Witness Marks: Stories From a Heart Transplant

In the very cold, very brutal Pennsylvania winter of 1983, my parents found themselves looking for a new place for our little family to live.  My stepdad had been working as a farm hand, repairing farm and milking equipment for an old couple that owned a dairy in the tiny town of Shippenville.  As part of his pay, we were allowed to live in a small, nearly dilapidated old house with a sagging roof and rotting porch that was next to the barnyard on their property.  As awful as the house sounds, it was charming to me. The surrounding countryside was nothing short of Idyllic in my childhood memory, with horses and cattle grazing in bucolic fields. My older sister and I helped out on the farm by assisting with the milking every morning and afternoon, tending to the chickens and turkeys and pulling weeds in the vegetable garden. We played for hours in the barn, jumping from the haylofts and playing hide-and-seek. We loved it there as children. We were sad to be leaving. Unfort...

I recently learned that the very thing that drives so many people where I live crazy is also the secret behind our spectacular sunsets. It turns out that the dust, the high altitude, and the bone-dry air—the trio that makes daily life feel like a battle with the elements—are the same ingredients that paint our skies in colors that look almost unreal. For years I’ve grumbled about the dryness that clogs my nose at night and leaves my eyes feeling like sandpaper. And the dust—don’t even get me started. The slightest breath of wind can fling enough grit into the air to make you wonder if we’re all going to die of black lung. But then evening comes, and suddenly all that irritation feels like the price of admission. Because, wow. Our sunsets don’t just appear; they  perform . Bold and fiery—light and color spilling across the sky and over the mountains in a way that can't be captured in words. What’s really happening is a little atmospheric artistry. As the sun sets, its light comes th...

Recently, my husband and I were invited on a weekend trip to hike with friends in Arches National Park. Oh, how I had been looking forward to it! I love hiking almost as much as I love running— that toxic lover of mine. And to do it surrounded by my husband and friends felt like such a gift. We even managed to snag coveted permits for the Fiery Furnace, a maze of sandstone canyons with no marked trails. Aaron and I made the four-hour drive to Moab almost giddy, ready for a much-needed getaway and some time outdoors before the holidays. We arrived as night fell, greeted our friends with enthusiasm and began making preparations for the next day. We were buzzing with excitement. After a not particularly restful night, we woke early, divided into carpool groups and headed to the park. We wandered through the Fiery Furnace for hours, climbing over boulders and squeezing into narrow slot canyons, before I began to slow down. Even with peanut butter and honey Uncrustables and Reese’s peanut ...

I’ve heard it said that honesty is the first casualty of illness. I’d say honesty is the first casualty in any struggle. I first learned this when I took my then fourteen-month-old daughter in for a developmental evaluation ordered by her pediatrician, after we first noticed her having seizures. After watching her “play” for almost an hour, a speech therapist and a registered nurse brought me their assessment: moderate to severe global delays. With a cry trapped in my throat, I asked, “Will she catch up?” The two women looked at each other, looked at my daughter, looked at the floor—never looking at me—and said, “We’ve seen miracles.” Was it a lie? Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. But I do know it wasn’t complete honesty. This was my first exposure to the secret language of worry. Since that time, I’ve become quite fluent in this unique dialect. It begins with the eyes. They look down and to the right, or over your left shoulder somewhere. Or the face turns toward you, but the eyes look...

I have this toxic ex-boyfriend, and he haunts me. In fact, I run into him almost every day. It’s becoming problematic. We were first introduced in elementary school. I hated him then. I couldn’t understand the kids who liked him—mainly the boys in my class. He was always chosen for all the teams, and all the boys loved to play with him at recess. I personally never understood the attraction. In junior high, he started drawing the attention of some of the girls. Not me, however. I tried steering clear of him, but no matter how hard I tried, it seemed we were always partnered up in gym class. It was torture. In high school, my sister started hanging out with him a lot. She and her friends spent quite a few summer mornings and Saturdays with him. Their time together looked so easy—so fun and refreshing. Though I didn’t understand at first, you could say I was intrigued; maybe there was something there. Maybe if I gave him a try, I’d understand the appeal. And so I began a flirtation, if y...

 My son is currently facing one of those big life choices: which path to choose after college. He is currently pre-med, but we all know that while many are called, few are chosen. Meaning, not everyone who intends on going to medical school will actually find themselves on that journey. He has also set his sights on possibly applying to a PA (physician assistant) program as well. At any rate, his desired outcome is to work with patients in healthcare and he is diligently preparing himself now, however it may look in the future. Someone close to him recently said, "We've decided you need to go to medical school because one day you'll look back and regret not going all the way." Upon hearing this, I immediately bristled. While I believe my son is smart enough to get into medical school, if he chooses some other graduate degree program I will be proud of him and will never see him as not having gone "all the way." And here is why: My son's reasoning for goi...

In the movie Elizabethtown , the character Drew Baylor stands in his aunt's kitchen with a group of new-to-him relatives following his father's viewing. While visiting estranged family in Kentucky, Drew's father had passed away from a heart attack and Drew was sent by his mother and sister from Oregon to take care of the funeral and bring his father's remains home. Chaos ensues. In this particular scene, the night is warm, the light is low, they're obviously tired both physically and emotionally, yet they're smiling as they revel in a sweet melancholy that often follows traumatic life events.  I love this scene. It calls to mind a difficult-to-describe sentimentality that you have to experience to understand. It is this almost peaceful longing, a reverent recall of difficult times. As if the slow let down  that happens following the adrenaline rush and fear, provides its own serotonin release, cementing a beautiful nostalgia all its own. This is what my family e...

I’m no Pollyanna, but I wouldn’t consider myself a pessimist either. In any situation, given time to think, I feel I have the ability to see both the good and the bad. When I was listed for transplant, Aaron gave me this cute little trinket—a cloud-shaped tchotchke engraved with the words  Always find the silver lining . And that has become a mantra of sorts. I decided early on that I was going to use the opportunity of receiving a heart transplant as a chance to improve myself—to truly have a change of heart. I often fantasized about waking up from surgery, or at least coming through recovery, with this grand new perspective that granted me wisdom, patience, kindness, and the ability to find a well of joy in life that was so often more difficult to find before. Receiving this second chance at life, this priceless gift, would make me a better person. And I tried—I really tried. But it’s an uphill battle. I had been warned about the nasty-but-necessary steroid prednisone. The one th...

Sit with me for a minute, will you, and let me tell you about a dream I had that wasn't really just a dream at all. First, I have to give you the back story. We were driving through Salt Lake City when Aaron's phone rang. It was a friend from work who had a connection to a PA who worked with an electrophysiologist--a cardiologist who specializes in heart rhythm disorders--who could fit me in for an appointment fast. We were desperate and accepted the next available opening. With that we had inadvertently agreed to see the very doctor who had treated me 25 years earlier. I had not liked him then--we'll just say his bedside manner was lacking--and, sadly, we found we did not like him still. Nevertheless, within a month he made the diagnosis of ARVC, placed an ICD, and referred me to an interventional cardiologist for follow-up care.  Over the next two months, Aaron and I both had misgivings; we were both waking up in the middle of the night feeling like I needed to change pro...