heart-transplant – Page 2

Five Rules For Life

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,” “Always try a new dish at a restaurant,” or “Always pat a cat when you encounter one in the street.” It made me think: what would my rules for life be?

So here are my five rules for life (so far, at age 50, two years post–heart transplant):

1) Carry the weight of just this moment.
So many times in life, when I’ve been burdened by something hard, frustrating, or painful, I’ve made my own burden heavier by worrying about how I was going to manage things down the road. I’ve learned in the last few years to let go of looking too far ahead in times of difficulty and to give myself permission to take it one step at a time—carrying the weight of just this moment.

2) Always look for something to be grateful for.
Showing up with gratitude is the quickest way to happiness and a satisfying life. Long ago, I read the famous quote by Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” In that instant, my perspective changed. We get to choose how we feel. I have found over the years that one of the quickest ways to shift how I feel is to choose gratitude. Look for things to be grateful for, and you will be happy.

3) Treat your body with respect. Consider your health a privilege.
Every day outside of the hospital, every day you wake up in your own bed, get to choose your own meals, and use the bathroom in privacy is a day to celebrate. So take care of your health; protect it. The internet and social media are full of opinions on the best way to do this, but in the end, nourishing food, enjoyable-yet-challenging movement, good rest, and evidence-based medicine are your best bets.

4) Move your body, breathe deeply, sweat a little every day.
Exercise is a privilege—one that was taken from me for more than two years. Even now, I miss running and the joy it once brought me; I hope and pray someday to participate in a 5K or 10K again. If you’re reading this, take one minute to breathe deeply, stand up—or sit down, if that’s a limitation you’re facing—and find some way to move your body before that ability is taken from you.

5) Find happiness in simple things and celebrate tiny miracles.
While setting goals and working toward achievement stretches us, helps us grow, and pushes us toward our true potential, it’s the little things we appreciate day to day that make life uplifting and bearable. Big accomplishments are life-enriching, for sure, but in times of test, simplicity is best.

Two years ago, my life was quite literally on the line when a donor, along with a skilled surgeon and medical team, gave me the gift of more time. These years since have taught me that life is not meant to be taken lightly. It is meant to be appreciated, protected, and lived with intention. My rules are in no way declarations of having figured it all out, but reminders I try to return to when I find myself comparing, rushing, or looking too far ahead. If these years have given me anything, it is a deeper reverence for each ordinary day and a profound awareness that every breath, every step, and every moment of love is a gift. So as I celebrate these bonus days, I do so with humility, gratitude, and a renewed commitment to live fully—carrying only today, choosing gratitude, honoring my body, moving when I can, and finding joy in the small, miraculous moments that make a life whole.

My Dad, A Fortune Cookie, and a New Beat

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 somehow negotiate his way into free meals for years. Because of him, Chinese food became a treasured, celebratory staple in our family.

After living a simple-yet-abundant life, my stepdad passed away in 2018. We would have celebrated his 86th birthday this year.

Just two days after my heart transplant, on December 17th, 2023—what would have been his 84th birthday—while I was hallucinating in the ICU, high as a kite on steroids and painkillers, a meal of Chinese food was delivered to my home. Only one fortune cookie came with the order. The message inside read: It’s time to dance to a new beat.

It was a simple message with layers of meaning. What was likely nothing more than a small act of kindness from someone (we still don’t know who) felt to our family like a message from the other side.

That little fortune cookie became, for us, a small miracle. What would have been a simple joy for my dad has become a quiet, yet profound, wonder for me and my family.

As naïve or trivial as it may sound, the ability to find solace and meaning in small joys is a sign of resilience—a healthy and powerful coping mechanism. In the midst of a challenge or crisis, recognizing simple joys and acknowledging small miracles can mean the difference between hope and healing—or grief, depression, and poor outcomes.

When we learn to find joy in simple things, and to see relevance and meaning in small miracles, we don’t diminish our lives—we enrich them. Finding satisfaction in simple abundance doesn’t make us foolish or weak; it shows we’re adaptable, strong, and resourceful.

In fifty years of living, I’ve learned to pivot, absolutely—but I’ve also learned to lean into simple joys and small miracles. Over time, I’ve realized that those big, theatrical scenes of miraculous events or perfect resolutions rarely come to fruition. In fact, when life feels heaviest, those grand solutions are often the least available. But what is available might be a cold can of Diet Coke, a funny movie, a brisk walk with friends to share gossip, or a fortune cookie delivered by a stranger with exactly the right message tucked inside.

