The late Mr. Tom Petty, who was one of my favorite rockers, wrote a song called "The Waiting."

The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part

I've always liked that song and have applied it many times to my life-- sometimes about a romance, sometimes a dress size, or a job offer or even a casting decision. But after the past two months, it seems so outrageously silly to me that I ever worried about such things. 

It's been 63 days since I was first told that I was being recommended to UW for consideration for a heart transplant. As we've all learned, this consideration is a pretty involved process full of testing, procedures and consultations with various specialists beyond cardiology. And yesterday, 62 days in, the Selection Committee met to discuss my case and determine if I was a suitable candidate.

It's weird to think of a group of strangers deciding my fate like that. This is literally a life and death decision-- the actual first time ever that my over-the-top anxiety has been warranted. I'm a control freak from the Planning Tribe and having to just sit and wait while everything about my physical body and my lifestyle is reviewed and discussed and possibly argued... that's strange. In this country we're raised to believe that something like that is done with you present, with a super smart attorney arguing for you, and in front of a jury of your peers.

Last week, the Transplant surgeon (his name is Kevin and he's from Southern California and for some reason that is funny to us both) warned us that I might be denied for not being sick enough, and that's weird too because they've made it clear that I'm not going to get any better. Sure, I'm not in the hospital nor dependent on an external machine to keep my heart pumping-- but my quality of life, as compared to what it was before, is not good. So, my options are... continue this life of suspended animation, or hope that I get worse?

So yeah, worrying about a pending promotion or fitting into my "skinny" jeans or whether or not a boy would call me for a second date seems kind of dumb when I see it in my rear view. And now we ALL can stop worrying because they made their decision: The Selection Committee agrees that I am a "suitable candidate for transplant."

Suitable, yes. But not yet on "the list."

My approval is conditional upon the results of one more procedure and one more test (both scheduled for February 26). Once I clear those two hurdles with positive results, my health insurance company will then have 14 days to approve or deny the transplant. (Side note: While I haven't fully researched this, the Transplant Nurse has assured me that there is basically nothing they can use for grounds to deny me.)

So, we're hoping that by mid-March, I will finally be ON the list, behind the velvet rope, and waiting ever-so-patiently in the line of people who got there before me. That is when the actual clock starts ticking and the wait starts.

And we're hoping that the waiting really is the hardest part.