62 Days Later: Feeling “Normal”… Sort Of

62 Days Later: Feeling “Normal”… Sort Of
So here I am—62 days post heart transplant. Sixty-two. That’s a lot of pill bottles, doctor visits, blood draws, and daily reminders that my sternum still isn’t a fan of sudden movements. But here’s the strange part. I’m actually starting to feel… normal. Whatever that means. I’m not even sure I remember what normal felt like before, but this version feels pretty darn good for someone walking around with someone else’s heart ticking inside their chest.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not leaping tall buildings or running marathons. I still get the occasional case of the shakes, which makes carrying a full cup of coffee a high-stakes adventure. But I’ve reached that odd moment where I’ll be halfway through a walk, or folding laundry (yes, laundry, more on that in a minute), and I realize I’m not thinking about my heart. I’m just… living. That, my friends, feels like a milestone.
Of course, as soon as I start to feel normal, my wife Jeri takes full advantage. For the first few weeks at home, I was a delicate porcelain figurine. Now? I’m more like a Roomba with a chore list. Suddenly, I’m capable of folding towels, cleaning the countertops, and organizing the pantry. She even handed me a broom the other day with a straight face and said, “You’re strong enough for this now.” Strong enough. Translation: no more lounging on the recliner like a heart transplant prince.
I guess I can’t milk it anymore. The sympathy window has closed, and the “you need to rest” days have been replaced by “since you’re up and feeling better, you can do the dishes.” Apparently, “feeling normal” comes with chores. Who knew?
Still, I’ll take this kind of normal. I’ll take the random aches and the hundred pills if it means I get to walk around with energy again. Even if that walk leads to the laundry room. Because every now and then, in between chores, I stop and think about it: someone gave me a second shot. I’ve got a new heart, a new start, and apparently, a new title—assistant household manager.
But I’m not complaining. In fact, I’m smiling. Because normal, with all its chores and shake-hands and weird post-transplant quirks, is a whole lot better than where I was 62 days ago. And that, my friend, feels pretty extraordinary.
Frederick M Hueston, My Heart Journey: Waiting on a Heart