There are moments in life when everything narrows down to a single hallway, a single room, a single decision. For me, this was one of those moments.
I was heading into surgery that was expected to last about four hours. The goal was clear: address a clot, aspirate it if possible, reduce its size, and help it dissipate faster. It was another step in a long medical journey, but an important one. At this point, progress is measured in small victories.
Oddly enough, the last thing I noticed before going in wasn’t fear. It was the operating table. I kept thinking about how warm it would be, how comfortable I’d be, and how I wouldn’t remember a thing. The plan was simple: go to sleep, wake up on the other side, and—hopefully—eat. After so many days of being unable to eat or drink because of procedures and prep rules, the idea of a meal feels like a reward.
This surgery wasn’t happening in isolation. It’s connected to a much bigger picture involving my liver, blood flow, and complications that come with liver failure. One of the major concerns has been varices—fragile veins in the esophagus that form when the liver is blocked and pressure builds. When those veins rupture, the bleeding can be severe and dangerous. That kind of bleeding is what previously drove my MELD score up and pushed me higher on the transplant list.
Since then, things have changed. My MELD score came down, which sounds like good news, but it also means I’m back to waiting. If bleeding continues, it creates real risk, and that’s something doctors need to stay ahead of. They’ve already worked to cauterize and tie off several of these varices, and while it wasn’t easy to stop the bleeding, they eventually did. For that, I’m incredibly thankful to the medical team.
As I was being wheeled in, I found my mind drifting to strange places—like those stories you hear about people being “awake” during surgery but unable to move. Whether myth or reality, it’s not something I wanted to experience. I just wanted rest. Deep, forgetful sleep.
More than anything, this moment was about buying time and creating stability. I still have a living liver donor scheduled for February 23. That date carries more weight than I can properly explain. Someone has chosen to step forward and quite literally save my life. Calling that person an angel doesn’t feel exaggerated—it feels accurate.
Gratitude feels like too small a word for something this big. Saying “thank you” feels cheap when someone is giving you a future. But it’s the only word that comes close.
For now, the focus is on healing, monitoring the clot, and hoping everything clears the way for February’s surgery. This is another checkpoint, another test of patience, and another reminder that progress doesn’t always move in a straight line.
Thank you to everyone who continues to support, check in, and carry hope alongside me. It matters more than you know.
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