Almost a year later, when I received a letter from my heart donor’s mother, she shared that Ella was a dancer. I love the thought that the steady rhythm of her dancer’s heart is now keeping me alive. What a blessing. What an absolute miracle. It’s time to dance to a new beat.

Looking for joy in simple things—finding connection and purpose in a simple-yet-abundant life—might not erase difficulty, but it will offer relief, belonging, and perspective. If I take one tool from my stepdad’s tool hoard, it’s this: the ability to find and savor the small, sustaining wonders quietly waiting all around us. After all, you find what you’re looking for.

I’ll Hold That For You

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, even when—especially when—it’s not our own.

So, how then do we do we deal with those whose stories don’t follow a traditional narrative arc with that desirable rise and resolution? What do we do those whose stories refuse to tie up in a neat, tidy bow, that linger in the uneasy space between conflict and resolution? Not yet a triumphant tale of victory, but not quite a tragedy either. How do we support those still waiting for their happy ending?

I was told I was going to be listed for a heart transplant sometime around April 30th, 2022, and officially placed on the heart transplant waiting list on June 14th of that same year. I was initially listed as a status 6, the lowest active level of listing, meaning my wait could realistically last anywhere from one day to one year with the likelihood being closer to one year. I was ready to wait. And my expectation was to learn patience in the process.

But our expectations all too frequently fall short of reality.

All told, I waited for a total of 18 months—to the day—for my heart transplant miracle. And while I certainly learned a great deal a patience, I learned so much more. For starters, I learned that the transplant–what seemed like the very climax of my story–was really just the beginning of another chapter of my story. I also learned that for most of us this journey is an oddly lonely adventure, one stitched together with dramatic highs and lows. Lab results swing like a pendulum, emotions follow close behind, and we find ourselves oscillating between the cold suspense of waiting for test results and the rush of relief when an appointment brings good news. There are heart-pounding moments in the cath lab, yes, but also long stretches of quiet, slow page turning in waiting-room chairs.

But there is rarely a truly satisfying resolution. This story goes on and on—not in the grand, sweeping way of an epic, but simply as an overly long narrative.

I was talking with a new friend, Alison at Bonus Days magazine , someone writing chapters in her own epic journey, and she recently said something to me that really resonated. We were commiserating about the ups and downs of living life post heart transplant and I apologized for unloading a few frustrations when she said, “That’s okay. I’ll hold that for you.”

I’ll hold that for you. What a lovely sentiment.

What I felt in that moment was validation. She took a seat next to me in the waiting room and agreed to turn the next page of this overly long, not-all-that-epic tale I’m writing. She’s agreed to stand by this unlikely heroine while I’m living my main-character moment.

In this space, where not every book is written with a victorious conclusion or a tragic-yet-inspiring denouement, perhaps the part of the story that matters most is not the thrilling accounts of victory or the dramatic scenes of defeat, but the subtle, life-changing character development that takes place between the lines.

That Which Does Not Kill Me

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 through the sky at a lower angle, scattering the shorter wavelengths—the blues and violets—out of sight. The dust particles in the air ramp up the drama, catching and amplifying the remaining reds and oranges. Meanwhile, dry air and high elevation keep those colors pure and intense. The result is a sky that looks like it was painted on purpose—because, in a way, it was.

It’s easy for me to overlook the spectacular shows that play out in the western sky each evening—to just close the blinds and ignore them. Instead, return to rubbing my irritated eyes and smoothing lotion over the dry skin on my knuckles, grumbling about this place and its cold, arid weather. One day, I swear, it’ll be the death of me.

But take me out of this dry, cold, dusty place and what would I notice? What would I learn? Would I go blind to the beautiful trees and grow tired of the moist, damp air somewhere else? Probably.

Funny how quickly we forget to appreciate the things that come to us without any effort. A sunset we barely look up to notice. A body that keeps us going day after day. Hot water we assume will always be there. Even a simple smile from a stranger. Meanwhile, somewhere in the world, someone is wishing for exactly one of those things we take for granted.

My son served a mission in Ghana, and for two years we were lucky enough to video chat with him every Monday morning. He sent home plenty of emails too—photos filled with snakes, chickens, goats, and the everyday chaos of his surroundings. But what stood out most were the smiles. Not just the smiles of the people of Ghana—people who live without so many of the comforts we take for granted—but the smile on our son’s face as well.

