Witness Marks: Stories From a Heart Transplant

Sometimes I find myself going quiet. When a thought hits me, I usually share it immediately—with my husband, my sister, my kids, or a friend. I’m an open book. I wear my emotions on my face. But every now and then, a thought comes that feels almost sacred, and instead of speaking, I grow quiet. Sometimes I worry that what I have to say will be too much for some people—offensive to others, misunderstood, disrespected, or simply falling on ears unwilling to listen. In my worry over what other people think, I pull inward, try to make myself small, and stop sharing. That happened to me the other day at church—a place where I should feel safe sharing something sacred. Instead, I swallowed hard against the lump rising in my throat as I felt a quiet prompting, a solemn recognition of a promise I made two years ago. We were talking about the importance of seeking validation vertically instead of horizontally—language I knew Keelie, my 20-year-old daughter with autism, wouldn’t be able to decod...

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...

 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...

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...

 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 ...