Duh!

I leave the hospital Sunday evening feeling relieved that it seems like we've addressed the potential risk of CMV head on and acted quickly to keep it from getting worse.

I am home and essentially relieved of major symptoms.  I haven't regained all my energy back and there's a complete void in the exercise category of my life.  I am optimistic for continued progress.

I decide on Tuesday to enjoy some sun and splash around in the pool with the kids.  Its late afternoon by the time we get there and we're only in the sun for an hour. My daughter notices first that I have a bunch of brown spots on my calves and bottom of my feet.  I am alarmed and try to wipe off what looks like mud…they don't wash off. They're freckles.

Freckles? Not a couple…we count at least 20 and there were none an hour ago. I'm alarmed and doing my best not to freak out about skin cancer possibilities.

As soon as I'm home, I look up skin cancer and transplant patients. A quick scan lets me know that the immunosuppressants I am taking will increase by skin cancer risk by eight times. Ouch! But that skin cancers, if caught early, are the easiest to treat and have a high rate of success. Yay! I consult my nurse, who tells me I'll need to take precautions, like always wear at lest 30SPF sunscreen, wear a wide brimmed hat, and get a dermatologist to regularly follow up.

I have never worn sunscreen in my life. My skin, although relatively fair, does not burn often and gets olive in the summer.  I spent most of my childhood and plenty of my adult life enjoying the sun. I look forward to being enveloped in the warm and bright sun, even the stinging tingle as the sun soaks up the moisture from the water, leaving your skin dry and desperate for the cool relief of jumping back in the pool. I love the feeling of security when you burst out of an air conditioned building, escaping into the sun's embrace. Being drawn to the sun feels instinctive to me, like a baby instinctively craving swaddling warmth.

I am aware of the illogical priority I'm placing on this.

I have dealt with restrictions of a much grander scale than this one. Diabetes means sugar must be all but removed from your food options. Insulin dependent diabetes means you must administer insulin shots every time you eat. Heart disease means detailed restructuring of your diet, exercise and lifestyle. Kidney disease means you are limited to 50 oz or less of any liquid each day. Hemodialysis means you must be in lockdown in a vinyl recliner at the dialysis center for 4 hours three days a week.  Peritoneal dialysis means you must be tethered to a machine every night and need to go through a multi-step medical procedure to walk outside a twenty foot radius.  Organ transplant means your survival is dependent upon your dependence on immunosuppressants and antibiotics. Parvo and CMV mean forever pursuing an elusive balance between drugs that can protect my organs and drugs that can destroy them.

But now we're talking about depriving me of a lifelong, simple, human pleasure.

I feel disappointed, cheated, bamboozled even.

I try to explain it to my daughter.  I struggle to find the right words to justify my visceral response. She is confused and quickly, but unintentionally, realigns my priorities with a simple question:

"But your organs are healthy, right?"