THE BOOK

I began writing my book more than ten years ago. I had just survived a very difficult and serious second liver transplant. It seemed like the appropriate time to seek closure from years of illness. The process of writing a book took much longer than I had anticipated. I had heard this cliche before and was sure it wouldn't apply to me. Yeah right...

I sat at the old graphics design table in the quietest room of our house one night, and began to write. Before connecting pen and paper, I asked myself, how am I going to do this when I've never written anything before, especially never in English? I spoke well enough, but did that mean I could write an entire book? Maybe I should write it in German.

I decided to write in English. The majority of my hospital stays had still been in Germany up to that point, but the transplants had taken place in the U.S., and therefore medical expressions and terminology were at the tip of my tongue. The first outline was done within a few days.

The words flowed out of my mind onto the keys of my computer and lit up its screen. A month after the outline, I had typed over 800 pages. For someone like me who is not particularly known for my memory, I was amazed that every detail was in my mind as if things had happened yesterday. It seems that traumatizing events stay with you. Once this first draft was finished, I put it away for several months. Although I had written a lot, I didn't have a conclusion to my story.

I picked up my manuscript much later and read it again. I couldn't believe what I had written. The story was fine, after all it was pretty much carved in cement since it was a faithful account of my life. But rather because I never realized how poorly I spoke English. The grammar was fine. My mother had seen to this growing up. However, expressions and wording of sentences, all of it was 'off'.

I began listening much more closely to the radio and television. Whenever a particular expression suited what I was writing about I used it. Little by little, the second and third drafts came together. Even though, I still didn't have a conclusion.

While my English was improving, my story wasn't. Not until I gave it to my husband to read did he point out the immense flaw. The solution might be simple, the execution of it, not so simple. I put the manuscript away for several more months still unsure how to fix it.

In my manuscript I had cast myself as a superhero defeating death. My story lacked honesty; honesty, first and foremost, towards myself. I had become so adept at burying my feelings in order to deal with my health issues, that I couldn't bring them to the surface anymore. I hadn't included them in my writing. The act of putting events on paper forced me to confront emotions I had never dared face before. Draft by draft I began removing layer after layer of thick skin. Like an onion, I peeled off a barrier at a time to get to the real story. I imagine this is the type of work therapists do.

By the time I reached draft number XXL, I felt as if I had spent years in therapy. The more I delved into my state of mind during my illness, the deeper the sense of relief. My manuscript was taking shape, but I still didn't have a conclusion.

Ten years flew by in a flash, but illness didn't let go of me. I wound up having a third liver transplant and a new kidney. This last physical trauma had to become my conclusion, the final chapter after twenty-eight years of roller-coaster health.

Finally, I felt confident enough to relinquish my finished manuscript to my most genuine critic. My husband's talent to take a story and find its heart proved invaluable. Once again I ended up under the knife...well, my manuscript did. He and I slashed the repetitive moments, carved out my sometimes harsh words, surgically removed all boring lengths and stitched my story together by keeping the best moments. Hopefully we succeeded.

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 THE BOOK IS AVAILABE FOR PURCHASE AT BARNES AND NOBLE

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss/177-2814359-9266907?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=four+livers+and+no+funeral&x=0&y=0

ALLEY CAT

          Right after my third transplant and subsequent recovery, I noticed three typical, reoccurring scenarios among my friends. These scenarios could not have take place prior to the transplant, during the dying phase, because frankly, I wasn’t able to pay attention to much of anything. 

Scenario #1

Some of you tend to think that I’m versed in your physical woes.

“Take a look, Gloria,” my friend said, turning her back to me and pulling down her shirt to bare her left shoulder. “It itches. What do you think it is?” She asked. I looked at the red blotch and answered hesitantly, “I don’t know…could it be allergies? If it doesn’t go away, I’d go see a dermatologist,” I suggested. I saw the relief in my friend’s face, as if I had just soothed that itch.

It’s no secret that I’ve cheated death more times than I care to count (cats, move over). Because of my medical history, I’m considered an authority among my friends in all things ailments. I’m their comfort zone. A buffer between what their illness could be and what it really is. They come to me not so much for advice, but rather to get confirmation that if I made it through much more daunting health issues, so will they.

Scenario #2

Some of you tend to think that I have a special gift for surviving. Well, I don’t disagree with that one.

“I had food poisoning and had to stay in bed all day. Ugh! I felt terrible,” my friend said. Then, remembering with whom she was speaking she quickly added, “of course it was nothing compared to what you’ve been through.”

“No, no!” I answered, a little embarrassed, “food poisoning is awful.”

True, none of my friends have had a softball-size open wound below their right ribs reaching all the way to the pancreas from which pancreatic fluid (battery acid) gushed to the surface burning and dissolving their flesh. Still, food poisoning is unpleasant, to say the least. 

My friends have seen me bounce back numerous times from the worst-case scenario. I represent a success at overcoming tons of physical conditions. They have a tendency to consider me a barometer for their own illnesses.

Scenario #3

For my friends with animals, I now understand that you love them just like a human being.

“I have to take cortisone every other day,” I told my friend. “I really hate this medication but if that’s what it takes, then that’s what I’ll do.” “You too?!” He replied enthusiastically. Alley also has to take cortisone for his arthritis. He doesn’t like it either. I have to mash it up in his Fancy Feast.”

Finally, it had happened. My friend had found kinship between his cat and me. I was being compared to a feline. At first, I felt a crease between my brows. Nothing personal, I love animals (from afar) but no way does my health, or I have anything to do with them (I wouldn’t hurt a fly). But then, on second thought, I realized that my friend meant well. He obviously saw nothing wrong with the comparison because his cat was as important to him as I was to my family.

Whether I’ve been compared to a spiritual adviser, a superhuman or Alley the cat, I’m honored that my friends consider my survival an accomplishment and therefore, come to me with their physical woes. Most of my friends have more or less witnessed my journey. I'm blessed to have had their support in difficult times. And I've learned plenty about myself and them. 

I’ve learned to be patient: illness affects each person differently. What worked for me won’t necessarily work for the next person. I’ve learned to listen: when speaking of their illnesses, either they tend to dramatize or put on a courageous face. I’ve learned to sift through all that and to be honest with them. I’ve learned to be flexible: sometimes, there’s more to their story than they’re willing to tell me. Their words help me find the proper tenor for that conversation. And last but not least, I’ve learned to love animals even more, especially my compadre, my peeps, my man Alley the cat.