All is right with the world

Our surgeon, Dr. Koffran, could have begun his explanation in any number of ways, but he chose to start by explaining the "choreography of the day," drawing two squares on the white board to represent the adjoining rooms Joe and I will occupy tomorrow. "They are rooms 32 and 33," he said, "not that you need to know that...."

I almost fell over. He didn't understand why my mom and I broke out in laughter. Room 33 indeed. All is right with the world.

We were at the hospital for about six hours yesterday. I had my first EKG, a chest x-ray, and more blood tests, and for our efforts Joe and I were each rewarded with a plastic-coated, bar-coded bracelet that we'll wear until this ordeal is over. But all of that was gravy; the meat of the day was our meeting with the surgeons. Dr. Koffran is a handsome guy in his late 30's, confident in that way only talented surgeons can be. (Torgie, he's no Patrick Dempsey, though.) He's left-handed, and the the tips of the last two fingers on that hand are missing down to the closest knuckle--yet his strength, he told us, is in pediatric transplants, and he is relied upon to handle the smallest of ducts, veins, and arteries in cases like ours. Interesting. This will be his third live-donor adult liver transplant of 2006. The NMH Kovlar Transplant Unit is moving and shaking.

He answered all our questions patiently, as though the only place he needed to be all day was right there, with us. Pain came up, but he never uttered the word itself. "You will, of course, have some incisional discomfort for a while." With that, I laughed out loud for the second time that morning.

So, back to the choreography: My operation begins at 7:30, and should end by 10:30. Joe's starts at about 9, and should end sometime in the afternoon. I'll be in the ICU until Thursday morning, then transferred to recovery. Everyone is optimistic. Just one day left. Stay tuned! (Hospital contact info will be posted tomorrow.)