Why? Because of contrast. Because there’s benefit to be found in opposition. The things that challenge us, stretch us, or push us outside our comfort zone don’t just test us—they strengthen us. Opposition has a way of reshaping us.

You’re familiar with the expression, That which does not kill me, makes me stronger.

But here’s the thing: you get to choose. You get to choose what exactly that which does not kill actually does to you or for you.

That which does not kill me grants me new perspective.

That which does not kill me teaches me a lesson.

That which does not kill me makes me more grateful.

That which does not kill me gives me purpose.

That which does not kill me a writes for me a better life story.

The other day I was watching a clip from Dead Poets Society—the scene where John Keating, the teacher, is explaining the purpose of poetry to his students. He says: “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering—these are all noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.”

I would add one more thing to John Keating’s list of reasons to be alive: the sheer richness of learning. The way experiences in life increase our understanding and expand not just our minds but also our lives—one might call it poetic.

Life’s experiences—the good and the painful, the easy and the difficult—give it depth, beauty, and meaning. Sometimes, it’s through the hard times that our purpose quietly unfolds. For this, I am profoundly grateful: for the light and the shadow, the ease and the struggle, each one an opportunity to grow.

Too many of our days slip by while we’re busy thinking about all the wrong things—dwelling on stress instead of gratitude, worry instead of joy, noise instead of love and learning. And I get it, it isn’t easy. With so many responsibilities, it’s hard to stay positive, to find that good perspective. But even in the busiest times, we still get to choose where our thoughts wander in the quiet moments.

So where will we focus? On the dry, dusty air scratching at our patience? Or on the brilliant sky at sunset, beautifully painted just for us?

Pulling the Goalie

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 butter cups fueling me, my energy started to fade. My quads burned in a way that didn’t feel normal. I was more tired than usual and so, so thirsty.

Still, the conversation drifted toward the next hike and tomorrow’s plans. Which arch should we explore next? Who wants to see Delicate Arch?
Me, my heart shouted. I do!
But my mind countered with reason. I needed rest.

That night, as we gathered in the Airbnb swapping stories and playing games, a brutal migraine struck. The nausea, the pounding pain—it all hit at once. Ugh. Why now? By the time Aaron and I headed to bed, I knew I wouldn’t be able to join the group for their hikes the next day. Even though I understood it was the right choice for my body, the sadness settled in deep.

The next morning, Aaron and I made an early retreat and headed home. As we made the four-hour drive we listened to Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History podcast where he talked about hockey. I don’t know anything about hockey. I don’t even like hockey; I’m in no way particularly interested in hockey. But what they were talking about caught my attention. Pulling the goalie. I’ll try explaining.

In hockey, when a team is down late in the game, the losing coach might pull his goalie and substitute them with an extra attacker, so instead of having a full offensive team and a goalie, the coach now has six offensive players and no one guarding the net. It’s a risky move that, while making it easier for the other team to score, also increases the losing team’s chances of scoring a goal and tying the game. The coach is making a calculated risk. Pulling the goalie too early will undoubtedly upset the fans in the short term–possibly in the long term if things don’t go well. But if things play out the way the coach would like, well, then who’s the hero?

I’m the type of person who suffers from Fear of Missing Out (FOMO). When people gather, I want to be there. I want to share in the laugher, get in on the inside jokes, make all the memories. You see, as a child, I spent most of my time with just my sister as my companion and friend. Due to divorce, job changes, moving, and general upheaval, we found ourselves separated from family and frequently changing schools. While teaching me how to adapt and quickly make new friends, I also took on a fear of being left behind.

For three years—while I waited for a heart transplant and later recovered—I was, out of necessity, left out of get-togethers and girls’ trips. I watched friends and family travel and enjoy activities that felt so exciting, yet out of reach for me. From home, it all felt distant, and I often felt lonely and left behind. Even now, during our walks, my friends sometimes reminisce about jokes and stories from the trips they took while I was unable to leave the area. It’s no one’s fault, but hearing those memories still hurts in a quiet, complicated way. Since then, I’ve fought hard—both mentally and physically—to rejoin the world: joining groups, getting active again, going on walks, hikes, and weekends away.

Until I have to pull the goalie.

