I have written about my sister Sharlie in the past (
here and
here),
and she received a double lung and heart transplant over the weekend.
To read more about her, and to follow her progress, visit
Sharlie's Angels
on Facebook. She has been an inspiration to me and so many others.
There was a lot of down time this past weekend as we waited in the
hospital while Sharlie underwent her surgeries and I had a chance to
write some of my thoughts down, and while personal, I wanted to share
them here in hopes that her story continues to inspire others. Thank you
for reading.
I don't like hospitals. They are big, industrial, generic places,
unfeeling, too clean, too many fluorescent lights, too much sickness,
tired nurses, and bad memories. I dreaded going, but when I arrived at
Sharlie's room, it was like a church, quiet, light and calm. I have
spent many hours in hospital rooms with Sharlie, but none as important
as Thursday. After a late night call and a frantic ride through the
night from San Diego to Palo Alto, past swerving big rigs and methed up
drivers drifting too close, pushing me to the shoulder, and too tired to
correct as I listened to the hum of my wheels on the graded road.
Once at the hospital I found Sharlie's room, full of family and her high
school friends. Suedy and Jessica, the same friends that have been
there through the years, always bringing the party to Sharlie during her
long hospital stays, making sure she never missed out on any of the
junior high and high school fun. My mom was there along with my brother
in law, Ryan, and everyone was smiling, calm, and waiting. Sharlie sat
on the bed, soon to be wheeled down the hallway, to the operating room
where her heart and lungs would be removed from her body and a
stranger's organs put in their place. A family has made the decision to
give this gift, the most generous gift of life to a complete stranger,
and I hope they learn about Sharlie and her remarkable story and that it
comforts them, because I know Sharlie will honor this gift as a living
and breathing testament of gratitude.
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| I can still feel this hug. |
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| Me, Sharlie, Mom, and Ryan. Pre-transplant. |
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| Sharlie was the calmest person in the room. |
The surgery went well. It was long, but there were no serious
complications and after the final update from the surgeon, I had the
urge to hug him, but I just clapped. It was all I could think to do for
this artist.
The next morning we were told that there was internal bleeding and that
Sharlie would have to undergo another surgery to stop the bleeding and
remove the blood that had pooled beneath one of her lungs. It was
another long procedure and as I sat in waiting room I noticed a mother
and daughter, older, with matching red eyes and wrinkles being laid as
they waited for a son or husband or brother. I would occasionally catch
glances and we would look at each other, bonded by this waiting.
The doors to the various operating rooms would open loudly and doctors,
nurses, orderlies, would walk through, all with the look of people going
about their normal jobs as we wait with expectant eyes, searching for
some sign, a smile, satisfaction, a worried look, anything to betray
what is going on behind the heavy doors with signs and big red capital
letters that screamed "no entry." These workers are used to the
expectant waiting room looks and avoid eye contact, not wanting to give
false hope, or hints of failure.
I walked the halls and looked at the art, most of it standard hospital
art, landscapes, the sea, and flowers, but there was a series by a
Russian artist, Ilya Kabakov called "The Flying Komarov" and this series
was meaningful for me, or maybe I was just searching for some meaning.
The series of drawings stretched down the hallway and the first few look
like people jumping off buildings, but then as you continue down the
long hallway, you see that the people are floating, flying, couples
holding hands higher and higher, disappearing in the clouds.
That morning, they rolled Sharlie down the hall, machines, tubes,
bandages everywhere, still under sedation, looking lifeless, bleeding
near her lungs. The initial transplant went well and this was just one
setback, and there will be more. This is going to be a long healing
process, and Sharlie will need to fight, but she is strong. The previous
evening the joy of the new organs and successful transplant rippled
through the waiting room, but the reality is that there will be new
issues, post transplant issues, and struggles as her body tries to make
these foreign tissues, cells, muscles her own. I watched as my mom, my
sister, and Sharlie's husband kissed her as they rolled her into another
surgery. I don't like seeing her this way, sedated, unconscious. I need
to see her soft smile, her calmness reassuring that everything is going
to be good. Her faith, big enough for both of us.
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| Post-transplant. |
It was beautiful out, sunny and cool, and I had to get away from
sitting, from the lights of the hospital. I had to stretch my legs out,
so I found some nice trails near Stanford in the Arastradero Preserve. I
changed to running clothes in my truck, trying not to flash
the van-load of senior citizens who had parked next to me. I followed a
trail along a creek as it narrowed to shady single track and I ran as
fast as I could, stretching my lungs out in some sort of glorious
punishment.
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| Trail therapy |
I left Saturday morning, but before the drive back to San Diego, I was
able to spend a couple hours by Sharlie's side as she woke up from the
cloud of anesthesia. Her eyes were brighter than the previous night, her
skin was glowing and her breath was steady and deep. We talked that
morning about the donor and how grateful and sad Sharlie was, and how in
her mind and prayers she always used "she" when referring to her. We
talked about the coming months, the healing and the strengthening and
how for the first time in her life, she will be getting stronger. We
talked about the challenges and bumps in the road that will require much
strength and dedication, and I can't think of anyone who is better
equipped to deal with and overcome the challenges. There were words said
that morning that were so special to me, words that I will never have
to write down; they are written in my heart.
Now, my heart is full with gratitude for so many people who have helped
Sharlie on her journey. I am so grateful to the surgeons and the
transplant team at Stanford, giving life, doing the work of gods. I am
grateful that Sharlie will be staying in Los Altos for a while. It is a
beautiful place with hundreds of miles of tree-covered trails and I can
see her healing as she explores the area.
Before Sharlie went into surgery, my mom asked her what she wanted to do
with her new lungs. She said, without hesitation, I want to run with
Dax. And this piece hasn't been about running, but for me it has
everything to do with running. When I picture Sharlie in my mind, I see
her running, and as she was wheeled away for her transplant surgery and
as I whispered be strong, I love you, you're amazing, you're my hero,
and gave her a final hug, she whispered see you on the trails. And I do
see her on the trails, smiling, stretching her lungs, laughing, racing
her young son to the next tree, and dropping us all, her spirit dwarfing
the giant redwoods.
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