Honoring Her Extraordinary Gift

Her words were professional, meaningful, and memorable. Definitely memorable. For me, it was an emotional moment. Very emotional. Still is. To this day.

 

“Dr. Fisher has approved a liver,” my transplant coordinator, an RN at the VCU Medical Center, calmly informed me as I listened intently on my cell phone at 2 o’clock on the morning of Wednesday, November 14, 2012.

 

It wasn’t as if Teresa really needed to ring me up. She and all the other good folks at the Hume-Lee Transplant Center knew exactly where I was: lying in a bed in Room 150 of the Surgical and Trauma Intensive Care Unit, hooked up to a 24/7 dialysis machine and a plethora of IV bags, fighting with all my might to stay in the game as a rare autoimmune liver disease did all within its power to bring that game to an end.

 

Six days earlier, Dr. Robert A. Fisher, my surgeon, had given me and Emily the stark prognosis: without a donor liver, I had one week. Now, the clock was ticking. My condition was worsening. My situation was grim.

 

That said, I was – believe it or not – fine with where I was. It had been an incredible adventure, one teachable moment after another, you might say. You see, in the two-and-a-half years since I’d received my diagnosis of primary sclerosing cholangitis and certainly during those surreal days in the STICU, several truths had become abundantly clear.

 

First, faith, family, and friends were my saving grace. Without them, the challenges, tough as they were, would have been unbearable. Even as time grew short, I never felt alone or afraid.

 

Second, my team at VCU was in this battle to win, just as I was. Thankfully, they had an extensive playbook. All they needed from me was motivation, compliance, and trust. No issues there, then and now.

 

Third, inner peace and tenacious resolve are in no way contradictory. I knew I’d be healthy again one day if the surgery occurred. I knew I’d be all right if it didn’t. The promise of a gentle crossing to “that other shore,” a glorious arrival, and a spiritual reunion had put my heart and mind very much at ease. That said, I knew I had to stay present and positive, focus on the “here and now,” hold thoughts of “there and then” at bay, and encourage family and friends to do the same.

 

Fourth, it became abundantly clear that the only way for me to survive was if someone, somewhere were to die. As I navigated that emotional dilemma, I came to recognize that one of the few things I could actually control was the mindset of the guy in the bed. Fate, luck, and the skill and dedication of my team would determine the rest. My worry, truthfully, was not so much that a donor liver wouldn’t become available but that my donor would be one who had not fully lived life, perhaps a high school kid like those whom I’d coached for four-plus decades.

 

Which brings me to my point.

 

During that wee-hours phone conversation, Teresa explained in her steady, reassuring manner that I now know so well that my donor was an 84-year-old woman who had died of a stroke in Wilmington, North Carolina.

 

She had collapsed while attending church and was rushed to the New Hanover Regional Medical Center. She was a pillar of her community. She had left a pristine liver. She had lived an extraordinary life. She had set the bar very, very high.

 

I’ve never questioned why I got sick. Each day, I question why I got well. I’ll probably never know the answer to either. Some things, I guess, we’re not supposed to know.  

 

This I do know, though: This past Friday, my guardian angel would have turned 90 years old. Her liver is working great, my life is blessed, and with humility and gratitude I’m doing my best to honor her extraordinary gift. I hope her family would be pleased. I hope she’d be proud.

   -- Weldon Bradshaw