Tag: organ-donation

Thou Mayest

In John Steinbeck’s novel East of Eden, scholars debate the Hebrew word timshel—translated as “thou shalt,” “thou wilt,” or, as Steinbeck believed most powerfully, “thou mayest.” Not a command. Not a prophecy. But an invitation. A possibility. Thou mayest overcome. You have the freedom—and the responsibility—to choose who you become. That single word, Steinbeck argued, is the most important in all of human literature, because it places the decision squarely in our hands.

I stand before you today because of choices—my choices, my family’s choices, the choices of my providers, and the extraordinary choice of a 19-year-old girl named Ella who I will never meet. Each choice led to the exact moment that changed my life forever.

That moment—a moment in the life of nearly every heart transplant recipient—is almost impossible to describe to anyone who hasn’t lived it. For me, it came during the fourth session of cardiac rehab: the moment you feel that new heartbeat. A normal sinus rhythm—steady, strong, safe, and, in a way, foreign. In that moment, you realize: this was someone else’s. Someone’s child. Someone’s parent. Someone’s best friend. A person who laughed, dreamed, and chased goals, and who, in the worst moment of their family’s life, gave a piece of themselves so that a stranger might live.

That is not a small thing. That is perhaps the greatest thing one human being can do for another.

Living with a heart transplant means living out a story that isn’t entirely your own. It means waking up every morning knowing that your breath, your laughter, your ability to hold the people you love, were paid for by another family’s act of generosity in a time of intense grief. And that knowledge does something to you. It can, if you let it, reshape you entirely.

The transplant life is not an easy one. We know the weight of a failing heart, the exhaustion, the uncertainty, the lingering anxiety. We have wrestled with mortality and come out on top. And we continue learning to fight battles invisible to the rest of the world.

But I want to say something about that struggle—something I’ve come to believe with my whole soul. It’s a line attributed to the mother of English soccer player Marcus Rashford:

“Take pride in knowing that your struggle will play the biggest role in your purpose.”

Every difficult night. Every challenging setback. Every uncomfortable right-heart catheterization, biopsy, and angiogram. Every moment of doubt and fear and grief—none of it is wasted. It is creating something in you. It is building the specific kind of strength, compassion, and perspective that only you can carry into the world. Your suffering gives you a vocabulary most people never learn. And on the other side of it, you have something extraordinary to offer: evidence that there is joy to be found at the peak of every mountain you climb, and that the human spirit is stronger than the human body. Despite the odds, we overcome.

We who have received this gift—and those who care for us—carry a particular kind of purpose. We are asked, not by obligation but by gratitude, to do something meaningful with the new perspective we’ve been given. To advocate for organ donation. To offer hope to other patients still waiting. To remind the world that behind every statistic on a transplant list is a person with a spirit worth saving.

We are asked to live intentionally—not recklessly, but fully. To show respect for the life so dearly purchased. To have the conversation with our families about donation, and to encourage others to do the same. To be the reason someone registers. To be the catalyst for change, for research, and for innovation. To be the living answer to the question: does it matter?

It matters immensely.

And so I return to where we began—to that word, timshel.

Thou mayest.

You may let this experience diminish you, or you may let it expand you. You may hide your scar as a symbol of weakness, or you may carry it as a badge of survival. You may live cautiously, afraid to squander what you’ve been given, or you may live generously, pouring out everything you have because you know—better than most—that time and health are never guaranteed.

The choice, as Steinbeck said, is yours. That is not a burden. That is the greatest gift of all.

Last year, at my two-year transplant follow-up visit, Dr. Spencer Carter asked what I had to say on the other side of the transplant journey. My answer that day was: don’t take it for granted. Today, on bonus day 985, I would add: choose gratitude. Choose purpose. Choose opportunity and hope. Choose to honor your gifted heart—this gifted life—by becoming someone worthy of it.

Thou mayest.

