It's an odd sensation being in the state I'm in. Clearly, I'm not receiving enough oxygen to function as I normally would. I know this because thinking complete, coherent and rational thoughts is becoming more difficult, almost daily. I remember back to months preceding my first transplant and how I recognized my diminished cognition as indicating it was time that I dropped out of school to focus on my health. At that time, transplant evaluation hadn't been placed on the table, but we knew it was coming, and fast. Also, judging by the ebb and flow of my breaths, how deeply my chest is reaching to catch a breath, I know it's time.
Like before, I feel like my mind and soul (whatever that may be) is diminishing more each day. I'm living in a state of limbo in regards to reality and dreaming. My memories, when I recall them to myself, increasingly take on the hazy and uncertain feeling of a dream as it's fading from your memory in the moments after you first wake up. My sleep is punctuated by brief interruptions where I have to take a moment to figure out where I am. Sometimes when this occurs, I'm still partly in the dream, and wanting to continue performing whatever task I was in the dreamworld, despite my surroundings clearly being those of my bedroom as opposed to whatever odd or fantastical lair I was inhabiting just moments before.
I've found lately that I feel a fear in my heart that recalls memories and fears I had just after my transplant. Each morning while I was recovering, some sort of machine, a street-sweeper, I'm guessing, would sweep the street seven stories below. It was a horrible, nightmarish sound to me. Normally I guess that it would have been no big deal, but around 4 or 5 AM each morning the sound would invade my dreams and torment me until I finally woke and preoccupied myself with some sort of distraction. The sound of that machine isn't around anymore, but the fear it introduced to my heart has resurfaced as the elements and circumstances of my life begin lining up to the way they were just over 2 years ago.
It is these elements that let me know that the time is coming, this week or the next, when I'll be re-evaluated for my next transplant.
Yesterday and today were particularly difficult days to function; partly because I've been sleeping poorly, but also just because my lungs are self-destructing, and bringing the rest of my body down with them.
I'm trying to decide what the proper course of action should be in this condition in terms of addressing the future, and my loved-ones who are as uncertain about my doom as I am. thus far I've been both trying to look ahead to a future where I'm still around and am living a mildly successful life, slowly fulfilling my ambitions, and also preparing myself for the equally likely scenario where I die. I had to make peace with the second scenario some years ago, and now I'm here trying to make peace with it again. The first transplant was such a slap in the face (not intentionally on anyone's part) but I feel my hopes were left so high in the wake of it, that the confrontation with reality, this time, is much more painful. I was so hopeful and was able to, temporarily, stop thinking about being dead. But the reprieve was brief.
I spent all day today dragging my feet around the house, feeling like a ghoul. On top of that, the pain my body is in doesn't make the ordeal any easier. While the meds ease my physical pain, they leave me feeling more drained and ghoulish then I would otherwise be.
In light of all this, I've taken to studying screenwriting, with the slim hope I find I'm good at it. The bitch of it all, however, is that as my body is able to utilize the oxygen it receives less and less, I find that concentrating on the information I'm supposed to be learning, becomes harder and harder to do; therefore, applying it less to the actual writing. I imagine that if I write something, it'll be one of the most imaginative and mind-boggling pieces of screenwriting ever- and a complete fucking waste of everyone's time.