Witness Marks: Stories From a Heart Transplant

I’ve never really been one for goal setting; New Year’s resolutions aren’t usually my thing. As a fitness instructor, I never even endorsed the idea. My thoughts on goal setting were always centered on changing simple habits, finding enjoyable hobbies, and seeing how life evolves from there. I still recommend this approach. But something about surviving a heart transplant—and getting older—has made me want to aim for something this coming year. Nothing wild. Just a little something to work toward. It’s normal to come out of a traumatic experience—especially a medical trauma—feeling a little lost, or as some say, a little empty. When we think we  should  be feeling joy and gratitude, we might instead feel guilt, purposelessness, or our own version of grief. Many of us assume a transplant will change us, improve us, only to wake up and realize that the only things that have changed are a new organ and a regimen of life-sustaining medications. I can attest to all of these feeling...

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 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...

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...

 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 ...