Marking Time

Maybe I spoke too soon. Maybe I spoke without thinking. Maybe I spoke just to fill the air with words—not to truly communicate. In June, I posted on social media about how great life was going, how fantastic the year had been, how if it ended that day, it would still count as a success. All the while, I knew that wasn’t quite true.

I started feeling off in January. I messaged my transplant team right away to ask if it was time to worry about my declining kidney health. They saw no reason for concern, so I went about my merry way.

In April, routine bloodwork showed my kidney function had dropped. But since the transplant team still wasn’t worried, I decided I wouldn’t be either. By June, though, the numbers—my eGFR, or estimated glomerular filtration rate—had fallen further still.

Since my transplant in 2023, that number had hovered between 30 and 40, placing me in stage 3 chronic kidney disease. No one had said a word about it.

By June of 2026, it had dropped to 25—a quarter of my kidney function left.

At a routine visit that month, my primary care physician finally filled me in: I now had stage 4 kidney disease, and it was time to see a nephrologist.

I didn’t wait long. In July, I met a kind nephrologist who looked at me with sympathy and said, “There’s nothing I can do for you. You’ll need a kidney transplant. Let me know when your GFR drops below 20, and I’ll refer you to the transplant team.”

Since then, the number has bounced between 18 and 27 and back again. The reality of what comes next sits on my mind like an imposing stone—I can’t move it, only choose not to look at it.

I’m counting down the days, weeks, months until I open up and say it out loud: here I am again, asking for the generous donation of a vital organ.

How many times will I be the one in need—the helped, not the helper? It doesn’t feel good, being on this side. I’m forever grateful, but it will never sit completely right with me that I’m only here, living this life, because someone else isn’t.

Just today, Aaron and I were talking about how we go through life holding measuring sticks—marking time, growth, performance, even worth. Those rulers get placed in our hands early. Think about it: at five years old, we’re already asking children what they want to be when they grow up, as if to draw a starting line and see how far they’ll go.

We talked about how real maturity means laying those rulers down and letting life—not just yours, but everyone else’s—be lived. We’re here to learn, not to keep score. If we’re always measuring each other, how do we build anything real between us? If we’re always measuring the moment, how do we ever actually experience it?

Maybe that’s the lesson hiding inside all these numbers—the eGFR that climbs and drops, the miles I try, and fail, and try again to run, the years I keep tallying against someone else’s gift. I can’t measure my way into peace with any of this. I can only live it—today’s version, imperfect and uncertain, without waiting for a number to give me permission. So I’ll put down the ruler, at least for now. At least I’ll try. It’s a hard thing to let go of, something handed to you so early in life.

Gratitude and grief can share the same breath. I don’t have to pretend the fear isn’t there to still believe help will come again, the way it has before. So I’ll keep watching the numbers, but I’ll also keep living the good, real parts of this year—the parts I wasn’t lying about in June. And when the time comes to ask again, I’ll ask. Not because I’ve earned it, but because that’s what it means to still be here: still hoping, still human enough to need other people.

Forget-me-not

March.

It’s not spring. Not quite.
It’s not winter either—not really.

It lives in the in-between.
A quiet, stretching space where the cold hasn’t fully loosened its grip, but warmer days visit now and then.

It is a season of waiting… and of hope.

And this is where I find myself—looking ahead.

In February of 2025, I received a letter from my heart donor’s mother.
She told me about her daughter, Ella.

She told me Ella was kind.
Talented.
Deeply loved.

She shared just enough for me to learn a few sacred details, including her birthday—March 16th.

So I made a promise.
Every year, I will bake a cake.

It feels small—almost too small.
But it is something I can do. An offering of gratitude for a life that deserves to be remembered, even as it continues to ripple outward in ways none of us can fully see.

Because I know that somewhere out there, there is a mother who would give anything to bake that cake herself.
To light the candles.
To sing the song.

Maybe even to dance around the kitchen with her daughter—joyfully celebrating.

I know there is a mother who prayed for a miracle—
and instead, was asked to give one.

