I have some anniversaries coming up and I've got very mixed emotions about them. Tomorrow, the 19th, will be the sixth anniversary of my first bone marrow transplant. Christine, my big sister, was my donor. She was a 100% match, which we were overjoyed about as there is only a one in four chance of a sibling being a match at all, and she's my only one! The transplant itself was very anticlimactic, as we all know (it's a bag of cells. Woohoo.) but for a good four months, we shared the same DNA. The transplant went incredibly well; I was home in 13 days, which was a record. We thought I was home free. Then of course, I got no graft vs. host disease, therefore no graft vs. leukaemia, and the cancer came back. I sometimes wonder if she ever feels guilty about it coming back, like it's her fault because she was too good, it went too well. I hope she doesn't, and knows that it isn't, not at all. Without her, I might not have even made it to the April of the leukaemia's return. It's no one's fault that it came back, no one's fault that I got all the GvH, that I had the accidental stem cell transplant, that the liver wasn't perfect. It is what it is. Then the 21st is the anniversary of my liver transplant. The liver we were so grateful for that saved my life, is now the thing that will end my life. I will forever be thankful for the five years and possibly more that it has given me, but I can't help but feel short-changed. Last week, I found out another young woman I've known has died. Victoria. She was on the TCT unit when I was an inpatient back in September. We knew she'd relapsed and they were trying a different form of treatment, but it didn't work and just like that, in a few weeks, she's gone.
So two days that saved my life coming up. Days that gave me years that I would otherwise not have had. I am of course forever indebted to my donors, all three of them, but it's bittersweet to celebrate life when I know that it's coming to an end at some point. Recently I have been feeling like I may have more time. Maybe this won't be my last Christmas. But the realistic side of my brain knows that it very well could be and I am going to treat it as such. That means no tears, no sadness. It means we are going to do what we always do. Which is perfect. We will cram in everything that we have planned on my bucket list (and no, there isn't much left really) and then I shall continue to live as we have for the past six years, doing what I want, and being prepared for when the time comes. I want my family's memories of me to be good, happy ones, and to not think of me with sadness. I can't bear the idea of them having sad Christmases because I'm not here at my favourite time of year; if anything, I want them to love it all the more because I will be in every part of it. Think of how much I love choosing the tree, how much effort I put into my wrapping, how every year I can devour After Eights like my stomach is an abyss. Watch Elf and The Muppets Christmas Carol and think of me when they sing "It Feels Like Christmas". Do not be unhappy that death happens; celebrate the life that came before it.