Another way to explain this—drawing on an example Malcolm Gladwell uses, without getting political—is through America’s gun laws. In many states, there is a legal principle called “Duty to Retreat,” which requires a person under attack to retreat safely, when possible, before resorting to deadly force in self-defense.

It feels counterintuitive, right? Your property, your safety, your family may be at risk—and you’re expected to back away? To rely on retreat as your defense? Yet research shows this is actually safer. In states where “Stand Your Ground” laws have replaced the Duty to Retreat principle, homicide rates have increased, according to Gladwell’s podcast.

I cried when the migraine hit. I cried again when I realized my health wouldn’t let me join the group on another hike. More than anything, I wanted to stand my ground, take some pain medicine, and be right there with everyone in the national park the next day. But logic was the rule of the day. I needed to take the calculated risk of leaving–choosing my health and well-being over my social standing. I might miss the jokes, the memories, and maybe next time even the invitation. But if I stayed, the risk could be far greater.

After my transplant, I had a lot of expectations for myself–most of them centered on participating again. I wanted to run again, to race, to take classes and teach classes again, to join every activity that crossed my path. If people were doing something, I wanted to be right there with them. But life never unfolds the way we picture it. It unfolds the way it will. And so we adapt–something I’ve become very good at. Sometimes the wiser choice is that quiet, calculated retreat. Sometimes we have to pull the goalie. Stepping back isn’t failure. Sometimes it’s survival.

In the end, I’ll be better for having made the call. My friends will be there on Monday with another invitation–I know they will. Hopefully I’ll be well enough to join them. And if not, I have faith that the people who love me will always hold space for me, just as I hold space for them.

The Secret Language of Worry

I’ve heard it said that honesty is the first casualty of illness. I’d argue that 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 nearly 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, glanced at my daughter, then at the floor—never 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 fluent in this unique dialect.

It begins with the eyes. They look down and to the right, or over your left shoulder. The face may turn toward you, but the eyes wander elsewhere. There may be a smile, the conversation might seem jovial, but the eyes are elsewhere. Even when truth is spoken, the eyes often drift away.

You will try to gain eye contact, and you might succeed momentarily, but then your attention is drawn to the mouth. Around the lips is a tightness—a subtle stiffness. Perhaps the laugh is forced, the smile lingers too long. In some settings, masks conceal this nuance, but you’ll notice the sound in the throat, the clearing of vocal cords. Even a brief pause before answering can be a tell in the language of worry. What is this person really trying to tell me?

As you become fluent, you notice the subtleties of speaking this language. You learn its origins. Suddenly, you avoid eye contact when your spouse asks if you’re feeling okay. You find something on the floor to study when a friend asks about lab results. Your voice weakens, and your throat clears when a son or daughter asks about a future date. Will you be well enough then? Who even knows?

The secret language of worry exists as a shield, both for the speaker and the listener. We live in a world overflowing with information—sometimes empowering, sometimes overwhelming. The truth can hurt. We carefully release it, bit by bit, gauging the reaction of those we love. Can they hold this worry with us?

In a few weeks, I will return to the hospital for my two-year heart transplant follow-up. They will run labs to monitor my organs—especially my struggling kidneys. They’ll perform a chest X-ray, EKG, echocardiogram, right heart catheterization, myocardium biopsy, and even a left heart catheterization with angiogram to monitor cardiac allograft vasculopathy (I just wanted to flex some medical jargon). As the date approaches, I find myself slipping into the secret language, explaining and justifying my concern repeatedly.

Oh, how I wish I could replace this language with the foreign tongue of celebratory optimism. I rehearse affirmations and speeches of positivity in my mind. But over the years, the language of worry has become ingrained, and it pulls me in too easily. Gratitude helps. Prayer helps. Patience helps. Until then, I practice them all.

If you catch me slipping into this secret language, try to relate. Empty platitudes have no translation in the language of worry; they ring hollow to those fluent in this tongue. Just listen. Listening helps.

In the end, we all speak the language of worry in our own way—it is, after all, a universal language.

The Toxic Ex-Boyfriend

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 you will. Sometimes I’d join my sister and her friends when they’d hang out with him on a Saturday, hoping maybe there’d be a spark between us. He was kind of popular, and I wanted to like him and really wanted him to like me.

Let me tell you, in the beginning it did not go over well. I guess you could say our chemistry was lacking. Yet time and time again, we’d continue to ask each other out—I’d chase him, he’d chase me. Around and around we’d go. This went on for years, until one day it all clicked, sometime after the birth of my first child.

