Witness Marks: Stories From a Heart Transplant

 Another day, another 5-mile walk in the autumn sun. I've said it before and I'll say it again: what a privilege. There was a time I would have taken that for granted--not just the walking, but the friendship and camaraderie that comes with the miles spent exercising with friends. What seems like a lifetime ago, I was a runner. Running for me was a solitary activity. And this was just how I liked it. It gave me time to myself and space for my thoughts. Pounding my burdens into the pavement was my therapy.  I began walking with friends once I bought my first home and had a few kids--that's when I discovered the joy of friendly female companionship, and I learned how doing something hard together--specifically,  something physically demanding like exercise--can solidify and strengthen relationships. But then the business of motherhood, the noise of life, began crowding things out, and my near-daily walks with friends was sacrificed on the altar of "more important" t...

My husband loves old clocks. I’ll admit, that seems romantic, but when he brought his first antique clock purchase home, I was a bit perplexed. The thing was beautiful, a mantel clock made of ebony hard wood and engraved with filigree. As it was built around 1910, it required care by way of weekly winding. He was instructed to turn two keys, one clockwise, the other, counterclockwise. If he could keep up a disciplined schedule of weekly winding, the clock kept pretty good time and chimed on the regular hour markers. If he forgot to wind the clock, well, she sat uselessly on the piano where she was meant to keep time. Aaron is quite disciplined and wound the clock regularly. On the occasion that he forgot his weekly duty and the clock fell behind, he would meticulously work the keys and direct the hands back to where they needed to be to keep time.  One Sunday evening, Aaron went to take his turn winding the clock only to find it broken. The hands of the clock no longer responded to...

 Today I walked five miles. The sun was shining and the air was the perfect autumn-day crispness. We had the trail pretty much to ourselves--Christine, Millie, and I--and we were free to talk about whatever came to our minds as we filled the miles with our words.  Five miles. What a privilege. At one point we passed another neighborhood friend, Megan. She commented that we were fast--and we are fast, trucking along at a pace of 15 or 16 minutes a mile--to which Millie and Christine both responded, "Well, Fiauna has a new, young heart! It wants to go fast!" I have a 21-year-old heart. That's a fact that still brings me to tears. My donor was only 19 years old when her life ended and her heart was donated to extend mine.  After my transplant, while still in the hospital, the social worker came to my room in a rare moment of privacy and asked if I wanted to know what little information she could share about my donor. Surprisingly, I had to think about it for a minute. Did I ...