Like the worst version of Groundhog Day, it happened again.
More tests. More questions. Higher ammonia levels.
At one point, my ammonia reached 207.
My hands would shake.
My balance wasn't right.
Walking didn't always feel as automatic as walking should feel.
Doctors started piecing together what they believed was happening.
Blood wasn't moving through my liver the way it should.
My body had created alternate pathways, and a large shunt was allowing blood to bypass some of the filtering my liver would normally provide.
Finally, an answer.
Or at least part of one.
Then came another decision.
Doctors recommended closing the shunt.
And that meant another procedure. And I was completely on board.
But would it work? Would the encephalopathy stop? What would happen after they closed it?
Was this really the problem?
I had spent months wanting an answer.
Then I learned something about answers.
They don't always take away fear. Sometimes fear just moves.
First you're afraid because you don't know. Then you find out. And now you're afraid of what you know.
I thought about being 13 again.
Doctor after doctor. Test after test.
People looking at numbers and images and trying to understand what my body was doing.
Back then, I just wanted someone to fix it so I could get back to normal.
At 39, I wanted the same thing. But normal meant something different now.
Walking across a room without thinking about my balance.
Driving without wondering if I was mentally clear enough.
Sending an email without worrying what I had said.
Dinner with my family.
Normal wasn't boring anymore. Normal was extraordinary.
Maybe it always had been.