Most weekdays I’d set aside at least a little time for just the two of us, usually in the morning after my husband left for work. I’d put my son down for a nap and sneak off to spend time with him. But there were other times when I’d bring my son along, figuring that the early introduction was somehow good for him. Our relationship was easy and flourished then. Those mornings were so fun; sometimes I’d add an afternoon. With just one young child and so much free time, I put a lot of focus on him, and our relationship was strong.

But with the birth of each additional child, our dates became more difficult. I couldn’t just put a child down for a nap or bring one kid along to meet up with him. Suddenly, I’m juggling schedules. I’ve got preschool and soccer carpools. I’ve got toddler meltdowns and orthodontist appointments to work around. Timing things got harder and harder. Sneaking away to find time with him became more difficult. Our time together became more precious, so when I did find time, I wanted to really make it worthwhile. I hung on longer, or more intensely—anything to make the time more meaningful.

Eventually, I found ways to add dates to the weekends. I might sneak away for a Saturday morning with him. And that’s when things became torrid. That’s when my friends found out.

Once my friends got involved, we began planning weekend getaways. Aaron managed the kids while I went away with my friends and met up with him. I still feel guilty admitting that those were good times. I felt wild and alive. Adventurous. I was another person away with him and my friends. We ran free, and we laughed until our breath caught in our throats and our heads throbbed. And at the end of the trip, we almost felt hung over from the experience. But there was a price to pay.

This went on for more than twenty years. Over two decades of our love affair began taking a toll on me. And Aaron began noticing.

I began feeling tired. A lot. But this boyfriend demanded my time. And, oh, how I wanted to spend that time with him. I felt young with him. He validated me in a way nothing else did. But eventually, he broke my heart—completely destroyed it.

Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as my health began to fail, he left me high and dry. There was a part of me that thought I could hold on to him until I was an old lady, that I’d go to the grave with him by my side. At least I’d be able to tell my grandkids about my love affair, and they’d blush and whisper about it to their friends, secretly proud of their grandma.

Nevertheless, when my health went south, I came to peace with ending our relationship. I’m a happily married woman of a certain age, I figured I didn’t need him anymore. Believe me, I mourned the loss—I grieved, for sure. I felt broken inside. We had been together for so long, he had become a part of my identity. But I did blame him—his toxic nature. And there was a piece of me glad to be rid of him. I put that relationship firmly in the past.

But then my heart transplant surgeon brought him up, named him by name. Said he’d like to see me get back together with him. Perplexed, I turned to my husband, who sat beside me. He nodded his head in agreement. “I think you should try again.”

And so, after completing thirty-six sessions of cardiac rehab, I laced up my running shoes and tried again.

With a new, young heart and with ARVC in the rearview mirror, I jumped on the treadmill and began cranking up the speed. I started with just a few awkward, toddler-like steps for only thirty seconds at a time, eventually working up to running a full mile. My stride was clumsy, my cadence slow. But I did it.

Did I love it? No. In fact, I’d say we’re back where we started, with me watching all the runners around me making it look so fun and so easy, making me wish I liked it. Just like those days in elementary school, those boys at recess who ran with so much freedom and ease—at least now I know the feeling. My sister and her friends in high school who made their Saturday morning hill runs seem fun—now I understand the appeal.

I know I’ll try and try again. Some runs will be good, and other runs will be horrible. I might chase him; he might chase me. We might go around and around like this for a while. I don’t know if my love affair with running will ever be rekindled. But I hope one day to tell my grandchildren about my love affair with running and make them proud of their strong, resilient grandmother.

He Swept My Floor

My son is currently facing one of those big life choices: which path to take after college. He’s pre-med, but as we all know, while many are called, few are chosen. Not everyone who intends to go to medical school will actually find themselves on that journey. He’s also considering applying to a PA (physician assistant) program. Whatever path he chooses, his goal is the same: to work with patients in healthcare. And he’s diligently preparing himself now, no matter what the future holds.

Recently, someone close to him said, “We’ve decided you need to go to medical school because one day you’ll regret not going all the way.”

I bristled immediately. While I believe my son is smart enough to get into medical school, if he chooses a different graduate program, I will be proud of him. I would never see him as not having gone “all the way.” And here’s why: my son’s motivation for entering the medical field—at least in part—is to have a positive impact on the lives of others. He doesn’t need to be an MD to do that.

