Message In A Bottle

I have not told a soul about this blog. Not a family member, not a friend. No one has seen it or read it. (exept maybe a drunkin evening with friends that neither myself, nor my reader probably remember)

This is comforting in the sense that I can write freely and I do not have to censor myself in any way. But at the same time it would be nice to just send a mass email to everyone, or post the link on facebook. This way I will forever be able to avoid the dreaded question.

"So how have you been?"

When this question is uttered my whole body tenses up. I start to feel dizzy. And all I can do is smile and respond "great!" If anyone knew how much more I had to say, they wouldn’t have asked in the first place. I have so many answers to that question. It just depends on what day you ask me. But to keep it simple, I just respond "great!". I prefer it on this ledge alone.

It makes the lives of both me and the listener much easier.

But in this chest of answers never spoken, a world of mystery exists.

Megan found Chad's journals. Journals beginning with his first transplant and continuing on, in one form or another, until the end. I remember him starting the first journal. Chad was not one to indulge in writing as a form therapy. He was more the "sweat it out" type. But after his first transplant he had to figure out new ways to handle the roller coaster he unwillingly boarded six months earlier. He wasn't ready to write directly after his diagnoses or even directly after his first transplant. It took four months for him to get his thoughts down on paper.

It was a black book and he had pasted a picture of himself post transplant in it. In the picture he looked like a transformed human being. He was thin, the hair all over his body was black, and to some he was unrecognizable. I have yet to see the journal but Megan has confirmed that the picture is still there. The one I took, so that he wouldn’t forget.

Chad never offered to let me read his journal, and I simply never asked.

My curiosity got the better of me, and when I was out to dinner with Megan, (who has been tirelessly typing up every word of these journals) I asked if she could send me a few entries. She promptly sent them. Two of them. The first two.

Starting December of 2001.

I thought when I received them I would get comfy on my couch and dive in immediately. This was not the case. My head is sometimes smarter than my heart. Sometimes.

These journals symbolize so much. I was afraid to read them for so many reasons.


• I would learn new things about a person I thought I knew everything about.


• I would learn new things about a relationship I had with someone who is no longer here.


• When I am done learning these things that will be it. There will be nothing left to learn.


After a week or so, I read one entry and it broke me down so far I could almost taste the bathroom floor. To hear him speak of me the way he did, to hear him describe the love he felt for me made me ache.

It was too much.

The second entry has been tucked away in an orange envelope on my shelving unit. Tucked away until I am in the right place. When I can read it and feel proud. When I can read it and feel warmth.

This day may never come but at least I know that there is still a small piece of paper living in my house that contains information about him that I have yet to learn.

I can visit him whenever I want, and this keeps him alive.