The Beginning and The End

"You've got a hell of a lot of scarring, Dave," Dr. Maron said, fixing Christie and I with a grim stare. "I don't think there's anything that can be done at this point. You're going to need a transplant."

I don't remember having much of a reaction to these words until I woke up in a Boston hotel room the next morning, wondering how to explain this to Rich and Brennan, 10 and 5 at the time. Christie, unable to sleep had been awake for hours, in the shower, likely crying and trying not to have a nervous breakdown.

I could see the road stretching out in front of me, like in a movie, shrinking into the distance. I knew that monsters lay down that road. Some lay hidden in the scrubs along the edge. Others stood boldly in the middle of it, smoke wisping from their nostrils, threatening fire and consumption. Still others waiting to greet us as friends. They would promise to walk this road with us, to see it through to the end, as only friends would do. These were the most plentiful, yet the most deceived. I knew even then, looking down that road that not only would there be some who, unable to go the distance, would decide at some point that there was no longer anything noble about the fight, and that they would even possibly become resentful, seeking to devour us to assuage their own guilt. I saw all of this in that moment. I also saw upheaval, fear, sadness, confusion, indecision, mis-understanding, and a testing of will. So much testing.

But that morning, with that road stretching out in front of me, I knew what I had to do. I had to get up, put my feet on the floor. I had to rent a car. We had to look at apartments. We had to hit the ground running because time was precious, mere months if I continued to progress, according to Dr. Maron. We knew there was a move to Boston in our future, and the sooner, the better. We'd have to move heaven and earth to make it happen. But it started with putting my feet on the floor that morning. And of all the mornings I've struggled to do that, this struggle was the most difficult.

But I did it, and it happened. And so many things happened in between my feet hitting the floor that morning and today. Today, when I stood, I could see no road in front of me. That future is too unpredictable. It could be a road filled with many happy and healthy years, memories, good friends and the fulfillment of all that we've dreamed and hoped for since that morning in Boston. It could be fraught with peril, more monsters, lurking, waiting. There may be no road to walk down. This is a more uncertain journey, but certainly the end of the most difficult one in my life to this point.

The gory details are recorded here, of course, but who knows what will happen after this? My feelings are mixed. Relief, terror, joy, sadness. Someone died this morning, and their loved ones probably see a long road stretching out in front of them. This one is filled with monsters too, but they are more sneaky, and will become constant companions. Some monsters have to be lived with, and made peace with, though it will always be an uneasy one - but they won't go away. They must be accepted and we must learn to let them have their place in the sorrow and recovery, and in whatever healing there is to be had. I don't pretend that road is any more difficult to walk than the one I have been on for six years now.

There's really nothing left to say, and everything left to say. I have no message here for my wife or boys - those are all stored on flash drives that they can watch, or not, at their discretion, should I not be around to say what is necessary to them. To the friends and family who have gone all the way, I wish there were some reward for you as well. We've picked up a few companions along the way, but a few remember those first months when I began to notice something was wrong, all the way back in 1998. I think of Smitty, Leslie, Jason, Tiffany, Spencer, and Robin particularly. They have all endured with us. They were the first to come to the rescue when our business needed saving. Some of them came to the rescue when I needed saving, in more ways than one. There are the many doctors who helped up on our way, either by pointing us in the right direction, offering solutions, or even highlighting our error when our efforts were futile. There's Lisa Salberg at the HCMA, and Mindi (Rene) Barger/Hughes to whom I literally owe my life a dozen times over. And there are the monsters. They know who they are, and they are not evil, they are only human. I inflict upon them grace and forgiveness. Maybe it will eat them up on the inside, or maybe it will change them. I don't really care either way.

Whatever happens on the other side of this, I do know one thing. We started down that road with determination and barely concealed fear. It's odd how I feel the same emotions on this day, here at the end of that road. But we've come to the end of it, or at least the end of this part. We did it. Through heartache, strain, sacrifice, tears, stress, anxieties, uncertainty, and sheer force of will. I refuse to give anyone else credit for it, because we have earned it, and we deserve that acknowledgement, if only from ourselves. "We have done the impossible, and that makes us mighty," Captain Mal Reynolds tells his suffering soldiers in the pilot episode of Firefly. Reynolds goes on to lose the war, but he knew, come what may, he'd done everything in his power to make sure he won that battle. And we have won, whether the day brings great joy or sorrow, we have done what we set out to do. That in itself is a good way to End, either this section of the road, or even the whole journey.

I hope the next thing I do is put my feet on the floor. I believe it will be. But regardless, I believe that winning this battle was important, physically and spiritually. I hope to talk to you all on the other side. Thanks again for reading.