Radical Living
This story begins in a hospital room. It begins at 4 months old when my parents were told I had a life-threatening, genetic disease and an expiration date was put on my life. It begins at 21 when I became a parent when pregnancy pushed my body into organ failure and my son was stillborn. At that moment of becoming a mother, I knew I couldn't save my child's life but I had to save mine. My doctor suggested a last chance effort of enrolling me on the transplant list for a liver transplant, and something deep inside me said if I wanted to live I would say yes. And so I did. I said yes, and underwent the intense evaluations of the transplant list.
My husband and I live in a small, rural town 5 hours away from the closest transplant center, and so our lives consisted of frequent road trips to go visit doctors. For a year and a half, we waited. I cut back my hours at work, then stopped entirely, my sole focus on being a patient. I was dying, my son had died, and my life felt consumed by this thick black fog. And somewhere in this place between life and death, my survival instinct kicked in.
On August 14, the transplant surgery was scheduled to take place, with my brother as my living donor. During the surgery, there were complications, a lot of them, and it was deemed I'd need a second transplant. In the ICU, I was still sedated, and my family could only hope a deceased donor organ became available in the little time I had left. I was moved to top priority in all of Canada, something that isn't done unless you are running out of time very quickly. On the night of August 17, my family was informed a deceased donor liver had become available and was being flown in from across the country. I was taken back into the operating room and received my second transplant, and third major surgery, in 4 days. This transplant was successful, but it was back in the ICU that my real fight for survival began. I was intubated, and too weak to come off intubation. I caught a lung infection. I was sedated for weeks before I was finally strong enough to be woken up and stayed on the ventilator for 5 days while awake - my worst fear.
I was sedated thinking I'd be asleep for 24 hours, and woke up 3 weeks later, in an immense amount of pain, without the transplanted organ I had anticipated having, and with the sedation medication never having been strong enough for me to be completely unaware. I had been on so many drugs I had a full-blown addiction, and part of my recovery also included withdrawing from all the medications. It was in that hospital room I knew I had to make a choice. If I wanted to live, I wanted to live full and big and radically. I wanted my son to be proud of his mom, to know his life had been my inspiration to live big. With bloodied fingertips, I clawed my way out of the darkness and insisted on my own survival.
I started documenting my journey in a notebook I called the field guide to radical living. This notebook became a blog, which became the story I now tell people when I'm asked to speak at events. It's about how anesthesia numbed me, and how beauty thawed me. How I came back to embodied living after such a disembodied experience. I am a year and a half post-liver transplant, and I am living the life I never thought possible. The radical life. I currently work from home as the transplant community manager for Lyfebulb, which means I get to share my transplant story, and radical living story, with patients every single day. It is among my life's greatest honors. The other is being my son's mom. He gave me something to fight for. And I can only hope, wherever he is, he's really proud of his mom.
I walk between life and death daily. I am living and carrying on the memories of my son, and my donor. This is the most radical form of living, and I wouldn't change it for the world. You can find Alisha hanging out on transplantlyfe.com, alishaemerald.com, or on Instagram @thealiemerald