I know there is a mother who aches to hold her daughter again,
to watch her grow, to see her become everything she was meant to be—
and instead, carries a quiet, unseen connection to a life she helped save.

And there is a part of me that longs to reach out and embrace that mother, to offer her comfort.

I wonder if this is, in some small way, what love looks like in its most sacred form—spiritual tether, a heavenly connection.

This time of year always draws my heart to Easter—
to another mother.

Mary, the mother of Jesus, stood at the edge of unimaginable loss, watching her son give everything.

She, too, knew what it was to love deeply and to let go—
to hold both grief and purpose in the same breath.

I can’t help but think of her in this in-between season—
between sorrow and resurrection,
between what was and what will be—what is possible and what is promised.

Because March feels like that, too.

A space where hearts hold both breaking and healing.
Where loss and life exist side by side.

Each heartbeat I carry is a quiet reminder
that love does not disappear.
It transforms. It forgives. It celebrates.
It heals.

It returns in ways we never expect nor merit.

So, as long as I am living these bonus days, March 16th I will bake a cake.
I will remember her name. And I will remember Him.
I will honor life in the only way I know how.

And I will hold space for the mystery of it all—
for grief and gratitude,
for endings and beginnings,
for the quiet miracle of living in the in-between.

Because here—
especially here—
hope is returning and remembering.

The Quickest Way to a Man’s Heart

 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 administered by a nurse’s aide, likely male.

Over the years, they’ve also accessed my heart through my wrist (twice), my upper arm (truly awful), and even a tiny spot just below the xiphoid process of my sternum. But when it comes to heart transplants, the preferred route is through the neck, via the internal jugular vein. Post-transplant, this procedure—called a right heart catheterization—is used to monitor hemodynamics (the pressures within the heart) and to take biopsies of myocardial tissue to check for rejection. Since my transplant, I’ve had this done 19 times. No sedation—just a little lidocaine in the neck.

The University of Utah, where I receive my care, is a teaching hospital. Which means that at nearly every turn—every procedure, surgery, or appointment—there’s a student, resident, or fellow eager for a learning opportunity, and I am the willing (or sometimes unwilling) classroom. Over time, I’ve learned to advocate for myself. After a few botched attempts by fellows trying to access the tiny veins in my neck or upper arm, I started saying, “Attending only, please.” In other words, only the supervising physician—the one teaching the fellow—gets the honors. If I’m going to be awake and fully aware of every cut, pinch, push, pull, and squeeze, then I’d prefer the most experienced hands available. Thank you very much.

Then, one Sunday morning, I received a text from a leader in our church. We were hosting a regional conference, and a visiting church authority would be speaking. This authority, Hugo E. Martinez, and his wife, Nuria, were both retired physicians. He had played a key role in helping our son receive cardiovascular testing while serving a mission in Ghana, so he was already somewhat familiar with our situation. Since he was visiting our area, he wanted to check in with us.

After the meeting, we went to meet him. He was warm, kind, and genuinely interested in our family and my health. Then he offered a piece of advice: be patient with medical residents and fellows—let them learn from you.

I was caught off guard. How did he know I had been limiting who worked on me? It was probably just coincidence. Maybe divine inspiration. But from that day on, I loosened my grip a little on controlling who was allowed to practice their medical skills on me. And in doing so, I found myself feeling empowered in other, unexpected ways.

There is something uniquely healing—and even cathartic—about sharing your story and watching others learn from what you’ve been through.

Look, life is going to be hard. It just is. And if you’re going to experience the awful parts of living, why not take back some control by owning the narrative? Share your story. Share what you learned. Share how it shaped you. Share it with the people around you—or with the people who might benefit from hearing it. And there will be many.

I’ve had the opportunity to share my story more than a few times. I’ve even had the chance to teach others—yes, including doctors—through my experience. And I’ll say this: I feel stronger every single time I do.

That said, no student nurses may come at my veins to learn how to start IVs. I have to draw the line somewhere.

