On Wombs and Helicopters

I've reconnected with a friend of many years standing who shares my Chicago upbringing but in startlingly different ways. She is a mother herself, and so she asked me about Kyle's heart transplant, both the anticipation of it and the actuality of it, from a mother's perspective.

During the five and a half-year wait for Kyle's new heart, as he grew progressively weaker, my greatest terror was anticipating the moment when they removed his heart, followed by a vision of an empty chest when he had no heart. Of course, I wouldn't be there when it happened, but I have a vivid, photographic-like imagination. The heart they would remove and discard had been nurtured and grown in my womb. How could I trust a new heart that came from who knew where to do what I, his mother, had done? As I was relaying this to my friend, I was telling her that all the fears I had -- rational or irrational -- came before he actually had his transplant.

And then I told her about the helicopter.

The night of Kyle's transplant at UCLA Medical Center, a group of us were sitting in the designated family waiting room when the phone rang. A call from the operating room alerted us that surgeons were beginning the process of opening Kyle's chest. This was the frightfully anxious moment I'd been waiting in dread of. I took that moment as an excuse to go into movement, to head outside onto the patio in front of the hospital and call my mother in Florida to give her an update.

What I didn't know was that the call from the OR came at that moment because, at that moment, they'd received word from the helicopter pilot about how close he was to landing. They were preparing Kyle so the transfer of hearts could be quick, but they would not remove Kyle's heart until the new one arrived; the surgeon would inspect it to ensure its quality and that it had survived the trip, healthy and ready to go.

So there I was, cell phone in hand, when this bright light from the dark sky began traveling toward me. It was like a slowly moving star. At first I had no idea what it was, but it was the brightest and biggest thing in the sky. Then I picked up the faintest whir of blades, and as it came closer and got louder, I knew it was "the" helicopter. I stood, transfixed, a wave of prayer sweeping over me, I know not from where (well, yes, I probably do), but the words weren't formed consciously. It was all praise, spewing forth like a fountain. I don't know if I verbalized aloud or if it was all internal.

I waited without moving until the helicopter landed, delivered the precious package we'd been waiting for, and took off again, this time veering and zooming, no need to be so flat, straight, and steady. And thus that night began with me absorbed in comfort and reassurance.

My friend continued to press me a bit. She was trying to envision how you deal with this kind of helplessness as a mother. She asked me what I would say to the donor's mother, if I could, besides the obvious "thank you." And so I began to think about something I hadn't thought about before and as I thought, the helicopter became a womb -- one that was delivering life to my son, as I had done 30-some years earlier. But this womb was being protected by the donor's mother, who had given life to him, as she and her family were now giving to Kyle. What would I -- what could I -- possibly say to her?

Perhaps something like this: "I cannot begin to imagine the unbearable pain of losing your child; it has been my starkest terror for going on 20 years. You not only had to say good-bye, you now have to contend with a harsh world where he's not there to light you up with a smile or a press of his hand. I think I understand that this hole he just left will never be filled by anyone or anything. Life will go on, but he won't be there. And out of all that pain, when nobody would expect you to be able to think straight, you chose to do something for someone else, something so powerful and life-affirming for another family that words are inadequate to express the depth and breadth of it.

"Please know that my son will take very good care of your son's heart, that its beat is allowing my son not only to go on living but to thrive -- something that hasn't been true for him since he was a teenager still in high school. Your son has given my son his young adulthood back. Your son has delivered a healthy husband to a new wife. Your son has allowed my son not only to hope for a future, but to have one. Your son's gift to my son will go on giving because my son is committed to making a difference in the lives of those facing cancer and organ transplant. Because of your family's gift to our family, your son will forever be remembered by more people than, right now, it is possible to imagine."

On Long-Lasting Marriage

It was Valentine's Day a couple of days ago, and on my Facebook status, I posted this:

Met my Valentine when I was a college freshman. Married him at 19, the summer after my sophomore year (he'd just graduated). Two adult children and two wee grandchildren later, we're still together. And I'm very happy about that. A life filled with shared memories, some joyous, some very difficult, but always together. You can't buy that anywhere.

One of the first responses I received was from someone a generation younger than me, who I had known a very long time. She believed that our (my husband's and my) marriage was a "Notebook"-style love that she has only seen in my generation, not her own. (Side note: "Notebook" is a somewhat cheesy, sentimental film based on an equally cheesy, sentimental book by Nicholas Sparks, but certainly the theme of love that does not wane from youth into old age and I-can't-live-without-you-if-you-die-I'll-have-to-die-too is there.)

I thought about her response for several hours, then wrote this back to her:

I hate to disillusion you, but I think there's no such thing as "Notebook"-worthy love except in the movies. Love is hard, and it takes commitment, and it's not always romantic, and it has its periods of dark anger and wishing life were different, sometimes bordering on a willingness to betray and back away -- and then you pray, and you try to start over with each other, but meanwhile the shared history helps cement you as does the love you share for your children, as do financial realities, as do the vows you made before God. And you press forward, and you get it done, and you look back many years later and are grateful it turned out this way, that you did indeed hang in there.

Oh...and getting away together on a vacation, fabulous! A rejuvenation, a renewal, positive happy shared energy. See the world with your enduring friend. You'll never regret it. It will keep you perpetually falling in love all over again. Laugh until you snort, and be amazed together, stand in awe together. Greet new cultures and new people (and new food) with grateful open-heartedness. All of these things bind you into a long-lasting couple.

I don't know any profound secrets. All I know is that it's easier to walk holding hands than not.

Does anyone else have thoughts on how to make a marriage long lasting, or on how not to kill each other before you get the opportunity to reflect back?