Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Guess what I got?


Yes, that's what it looks like.

In fact, I got a few.

I was released today back to the wild, and am really tired from getting home and the emotion of the good news, but it matters that I have been matched.

I got a call from the Donor specialist from MD Anderson. N was working on her computer, my mom was working on my computer, Jim was napping, and I was being bald and watching Formula One on DVR.

A week or so ago she had said that they had three 'possibles' from the preliminaries they had from the search they initiated, and that one looked 'good.' I had no idea what that meant and frankly was terrified to ask anything because I worried I'd just keep asking questions until she hung up and then I'd die.

Seriously. That's part of my problem. I get worried that if I piss these people off or get too pushy or whatever, they may just say 'screw it, this one's a pain in the ass, I'm burning his file and going to my quilting class' and then nobody will be trying to find me a match and get me well.

I don't pretend for a second that there's anything viable or intelligent about that, but there you go.

This evening she says that all three of the three preliminaries they pulled to look at on my behalf have come back as ten for ten matches.

And she says it like I say "I'm gonna take a leak" or "The movie's at 7:15, right?" Like, off the cuff. Hey, cup a' chowder, tuna melt, and this pathetic fuck's life. To go.

I'm the wee-est bit in shock.

And distrust. Which, again, is stupid. She said that they 'liked' two of the three better, because, while they only give a crap about ten for ten, the typing also has some other indicators and by her view two of the three were better.

I think I said something like 'uh' and then maybe pushed my finger against the bridge of my nose. Really hard.

This other-shoe-dropping issue is something I have to get over. I understand that I'm a white guy and so the chances for a match are, while less than great, better than they are for most other people simply because of the numbers of white guys who swab.

But still, it just seemed to loom so large, and to sort of blithely be popped onto the other side of it like Dino got popped outside the door of the Flintstones' place; just feels weird.

I know there's so much left, so much more to be done, so much prep and worry and planning and likely pain and fear and oof and shit and ugh and ha ha how the hell'd that happen?! and so much more.

But right now I'm gonna stare at my match, and eat some ice cream, and then go to bed, and if the bed won't stop swirling with possibilities and possibilities that a minute will reverse, well, screw it, I can live with that.