Witness Marks: Stories From a Heart Transplant

 So, it turns out the quickest way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach after all. It’s through his neck—specifically, the internal jugular vein. Sometimes the groin, wrist, or upper arm will do. Ask me how I know. Over the course of my lifetime, I’ve had this done about 25 times. The first time was when I was twenty years old. I had been diagnosed with supraventricular tachycardia, and the doctor assured me he could fix it with a procedure called endocardial ablation. I was taken to the cardiac catheterization lab—the Cath lab—where they accessed my heart through the femoral artery in my groin. It was scary (they use only light sedation, not full anesthesia), uncomfortable (I had to lie flat with sandbags on my groin for hours to stop the bleeding), and deeply embarrassing (again, it was my groin). I’ve only had this done twice since. I do not recommend it—unless, of course, they’re trying to save your life. In that case, by all means, embrace your overpriced bikini shave a...

This week, I celebrate two bonus years. Two more years granted to me through the generosity and foresight, during a time of grief, of a donor family; the discipline and hard work of healthcare professionals; the love and support of family, friends, and the most wonderful husband; and by the sheer goodness of a loving God. At my recent follow-up visit with my transplant team, one of my favorite doctors asked what words I had to offer after two years. I blurted out, without much thought, “Don’t take it for granted.” But then I really got to thinking: what do I really want to say after this last year? While 2025—year two after transplant—challenged me in ways I could not have foreseen, it also blessed me in ways I previously hoped and prayed for. Looking back on it all, what have I learned? In an episode of Malcolm Gladwell’s podcast  Revisionist History , he talked about well-known celebrities and personalities and their 12 rules for life—rules like “Always stand up straight,” “Alway...

My stepdad was a man of simple abundance—and by abundance, I mean  abundance . The man was a bit of a hoarder. He collected things. He loved tools, electronics, toys—anything anyone might possibly consider useful. If it existed, odds were it had a home somewhere in his collection. He was also a connoisseur of little joys. He found pleasure in the simplest things. From him, I learned the satisfaction of an uncomplicated, unpretentious snack plate, assembled without fuss and shared with loved ones on a quiet Sunday evening at home. He loved food—especially sharing it. He learned to cook at a young age and even taught cake-decorating classes for a time. He passed his collection (read: hoard) of cake pans along to me. Whenever I feel compelled to bake a cake shaped like, say, a rocking horse, I know I’ll find the perfect pan in his stash. One of his favorite foods to share was Chinese food. Growing up, he’d hunt down the best Chinese restaurants, form friendships with the owners, and s...

I've been pondering lately how most people love a victor's tale. And, if not, how they then are quick to root for the underdog. If you think about it, more often than not, what catches the attention of most is a story of triumph: of challenges faced, odds defied, and struggles overcome.  It’s true—some people genuinely  love  a good tragedy. No judgment there. After all, many of the greatest works in literature are tragic at their core—think  Romeo and Juliet  or  Macbeth . If tragedy didn’t strike a deep, strangely satisfying chord in us, Shakespeare’s works would never have endured with such popularity. But what we really want is a neat and tidy ending. We crave stories that, while compelling, follow a predictable pattern and end tied up with a bow. We want an engaging exposition, a captivating rise in tension, an electrifying climax, and a clear, fulfilling resolution. In short, we want to be entertained! Also, we're uncomfortable sitting in discomfort, ...

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...

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...

 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...

 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 ...

 If I'm being completely honest, I did not like the person I became sometimes while I waited for transplant. In my defense, being told one needs a heart transplant is a fairly big deal. It's not something that can be coped with immediately. I needed every last minute of my 18-month wait to adjust. And even then--even now--it's a hard thing to wrap the mind around. In April of 2022 I was sitting in church pondering the words I was hearing. I don't know fully if it was said over the pulpit or if it was whispered by the Spirit, but I distinctly heard the instruction to ask the Lord to know what you need to strengthen and He will tell you. And that's exactly what I did. As I sat in sacrament meeting that day, I prayed to know what I could work on and improve. The answer: Patience and Long-suffering. A few short weeks later those words would need to become a mantra of sorts--actually, more of a chastisement as the transplant process began. The transplant team, while enth...

Over the next several weeks I would return to the emergency department several times stuck in a slow ventricular tachycardia rhythm. Each time they would reset my ICD/Pacemaker to pace me out of the tachy arrhythmia at a slower and slower rate, finally settling at 111 beats per minute. That meant I could receive therapeutic pacing at any heart rate higher than 111 bpm. My activity would have to be very limited until this was resolved either through healing, more ablations, or transplant.   On June 14 th  2022, we had finished all of the pre-transplant evaluation testing and had been approved by our insurance, all we had left was actually getting listed. I messaged Sarah, my transplant coordinator at the time and asked if there was any news on that front. Within hours, she called me and told me that I was officially listed for transplant. What a surreal feeling. At first, I was a little thrilled—we were one step closer to closing this chapter, I thought. On the other hand, I wa...

The journey to heart transplant began before I even knew what was happening. I started going to a new heart failure doctor at the University of Utah who began ordering specific tests. He ordered an overnight pulse oximetry test first, explaining that this test would let them know of my fatigue was caused by heart failure or, perhaps, sleep apnea. Later, I found it it's one of the many tests used in a transplant evaluation. At one of my visits to this doctor Aaron asked how often people with ARVC ended up needing a heart transplant. He told us he had some patients with ARVC waiting for transplants. I didn't understand why Aaron was asking this. I didn't and wouldn't need a heart transplant, for sure. I was relatively young and healthy, right? The doctor then explained that uncontrolled arrhythmias would determine whether I needed a transplant or not. Then he ordered a VO2 max test and scheduled a follow-up visit later in the month. Just after that follow up appointment m...

  Following news for my diagnosis, after my first visit to a hearth failure specialist, our next stop was back at the hospital to have an implantable cardioverter defibrillator (ICD) placed. We returned to the same same-day-surgery we had been to for my ablation and, to our delight, were assigned the same nurse. Clo was the absolute best in making sure we were comfortable and felt cared for. That day, I received a single lead, ICD pacemaker and was sent home within hours to hope and pray I would never need the device. Two weeks later, I landed back in the hospital due to chest pain. I thought it was just my gallbladder, but testing found nothing. It was then assumed it was my heart, so I had to stay over night for observation. A good dose of Toradol finally knocked that pain down and I returned home with no answeres. The only question we had answered during that incident was that we needed to find new doctors. During the entire 24 hours at the hospital, neither of my cardiologists ...