I may not know everything, but I know a lot about being a patient. I’ve spent my fair share of time in hospitals, clinics, ERs, procedure rooms, and recovery rooms. I’ve interacted with everyone from surgeons to nurses, CNAs, patient care techs, therapists of all kinds, pharmacists, and imaging technicians. I’ve been impacted both positively and negatively by all of them—no special credentials required.

I recall one early admission in the ICU. It was terrifying. They were listing me for my heart transplant while simultaneously trying to stabilize my erratic heartbeat. I was bewildered, scared, and miserable—and to top it off, my ICU room had no windows, no privacy, and no toilet. The cardiothoracic surgery team came to meet me. I don’t remember much from that meeting, but after everyone else left, one PA stayed behind. With tears in his eyes, he said, “What you’re going through is very scary. We’ll do everything we can to help.”

Another memory comes from a particularly rough pre-transplant clinic visit—perhaps when I was told my transplant listing would be paused while I underwent treatment for thyroid cancer. I broke down in tears. I’d been stoic until that moment, but everything spilled over. My fake eyelashes fell off. My nose ran. It was embarrassing. The doctor hugged me—a gesture unusual for physicians, at least in my experience. Then, that weekend, on her own time, she called to check in on me.

Even now, I sometimes dread my visits to the cardiac clinic. I occasionally leave feeling gaslit or hopeless. The clinic isn’t my favorite place. Yet, even there, I’ve noticed small acts that matter. A medical assistant compliments my outfits and tells me I look nice. That simple kindness motivates me to show up with a smile, to demonstrate that I am worth supporting.

I’ve had nurses hold my hand, patient care techs remember my name and greet me with a smile, echocardiogram techs treat me like a human being, and doctors treat me more like a friend than a body in a bed.

One of my favorite stories comes from a hospital stay while being treated for Lippy. I was trying to make the best of it, to find silver linings. There was a housekeeper who swept my floor almost every day. I could tell by the shine in his brown eyes beneath his mask that he was genuinely happy. Aaron, ever the conversation starter, asked where he was from. He paused, smiled, and shared his story.

He was a refugee from Eritrea in East Africa, who had spent 14 years in forced military service and 15 years in a refugee camp in Ethiopia before coming to America. He had lived in Seattle before settling in Salt Lake City. He had a wife and five beautiful children, proudly showing us photos. He bragged about his daughter, who had earned a scholarship to a local college.

Then, humbly and tenderly, he spoke of his son, whom he thanked God for before recounting how his son had become involved in a gang and tragically lost his life to senseless violence at a nearby trailhead. I remembered hearing about the incident in the news. My heart broke for him, this unassuming man.

“I do not judge,” he said. “I thank God; he was a gift.”

In that moment, this man—through his vulnerable authenticity—made me feel seen, valued, connected, and human again. And perhaps, in that connection, I found the medicine I truly needed to begin healing.

The lessons I take from these experiences are clear—and there are always lessons:

Never let adversity dim your light.
Never let your circumstances interfere with your ability to connect with another person or to act on what you feel called to do.
Life itself is the best course in kindness, the best training in compassion.
No credential is required to be a decent human.
And there is no gatekeeper to having a positive impact on someone’s life.

It’s not about titles or degrees. It’s about showing up, being present, and living with empathy. Any human can do that.

Deep in the Sweet Melancholy

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 experienced in the month following my heart transplant.

As you recall, my miracle phone call happened on December 14th 2023, with surgery taking place in the wee hours of the morning of December 15th–just in time for the holidays. I had a record recovery and left the hospital eight days after surgery—it would have been seven but I begged for one more day to learn how to manage my medications and get a hold on my blood sugars. Nevertheless, I was released from the hospital on December 23rd—just in time to celebrate Christmas with my family.

Coming home from the hospital felt a lot like bringing home a newborn infant. For me it meant a whole new way of life. While I had gone through a lot of training on medications and things to watch for, I felt unprepared and scared. My body did not feel like my own. I was weak and sore and dependent on everyone around me—something I wasn’t used to. Even showering was a new experience with procedures and regimens that needed following and for which I needed assistance. It was bewildering.

