The last time I saw my grandmother, or Nonnie, as we called her we sat on the floor and went through her treasure box and button box. She told me stories about the ones she remembered and afterward, we laughed as she sat on the end of the couch telling me stories of her childhood. These were the stories I guess I was finally old enough to hear. These were her most treasured stories, her gift to me. I learned I was more like her than I thought. Which is why my mother calls me by her name, Rose, when I am being stubborn.

She and I talked every Monday night, I’d call her on my way home from work, she’d tell me about her weekend. I’d tell her about mine and ask my biggest prayer warrior to pray for certain intentions.

On more than one occasion after that visit above, she’d say “I can’t believe you wanted to see the button box”. It was the time with her and the stories she told over that button box. And so a few months later when she passed, there was a note on that button box in her handwriting, “for Kristin”. Since then, the contents have been moved to a old milk jug and on display ever since, retaining the button box title.

A week or so ago I was looking for buttons, and mom suggested the button box. Blasphemy! I wouldn’t dare. But after a search high and low in the house, they were the only buttons we had.

I poured them on the bed sifting through them, hoping to find pairs. I found some. It was like time stood still that evening, as I looked at them…and it still didn’t feel right to use some. That night I was scrolling eBay on my phone half asleep and somehow ordered online a vintage American Greeting plush doll. She worked for American greetings, so I just knew that was Nonnie getting the last laugh on the button box, when I saw the notification the next morning.

I ended up not using the buttons, but those memories stayed with me all week. We were supposed to be at Hopkins for a week of appts and a biopsy to check on my heart. I woke up with a sinus infection Monday, had an antibiotic by afternoon and the side effects of an antibiotic even sooner. This carefully scheduled and coordinated week was a mess-all having to be rescheduled.

I looked at that dang button box again. To anyone else it looks a mess, but to me it’s the most beautiful mix of buttons I’ve ever seen.

Year 3 was a mess of a year, just like that button box.

…endless ER visits for migraines as we wait for a new med to come on the market

…an auto-immune diagnosis, only for a new doctor to disagree with the first one and request more testing. A medication that didn’t work and only caused more migraines.

…lab fails, over and over due to tired veins.

…infections, GI bugs, colds, the flu.

…specialists hitting the end of their treatment options that were transplant compatible and getting nowhere.

…some challenges we didn’t share..

And we had come into the year thinking (year 1-survive, year 2-thrive, year 3-live!)

And yet, year 3 turned out to be the messiest. Like that button box, looking back it looked like a bunch of messes. And yet it was the most beautiful year so far. It was the one where God continued to reveal “He is still good”. year 1 and 2 you are simply just trying to survive the craziness that you forget to look up.

Everyone wants transplant to be this beautiful tied up package.

But it’s not. It’s messy. hospital bills. Medications. Doctor visits, vitals, phone calls to the transplant office, messages to doctors. Its energy one day to not being able to get out of bed the next.

But in the midst of that it’s silly memes from your bestie that made you laugh out loud. It’s the random texts, “just thinking of you”. It’s your mom being there for every high and low. Its the dogs acting like goofballs that you laugh so hard you cry.

It’s been 1,095 days since my transplant. It’s been all things beautiful, messy, and everything in between. I never had smooth sailing pre-transplant or post transplant and as my PCP says “when you’re supposed to zig, your body says I’ll zag”. And yet, this year showed me my resilience.

It’s shown me God’s goodness, His presence, His faithfulness, especially when I look back. We stare too much at our own feet instead of trusting the hands and heart of His.

But I hope, I never forget that…

..somewhere a family grieves their loved one. And in Gods providence he saw it fit their story would live on through my heart. And so,

Grief and gratitude coexist in this story. It’s messy like that button box, but this heart of mine is the most beautiful and prized possession. And my donor’s heart is the best gift, I’ve ever received.

To my donor family, wherever you are, thank you. And to every blood donor who saved my life since, thank you. Because of you, I get the gift of beautiful and messy days. As a wise friend once said “not every day is good, but there is something good in every day”. And even on the hard days, life is still good. And so is God.

…Post coming up next: all the crazy things I’ve been asked post transplant like, did you meet your donor? How long does it last? How much did it cost? And some fun other ones…