Your first climb started so young and performed. From so young you had to climb your way out of terrible memories, hard pasts, tough situations. Rough childhoods or terrible families, military deployments that showed you the worst humanity can be. That first drink was a surprise, an oasis in a desert of misery. For the first time, you had numbness in your life, and you thought it was the perfect solution. Buddies drinking in barracks or in bars. Drinking culture at its prime, giving you permission to get numb.
Was your next climb the ascent? Noticing you drank more than everyone around you? Starting to drink alone, at home? Perhaps you thought no one would notice. Sneaking away from the family you had to find numbness again. You love them, it’s not them you want to hide from. The drinks you have don’t seem to be enough anymore. Higher count, higher proof, higher concentration to attempt the same high as before. For a time, you couldn’t tell which was the stronger drug- alcohol or denial.
You climbed deeper and deeper into addiction at that point. Physical dependence replaces any psychological one you had previously. Baseline levels just to not feel sick, but those levels made you feel bad anyways. Tremors, sweats. Cutting back but you couldn’t. Feeling stuck. The life you have and the life you want separated by the chasm that is withdrawal.
Climbing into darker and darker depths. And then that news. “We have run some tests and we have important news to share with you. You have cirrhosis or scarring of the liver. Based on your symptoms, your liver is failing to do its job. We will do everything we can to keep you as healthy as we can, but we need to start looking at other options”. In that moment the warm blanket of denial is ripped away. Cold reality sets in. The chill on the path you have set for yourself is so lonely and so cold. Regret is bitter. And there a decision had to be made; do you continue the road you were on, or do you choose an entirely different battle?
The road to sobriety was one of the toughest climbs you have ever had. While I might have some clue about what that entailed, only you know the strength it took to change it all.
Perhaps the most complicated part of this route was what lay ahead. Transplant committee meetings. Transplant lists based on scores. Review boards and waiting for a second chance. All the while your body fights every day to keep up. Fatigue setting in, skin and bones. Yellow and sunken eyes. The body a betrayal of the work you put in the last six months to fight for sobriety.
The days are long, but you keep walking. Your steps slow, and you notice yourself stumbling every few feet. Then falling to your knees. You can’t climb anymore, you think. Collapsing down. You can see the ascent, the end. But it is too far away.
I come visit you in the intensive care unit. Your body is failing, and we have hooked up to every machine we could to keep you alive until a donor is available. Intubated and sedated you lie there, holding onto life. I pull out my notes from my white coat, write down the newest numbers on how you are operating. Notes put away. I grab your hand. I plead and pray for a new liver for you. For a second chance at a mended life. We stay like this for a while before I let you rest for what will be the last ascent, the transplant surgery.
You received your second chance at life at 11:56 pm that same day. Keep climbing. You have already come so far.