As I was so fresh from transplant, I basically had no immune system. My transplant team asked us to keep visitors to a minimum. We decided to basically act like it was the 2020 pandemic again and go on lockdown. Our married daughter came back home with her husband, our college-age sons moved back in (it was winter break anyway), and we hunkered down. Even though surgery had gone well and my recovery was, for all intents and purposes, on track, we were still taking things day by day.

We fell into a rhythm of sorts: wake up, take medicine, check all my vital signs, make our way to the family room, take medicine, eat cheese (seriously, we ate six pounds of cheese), take medicine, assemble legos, take medicine, share a meal, take medicine, make the strenuous journey up the stairs to my room and take all of my vitals again, take medicine, make our way to bed for a restless night of worry and night sweats (oh, the joyous transplant medication side effects).

There were the inevitable excursions out to the lab, the pharmacy, or to the hospital for right heart caths and biopsies. I hated those times. Those days were long for me. I could barely walk across a room, let alone last an entire day navigating the halls of the University of Utah hospital. I was expected to arrive, fasting, at the hospital usually before 7:45 a.m. for my then weekly biopsies to check the progress of my heart’s healing and monitor any signs of rejection, and we wouldn’t arrive back home before 5:00 p.m. Thankfully, neighbors and friends often provided dinner for our little tribe on those harrowing days.

For me, just the like the early weeks of motherhood, the days were simple but hard.

The holidays came and went and we existed in our own little bubble.

No Christmas Eve parties. No family Christmas dinners. No Sunday services. No New Year’s Eve party. Just the seven of us gathered around the six-pound block of Muenster and the Titanic lego set.

The thing is, however, when we each think back on that Christmas and holiday season we each remember it with this deep, sweet nostalgia for the melancholy of that time. And though this is just my retelling of that season, we talk about it in a similar way. While we’re all grateful to have moved on and healed from that winter of 2023-24 we all express a longing, if you will, for those simple-but-hard days.

There can be a pulling together, a unifying in times like these. Where difficult events often force change—change in our lives and changes in ourselves—nostalgia pulls us back together. Whether it arises through grief brought on by loss or through the emotional release that takes place following periods of great stress, this sense of exhausted tranquility helps us process intense feelings into something–well, transcendent.

Call it a coping mechanism, call it delusion—call it what you will—but I call this experience a blessing for enduring well the hardships life throws our way.

I can recall one other time when I felt deep in this sweet melancholy before. It was after the passing of my brother. At the end of a long, emotional day of funeral planning we had gathered in the office of his home to go through some papers and photos. It was a warm summer night, not unlike that scene from Elizabethtown. We ended up crying and laughing, laughing and crying into the night, remembering better, easier, more innocent times. Recalling times when laughter came without tears, when memories were either good or bad, when we were uninformed on the nuances and complexities of adult relationships, and we simply would not have been able to fathom a world where joy and sorrow could exist side by side, and the understanding that we are all better for it.

A world before we knew the longing for simple-but-hard times—and the joy of a six-pound block of cheese.

But I Didn’t Like My Face

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 that makes you angry, tearful, sleepless, hungry, jittery, giggly, ravenous, and basically causes you to climb the walls. And for me, it did all of those things. I hallucinated (ask my family about the jelly-headed aliens and the Christmas light parade); I stayed up all night writing and rehearsing my TED Talks—plural; I broke down in tears in front of the poor cafeteria worker when I was reminded the quesadilla didn’t work with my dietary restrictions, just to name a few of my adventures on prednisone.

And then, one month post-transplant, I had my first rejection episode—a condition where the immune system attacks the transplanted organ. I was called back to the hospital for an extra blast of IV Solu-Medrol, an intense steroid. After a three-day stay, I left the hospital and waited for the inevitable… moon face.

I would place a picture here, but I don’t want to. Just Google an image of Alec Baldwin.

I tried everything to take the swelling down: gua sha, red-light therapy, lymphatic drainage, depuffing masks—you name it, I’ve dropped dimes on it. To no avail.

I was so sad at what my life looked like, I cried, “I am a monster!” Aaron hugged me and assured me, just like everyone else had, that it would go away soon.

It took about a year for the swelling in my face to go down—at least in my opinion. It took just long enough for me to have a recurrence of thyroid cancer that required surgery, which threw me back into rejection—again. Another blast of steroids, this time outpatient, led to another, albeit slighter, moon-face period.

