reaper
Here Comes My Girl
Enter Sandman
When he came upstairs for dinner, I asked him what the hell he was thinking with those songs and he started laughing. He hadn't picked those songs, he explained, he had asked Alexa to play a "rock" playlist. And if you follow me on Facebook, you know that bitch hates me, so then the song selection made perfect sense.
I'm still kind of a nutcase about all of this. I am feeling such a crazy and complex mix of emotions: Joy, fear, happiness, anxiety, relief, tension, hope, maybe even a little mild bloating... I don't think there's an actual English word for this but we should totally create one. I bet the Germans have such a word. They came up with schadenfreude, for God's sake.
So now we wait. Today is almost literally the first day of the rest of my life, I suppose. And not many people get to say that (3,945, to be exact).
How long will we wait? There's no real way to tell. Kevin, my transplant surgeon, told us that based on my particular everything-that-they-measure, the wait will likely be about two years. But my actual mileage may vary, of course, and so now every time my phone rings, my heart leaps. Which is probably not the ideal situation for someone whose heart doesn't have much leaping left in it, so hopefully I will relax into this a bit.
Until then, you'll find me behind the velvet rope, hoping that what I've come to think of as "The Switch" will happen soon... and working on my Heart Transplant Etiquette Book.