The Day I Met My Organ Donor’s Mother

A Bittersweet Reunion

Seven years ago, I found myself hospitalized with heart failure as the journey with my first transplanted heart neared its end. The symptoms were familiar. A sharp decline in my functional capacity, shortness of breath, and soul-crushing fatigue. I managed to keep up with my full-time employment since sitting in front of a computer is not strenuous, but this visit to the hospital happened after I passed out driving home from work. Rush hour traffic was more than I could handle.

My employer had been extremely accommodating with my needs as my symptoms worsened over the previous year, granting me a parking spot near the door instead of in the parking garage across the street and permitting me to work from home when necessary. Despite all possible arrangements, I became too sick to keep up with my workload, pushing my failing heart beyond its capacity.

Picture of me while bored out of my mind in the hospital. I played around with the filters on my phone and decided this was my favorite. Makes me hear the song, "Take on me."

It was the week after Thanksgiving, and I took on the additional effort that the holidays demand – shopping, decorating, pretending to be merry and bright. My heart decided the added burden of feigning cheer was the last straw and turned in its resignation in bumper-to-bumper traffic on an overcast evening in late November. Fortunately, I was in the right lane and managed to pull onto the shoulder and shift into park before my vision turned black.

This heart failure was a long time coming. After receiving my transplant on January 6, 2006, I had eight great years. Nearly nine, really. In October of 2014, I experienced shortness of breath, and my transplant clinic determined that I had Coronary Artery Vasculopathy (CAV) an insidious form of micro-rejection that is the most common reason why transplanted hearts fail.

Over the next three years, the CAV advanced, and I began experiencing chronic rejection which began in June of 2015. Once I reached November of 2017, my borrowed heart told me that its time was reaching an end.

The first heart transplant in history happened on December 3, 1967, three days before I was born.

This was doubly sad as not only myself and my family would mourn my heart’s untimely end, but so would my donor family – the mother and sister of Roy, the special young man whose heart continued to bet in my chest. A year after the transplant, I received a letter from Roy’s family, and we began correspondence. We spoke on the phone, exchanged letters and emails. His sister and I became friends on Facebook. Every Christmas, I sent little gifts to them, especially gifts for his niece – and later his nephew. I marked them from Uncle Roy.

Although we remained in contact over all those years, we never met in person. They lived several hours away from where I lived, in a rural area of the state. We talked about getting together, but no solid plans materialized. And now Roy’s heart, our shared heart, was about to stop beating for good.

Following my traffic incident, my husband drove me to the emergency room at my transplant center and I was hospitalized while doctors evaluated me for the possibility of receiving a second heart transplant. I was bored senseless while I sat in the hospital bed. Once I stopped exerting myself with working and activities of daily living, I felt fine. I could stay in bed all day without fear of passing out from fatigue.

I posted about my hospital stay on social media to alleviate my boredom. Roy’s sister saw my posts and reached out to tell me that she would be driving her mother to the same hospital for some medical tests on December 1^st and wanted to know if they could visit me in my room. I immediately agreed to meet them. This would probably be our last chance to do so.

When she texted to tell me they were downstairs, I brushed my hair and put on some lipstick, pulling my cardigan over the hospital gown so I could look presentable. I sat nervously in my hospital bed, eyes upon the door.

Several emotions rushed over me when three people came into the room. His sister carried her toddler son, Roy’s nephew, and her mother walked through the door behind her. Although I had seen them in pictures online and in photos mailed to me, seeing them in person was different. Suddenly the people with whom I corresponded were real and solid and standing in front of me.

We exchanged hugs and shed a few tears. I asked his mother if she wanted to listen to her son’s heart one last time. Before they arrived, I had told my nurse about the meeting, and she offered to bring us a stethoscope. I put on the call light and we chatted while we waited for the nurse.

Once she arrived, she handed over her stethoscope and her eyes brimmed with tears as both his mother and sister listened to his heart one last time. We asked the nurse to take photos of us as a group with our cellphones, and we posed awkwardly together. The entire scene seemed surreal.

Here I am with Roy's family. I'm seated, and Roy's mother is standing behind me. His sister is holding her son, Roy's nephew.

The entire meeting was a bittersweet experience. They were able to listen to Roy’s heart one last time as it beat in my chest, all the while knowing that it was reaching the end of its time. Soon, his heart, my heart, our shared heart, would fall silent. I did not know if I would be silenced along with it.

Today I am eternally grateful to Roy and his family, along with my second organ donor who remains unknown. Beyond the necessary information provided by the hospital, I know nothing about her. Without two families’ selfless decisions, I would not be here today.

If you want to be a lifesaving hero like Roy, consider registering to be an organ donor today. Sign Up To Be An Organ Donor

If you choose to become an organ donor, please share your decision with your family and friends so they know your wishes.