In the end, I’ve learned that the quickest way to a man’s heart isn’t a catheter or a scalpel—it’s vulnerability. It’s opening yourself up, telling the truth about what hurts, what healed, and what changed you along the way. When you share your own heart—carefully, honestly—you invite others to learn, to connect, and sometimes to heal right alongside you. And while I may still be selective about who gets access to my veins, my story is always open. After all, hearts were never meant to be guarded forever—they were meant to be shared.

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.

Jars of Hearts and Fishing Line

Another day, another five-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 from spending miles in conversation with friends.

What seems like a lifetime ago, I was a runner. Running was solitary for me, exactly how I liked it. It gave me space for my thoughts. Pounding my burdens into the pavement became my therapy.

I began walking with friends after buying my first home and having a few kids. That’s when I discovered the joy of female companionship, and I learned that doing something hard together—especially something physically demanding like exercise—can strengthen relationships in ways words alone cannot.

But life grew noisy. The demands of motherhood and the endless “more important” tasks slowly edged out those near-daily walks with friends.

In 2012, I suffered a traumatizing miscarriage and fell into depression. Aaron gently suggested I find a hobby to help me recover. I decided to certify in group fitness and began teaching a Pilates-and-yoga-fusion class I called Mix Method. Later, I added High Fitness to reach a broader audience and bring a little cardio fun into the mix.

Putting myself out there wasn’t easy at first, but week by week, my class attendance grew. I had my regular ladies who came faithfully, and others who popped in when life allowed. We spent years sweating side by side, learning from one another, laughing, struggling, and celebrating our progress. I called them my friends, and I hoped they felt the same. Doing something difficult—especially something physical—has a way of bonding people.

But it all ended.

That cursed day in October 2021, my heart could take no more. With my ARVC diagnosis, it was no longer safe to teach fitness classes. I was a literal ticking time bomb. Teaching had been my social life, my way of connecting. Without it, I felt like I had no value outside providing classes.

At one point, I had to write an email to High Fitness to cancel my membership and close my instructor portal. I would never teach aerobics safely again; my heart was broken. I explained my situation—that I needed a heart transplant—and their response was, “That must be scary for you. Have fun in your next adventure!”

I wasn’t sure what response I had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. I felt dropped like a wet brick by a community I thought I could rely on.

There have been times in the last four years when I felt deeply alone. That feeling is common for people who have gone through something as traumatic as a heart transplant—there are few who can relate, and some distance themselves out of discomfort or fear. I also noticed that my conversations often circled back to my health, which can be boring or isolating for others.

Almost exactly two years ago, I sat in my car, tucked inside the garage, feeling utterly destitute. My health was failing, and I knew my days of driving were coming to an end. That morning, while taking my daughter to school during a dizzy spell, I had driven directly into the path of a dump truck, narrowly avoiding disaster with the next turn. I had to admit: I was no longer safe behind the wheel. By that time, I had been waiting for a heart for more than a year. I realized that in order to get better, things were going to have to get so much worse. I needed a miracle. I cried. I prayed. I cried and prayed again.

And I felt so alone.

I asked God to send me someone, anyone, to help me—someone to ease my burden, to distract me from the crushing loneliness. The answer was clear: no.

Surprised? I was. It seemed like such a simple request. I wasn’t asking for an earth-shaking miracle. I wasn’t asking for the heart I needed. I was asking for someone to reach out and ease my loneliness.

The answer was no because I had lessons to learn—one of which was to notice and appreciate the ways people were already showing up, even in small ways.

This is one reason I collect heart-shaped rocks.

On my kitchen counter sits a jar of heart rocks. Most are collected from nature—small gifts from a loving Father in Heaven, reminders to see miracles every day. Some are gifts from people in my life, accompanied by notes that say, “I saw this rock and thought of you.”

