It was a historic rainfall in Silicon Valley, the likes not seen since the days of Noah and his big boat. Los Gatos Creek spilled over and the neighborhood electricity blew out — a true tragedy in Tech Titan Valley. Mom sparked candles perfumed with vanilla, and I gently yet stiffly laid on our comfy couch with a groan and a sigh. And closed my weary eyes. I was fully deaf since spring 2016 because of amikacin barrages, but the words (typed to me a few weeks prior) of my transplant mentor, Kathleen, whispered through my mind: “Rain purifies the air. It’s a transplant patient’s best friend.”
It was my first day back at home since my double-lung transplant two months earlier. The fentanyl withdrawals had washed away along with much of the physical and emotional hurt from the surgery recovery. I felt the tight, tight, tight muscles of my body surrender to the calm of the moment. And finally, while the world outside flooded, I soaked in tranquility.
The rain brought destruction, then beauty. I was reborn in union with spring. Wildflowers bloomed along the crooked cracks in sidewalks, a fresh burst of radiant petals each time I braved the outdoors for a strenuous “stroll.” Walking took maximal effort because of melted leg muscles. I literally had to re-learn walking after my septic shock several months earlier. Stairs were the ultimate challenge, but I was getting there. One step in front of the other. What is a new life without first steps?
Yosemite Valley flooded days before I visited it. The rain brought destruction, then beauty. The wet froze into crystal, which melted into wondrous waterfalls pouring from all directions; from colossal cliff walls guarding the crowned jewel of California. Mighty trees stretched their freshly greened fingers for the sky and animals frolicked in the fat bushes and along glimmering lakes.
The Dell family and our friends of many decades rented a cabin for a few days. I’d seen one of the friends only once since my 2011 Make-A-Wish trip to New York City — as opposite to Yosemite as you can get. And I am opposite to whom I’d been then. I’m now breathing perfectly, hearing better (thanks to cochlear implants), eating plenty. “You didn’t eat a thing back then,” said “Aunt” Kerry as I devoured steak and potatoes, chased with boysenberry pie. I’ve been playing catch-up for seven years of barren appetite.
I also couldn’t walk far back then — not without griping about chronic back pain and wheezing. And I’d walked even less so the past couple years, before and soon after the transplant. But in Yosemite, my most intimidating physical challenge (outside of the medical realm) towered far, far above me: Vernal Fall. One hundred and forty-eight floors’ worth of hiking, according to my FitBit.
I climbed and climbed and climbed. At points, I clutched handfuls of my pants and hauled my fatigued legs over tall step-stones. I came to a thickly misty area beside the falls aptly named “Mist Trail.” I pocketed my cochlear implants and glasses so they wouldn’t get drenched, and paused for a long, magical while. I struggled to breathe, deaf and nearly-blind. It was how I should be, if not for miraculous interventions.
In that purifying misty oasis, it was just me, God, and my donor. Mist mixed with tears and wind kissed it all away. Two years ago, God swore He’d pull me out of my devastating storms — deafness and end-stage CF. It seemed impossible. But as with all strong storms, there was beauty at the end.
A rainbow stretched beneath the mighty cascades of Vernal Fall. A rainbow: the symbol of God’s promise to Noah, post-flood.
I nearly turned back — my sister already had. But my child life specialist’s Facebook message from the week before pierced my weariness: “You keep winning and overcoming struggles.” Those words were potent; since 8th grade, she’d seen me cry out in terror for mercy more times than I can count. She knows the raw reality of my battles. And she’d always calmed me, kept me pushing. I gazed through mist at the dozens of remaining step-stones leading to the top of Vernal Fall.
Atop the cliff, nothing could smear my smile, nothing could touch me. Numerous times, I’ve said that the brutal war for my life was “worth it” for single moments: at the edge of the Grand Canyon, in the depths of Antelope Canyon, atop the peaks of the Rocky Mountains. And now, above Vernal Fall overlooking the vast valley of Yosemite and its infinite gushing falls.
2016 was war. 2017 was peace. 2018 is euphoria.
Follow my adventures on my Facebook Page, Adamantium Joy.