Monday, April 15, 2002:  Waking up the next morning, we found that our initial instinct was still there to run across the street.  We forced ourselves to shower and have breakfast first.  Trying to casually stroll across the street, we found ourselves involuntarily hurrying.  We couldn’t wait to look into her face and hold her hands.  Walking through the busy CVICU, we could see the huge smiles on the faces of the dayshift nurses.  There was a buzz of excitement that Charis had gotten a heart!  They were part of the winning team.  We were taken to a small room outside of the isolation room, and shown how to scrub up.  It would soon become routine to us: open the pre-packaged sponge, scrub hands, fingers and wrists, use the foot pedals to rinse, and then dry off.  After that, put on our mask and gloves.  Then go through the adjoining door to see our princess.  We approached her bed, again feeling that fear of breaking her.  She looked up at us and wiggled her fingers in greeting.  I was so excited.  I wanted to cry, wanted to whoop and holler, wanted to grab her and squeeze her.  Instead, we walked over to her, and took her ice-cold hands in ours.  She was freezing, and the room was freezing.  We again marveled at the steady peaks on the heart monitor.  I had to reach out and place my hand on her chest to feel that precious heart.  Its strong, steady rhythm announced the presence of life underneath my palm.  A ferocious battle was going on in my head.  This heart that I was feeling, that gave my daughter life; had beat in the chest of another child only a little over 24 hours before.  I felt a kinship with an unknown Mother somewhere.  While I was celebrating and thanking God for the life of my child, she was grieving and crying out to God for the loss of her child.  Charis was incredibly tired, so we didn’t stay long. 

     We tried to sneak into her room to see her as often as we could that day.  We would stop outside first and stand there, shoulder to shoulder, leaning against each other and watching her through the glass.  Then we would go into the scrub room.  I would usually joke “your mask, Dr. Rutkowski?” and he would say, “Yes, please, Dr. Rutkowski.”  She spent most of the day sleeping, and we spent most of the day hovering. Sitting in the familiar waiting room, other patient’s families would stop and hug us, celebrating with us.  Phone calls were exchanged with our own family members, friends and work places.  Whenever one of the Doctors would walk by, we would watch expectantly for him to come talk to us.  We were updated frequently on her condition. 

Visiting her that day, I couldn’t help but notice how incredibly weak she still seemed.  Her coloring was pink and healthy looking, but she barely moved.  She was still heavily sedated, but reacted when I came over to talk to her.  Motioning for her notepad, she pointed to a question she had already written down for a nurse.  Glancing at her writing, I saw “When are they putting my new heart in?” written on the tablet.  Smiling and choking back tears, I told her “Honey, it’s already done!  Feel this..” and I placed her hand over her chest so she could feel the miracle herself.  I realized that she was still pretty groggy and confused.  The now familiar question of when was the tube coming out was brought up again.  We were told that it would come out within the next few days.  There was a plan in place.  First would be getting her off the respirator and removing the drainage tubes.  Followed by getting her up and walking again.  Regaining her strength and weight were on everyone’s minds.  It was time to get on with her life.

            We made a point of going to the Heart and Lung Foundation office that day.   We wanted them to know just how very grateful we were for the life of our daughter.  As we gave out hugs, we looked into tear filled eyes.  Those people cared deeply about what they did, and it showed on their faces.  Drew offered to do anything for them that we could.  John Hyde asked us if we would be willing to tell our story at the Hospital Board meeting the next day.  We eagerly agreed.

            Knowing that we would be speaking in front of a room full of Doctors and Administrators, Drew made the decision to go home and get us some nicer clothes.  We went upstairs to visit with her again.  Her room was ice cold and she was complaining about how cold she was.  It was still amazing to look at her and see the difference in her coloring.  Drew left to go home, and I decided to slip over to the Ronald McDonald House for a nap.  When I came back to see her, she had complained enough to the nurses about being cold that they had brought in a big heater.  It had a hose that they ran under the covers to blow warm air on her.  It quickly became my job to re-adjust the hose and covers for maximum effect.  I was more than happy to take on that job for her.