My son, Aiden, served a mission in Ghana. Fishing is a big part of life there in Cape Coast. Fishermen take large nets from the beach and cast them into the ocean. At the end of the day, they pull the nets ashore to see what they’ve caught. The nets are huge, and they cannot be hauled in by one man alone—so others step in to help.

One day, Aiden and his companion came across such a scene. They began to help pull for an hour before two of the fishermen began arguing. To Aiden’s surprise, everyone else dropped the line and walked away. No fish were hauled in that day.

In life, we all have our own lines we’re pulling, our own responsibilities and messy challenges. At the same time, we are called to show up for others. We don’t have to haul in the nets alone.

Recognizing how people show up—big or small—makes a difference. A sincere, “How can I pray for you?” or “You’re in my prayers” goes a long way. Faith-filled prayer, followed by acting on promptings, is one of the most charitable things we can do. After all, in the final hours before His death, that is exactly what Christ did for all of us.

I am blessed to see these acts in my life: God’s angels taking up my line, helping me haul in my nets. Offering a prayer, silent or spoken. Noticing a heart-shaped rock, cloud, or even a Pringles chip. Sending a morning text: “Walk at 9?”—and then filling the miles with our words and laughter.

What a privilege.

The Five Mile Trail

Today I walked five miles.

The sun was shining, and the air held that perfect autumn-day crispness. We had the trail mostly to ourselves—Christine, Millie, and me—and we talked freely, filling the miles with whatever drifted into our minds.

Five miles. What a privilege.

At one point, we passed a neighborhood friend, Megan. She commented on how fast we were—and we were, moving along at a pace of fifteen or sixteen minutes per mile. Without missing a beat, Millie and Christine both said, “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 nineteen years old when her life ended and her heart was donated to extend mine.

After my transplant, while I was still in the hospital, the social worker came to my room during a rare moment of privacy and asked if I wanted to know what little information she was allowed to share about my donor. Surprisingly, I had to think about it.

Did I really want to know?

It seems like such an obvious question, but after everything I had been through, I had to ask myself how much I truly wanted to carry. That information felt sacred somehow. Holding any knowledge at all felt like a responsibility I wasn’t sure I was capable of bearing. It’s hard to explain exactly why. There are good things and hard things that come with knowing. We are all just human, after all, and sometimes the magic you hope and pray for can also break your heart.

While I was waiting for transplant, I heard all the anecdotes about organ transplants and personality changes—believe me. My father-in-law shared, more than once, a story about a man in his church who received a heart from a thirteen-year-old girl and went on to develop her personality traits, right down to an uncontrollable case of the giggles. While I understood there were logical explanations—medications, trauma, the body adjusting—it still colored how I felt in that moment when I was given the chance to learn about my donor.

When the social worker told me my donor was female and between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four, I couldn’t stop the immediate cascade—no, the deluge—of tears. My own children were that same age.

Who was I to take a heart? To take life, opportunity, learning, and growth from someone so young?

I still haven’t found an answer.

Nine months after my transplant, I wrote a letter and sent it to my social worker, hoping it would eventually reach my donor’s family. I didn’t need a response; I simply wanted to say thank you. It felt like the right thing to do.

Then, the following February—ironically, on the very day I learned my thyroid cancer had returned—I received a letter in return. It was from my donor’s mother.

My donor was Ella.

She was a medical assistant and a nursing student. A dancer. A lover of music. She and her mother were very close. Precious.

There’s something that happens when someone comes close to dying—or, in my case, receives a heart transplant. You feel a responsibility to live an extraordinary life, to somehow make the second chance, the gift of an organ, worth it. I’ve wrestled with this more than I care to admit.

I don’t want to go back to college and complete a nursing degree in her honor. I don’t feel healthy enough to run a marathon or climb a famous fourteen-thousand-foot peak. Maybe someday I’ll create a charitable trust or do something meaningful in the realm of organ donation.

But for now—for today—I will walk five miles.

I will breathe in the crisp autumn air and feel the steady rhythm of this 21-year-old heart. And that will be enough.