You don’t even have to wonder—I’ll save you the energy and volunteer that I am, indeed, vain. I’ll admit it. I like to look nice. The first thing I do in the morning is put on makeup. Well, actually, I brush my teeth first, but makeup comes before I leave my room. Even so, I tried finding the silver lining: “Look how the prednisone puffiness has almost erased my fine lines and wrinkles. Maybe I’ve found the fountain of youth!”

Aaron would say, “You’re still beautiful to me, and you don’t look anything like Alec Baldwin.”

Friends kindly told me they didn’t even see a difference. Yeah, right.

And, of course, I heard the inevitable: “It could always be worse.”

Never—I repeat, NEVER—say these words to anyone, especially a transplant patient.

It got worse.

In June, I bit my lip. Who hasn’t? It seemed innocuous at first. But over the passing days, that bite turned into a canker. I’m no stranger to cankers—especially since transplant and being put on the immunosuppressant sirolimus. I didn’t think much of it and just steered clear of the right side of my mouth while eating for a while. But things got worse—in a big way.

Two weeks later, we flew to Ohio to help our daughter move from Cleveland back home to Utah. She met us at a hotel with her car loaded with boxes, and we began driving across the country. My canker hurt, and I was mainly eating soft foods and shakes to avoid injuring it more. Nevertheless, while stopped for the night in Nebraska, I woke up in excruciating pain. I went into the bathroom of our hotel room to inspect my lip. It was so swollen I thought the skin might actually split. The canker itself was about the size of a corn kernel, but the lip was hugely swollen, and I began to worry.

Here I was, literally in the middle of nowhere Nebraska, far from a hospital, a full day’s travel from my transplant team, and I didn’t know if I had some kind of rare, raging infection or what. I kept ice on it the next day as we made our way home, where I got myself to Urgent Care as quickly as I could.

Over the next few days, I went back and forth to Urgent Care and back and forth on the phone with my transplant team, trying to figure out what was going on with this mouth ulcer—until I found myself in the hospital with the world’s worst canker sore, which I had begun calling Lippy. It was so big it deserved a name.

Again, I would place a picture here, but I don’t want to. It makes me sad. But you can find it on my Instagram. Just imagine a gnarly mouth sore about the size of a large gumball, with swelling into the cheek.

I was in and out of the hospital over the course of two weeks as Lippy got worse and worse. I couldn’t eat due to the intense pain it caused—anything I consumed had to go through a straw. I couldn’t talk, and I frequently drooled. At the same time, I was struggling with terrible migraines. And every professional and specialist at the University of Utah looked at me with pity and said, “I have no idea what this is, but it sure looks bad.”

These are words nobody should ever hear.

I was tested for a myriad of infectious diseases, parasites, amoebas, autoimmune diseases, even multiple forms of cancer. I gave blood samples, stool samples, tissue samples and biopsies, and had a CT scan. But in the end, the doctors were split: it was either a bad reaction to sirolimus or a reactivation of Epstein-Barr virus. Either way, the treatment was time to heal and—yes, you guessed it—more steroids.

I was struggling.

My heart transplant had been nothing short of a miracle—I was truly grateful. And in the grand scheme of things, I’d been blessed with a fairly easy time and few setbacks with regard to transplant. Others really did have it worse. I knew this to be true.

But I didn’t like my face.

And I hated myself for it. I wanted to like myself, inside and out. I wanted to be 100 percent happy and grateful all the time post-transplant. But here I was, regretting everything. If life post-transplant meant constantly worrying about cancer, infections, rejection, and hating what I looked like, maybe I’d made the wrong choice when I accepted this heart. Ouch—that hurts to admit.

At the end of the day, the only choice I had was to sit it out and wait. Wait for Lippy to heal and for, eventually—hopefully—the swelling in my face to go away. And after two months, Lippy did pretty much go away, except for the scar tissue left behind. The puffy face, well, that may just be my new normal, at least in part.

I think it’s fair to say that two contrasting things can be true at the same time. I am finding that I can be grateful for my transplant and also be upset about some of the hardships it brings to my life. I can find joy in celebrating life’s milestones I get to witness—like my son’s wedding and the birth of my first grandchild—and still bemoan the chronic condition I now live with. I can be grateful for life and still not love my puffy face.

What I’m learning is that change is a choice that comes only by consistently showing up with gratitude. That new perspective and change of heart I hoped for with my transplant is up to me—and that it’s also perfectly acceptable to see the clouds along with the silver lining.