This morning I looked in the mirror and searched for me. I knew I was there but I couldn’t quite make me out. Over the last three days, my face has morphed Kafka-esque into that of a hardened- drinking, outdoor-weathered, apoplectic beetroot. It wasn’t unexpected.
I’m back in hospital, being pumped full of high dose steroids to counteract an episode of rejection picked up in a routine biopsy at the beginning of the week. It’s not uncommon, they tell me, for this to happen in the first year post-transplant. Add to that the fact that they’ve recently changed me onto a new anti-rejection medication and there’s even less of a surprise. But still it needs to be treated. And now, in steroid overload, body bloated, I wait and trust in those that know best; until the next biopsy at the beginning of the week.
The last time I didn’t recognise myself was a fortnight ago. I stepped out of a bedroom into a full-length reflection and all I saw was happy. A smile devoured most of my face and dimples swallowed up the remainder. My boots were high, my dress long and jewels lit up my marginally-less-mussed-up-than-usual, hair. A gaggle of girls, glasses of fizz, a rainbow of nails and autumn sunshine crowded into the farmhouse sitting room. Outside, bagpipes summoned people to the barn. The room emptied of all but a few and my dad, smile rivalling my own, hesitated on the threshold, unsure whether to cross over into the smog of perfume and hairspray and girlie indulgence.
On the way out my best-friend L stopped me: ‘You look great, and just the right amount sexy. Take time to breathe, remember the day, it’ll be over before you know it. Don’t miss it.’ We followed her out, across to the barn, a purple streak in glitter sandals: my nephew with his painted nails (the girls loved helping him with that); my gorgeous niece and soon-to-be step-daughter, all clunky books and sassy cute; me and my dad. One of my closest friends piped my progress, another tried to take photos before bursting into tears. I hardly noticed the rain.
For a moment, as I rounded the top of the barn, I couldn’t see him. Amongst the crowd I spotted others – my oldest friend looking exactly as she had when we met in high school but with (slightly) more glitter; another ready to clack together her Dorothy heels. And then he was there, Mr D – be-kilted in crazy spray-painted leaves, looking at me in a way I’ve never managed to look at myself. We disappeared inside our smiles.
That’s the look I remembered this morning, in front of the mirror in the hospital bathroom. And in a moment of magic, the beetroot disappeared and I realised I was there all along.