About five years out from my transplants (a kidney and a pancreas, received in 2000, auspicious year), I made a routine visit to my nephrologist at Duke University Hospital. The man is calm as deep water. Tall. With those beautiful hands some physicians have. And he reads my books.

We did the routine things. Everything was fine. We had chatted, longer, I liked to imagine, than he chatted with other patients. Just as he was leaving, I understood that I had something urgent at the back of my mind.

“I feel like I’m running out of time,” I said. “As if these organs have an expiration date.”

The combined kidney/transplant operation was still relatively new when I had it in 2000 and studies showing the longevity of the organs (or of the patients, for that matter) post-transplant hovered around seven years.

“I may only have two more years,” I concluded.

Honestly, I cannot tell you what posture my doctor took, whether he was standing or sitting at the time. I only remember the answer.

“You’re past the danger point when most organs fail. The longer you go, the longer you go. The window is open.”

Sometimes you just want to kiss your doctor on the mouth.

I took that sentence—The window is open—and placed it under my tongue.

If I get a tattoo, it’s going to be an open window, or those words.

I don’t even care any more if they are true. They are true in my mind.

The window isn’t closing. It’s opening. And I’m slipping right through it and out into the world.

Every single day.