            I had begun a mental exercise of “what is going on with the donor’s Mom”.  In my mind, I was imagining her in mental agony.  I was wondering when the funeral was, how many family members were visiting, if she sat on her child’s bed and thought about her child as a baby.  In my mind, she was wondering about the lives that were on a road to recovery because of HER child.  I tried to mentally send her a comforting message.  To me, we were connected.

            Tuesday, April 16, 2002: The next morning, we got up, showered and ran to have a quick visit with Charis.  We told her that we were telling her story to the Doctors, and would come visit her afterward.  As we arrived at the meeting room, there were a few reporters waiting to talk to us, and a video camera from the hospital’s Public Relations department.  The meeting had barely started when we were introduced.  We stood in front of a room full of Hospital Administrators and Doctors and described the past two weeks to them.  We took the opportunity to express our thanks to the dedication of THIS staff for the life of our daughter.  Had we been millionaires, I’m certain we would have pledged half of our fortune to the hospital at that time.  After the meeting was over, a reporter interviewed us, asking questions for at least 30 minutes.  It was surreal to be standing there talking to someone, with a photographer hovering just behind his shoulder snapping pictures.   

            The Public Relations camera followed us to Charis’ room as we visited with her.  Standing outside the glass wall watching her, she saw us and wiggled her fingers in greeting, then gave us the “I love you” sign in sign language.  The camera continued shooting as we scrubbed up and went into the room and talked to her.  They had shut her oxygen almost completely off to wean her from the respirator.  We stood and talked to her, rubbing her cold hands and kissed her. 

            Getting the hated tube out of her throat was a constant obsession.  Once she knew that she was on the way to recovering, she continually bugged each Doctor that came in.  They tried to explain gently to her that her body was dependent on it, and she needed her strength directed toward healing.  She was watched continually, and her oxygen turned down gradually.  By Tuesday afternoon, the oxygen had been disconnected, but the tube left in to allow for reconnection if it was needed.  She was breathing room air on her own!  They had also withdrawn most of the sedation, and her gag reflex was back in full force.  The nurses kept reminding her to try and relax, so she wouldn’t gag around the tube.  She kept writing “WHEN?” wanting that tube out.  They finally came and removed it late Tuesday afternoon.  I craved the sound of her voice.  But all that came out was a very horse, very small whisper.   By Tuesday evening, she was being spoon fed ice chips, and was even given a few sips of fruit juice.  Tiny little milestones on a long road to normalcy.

Wednesday, April 17, 2002:  Picking up the morning newspaper, the front page had a teaser about the news story on the front page of section 2.  Turning to section 2, covering a quarter of the page, was a picture of Drew and I, and covering another quarter of the page was the story.  Headlines read: “Parents Praise Organ donation”.  In bold type, was a quote from Drew from the interview; “I’m embarrassed to say that I was very possessive of my organs, but after all this, the moment I die I want them to take every scrap of me.”

Walking through the CVICU, I could see that her room was now brightly lit, and as I got closer I saw an empty bed and crumpled sheets.  My heart skipped a beat and I hurried down the hallway.  As I got closer and could see more of the room, I noticed that there was a high-backed chair pulled up close to the side of her bed, facing away from the glass wall.  Under the chair, resting on the floor were two sock-clad feet and a very skinny pair of legs.  Going into the scrub room and looking through the window, I could see her sitting in the chair, wrapped up in blankets.  I scrubbed as quickly as I could and stepped through the door.  She had a triumphant look on her face and a big grin.  “Look Momma, I’m sitting!” she whispered to me.  “See?  I got to eat breakfast!”   I glanced at the tray sitting on the table.  I could see jello with only a few bites gone, and some lumpy oatmeal that I knew from experience she hadn’t and wouldn’t touch.   There was a carton of chocolate milk with a straw sticking up out of it, picking it up, I could tell that she had taken several drinks of it.  She grimaced as she pointed to an unopened carton of skim milk and commented, “They brought me that nasty stuff first, so I asked for chocolate milk, and they brought it”.    If ever there was a sign of our girl returning, that was it! 

She sat upright for several hours that day.  The plan was to get her up and start walking the next day.   Looking at her sitting in that chair, I could tell how weak she was, her leg muscles had lost their shape, and it was hard to imagine those skinny sticks holding her up.  But looking at the rest of her body, there wasn’t much to hold up.  She got a dinner of enchiladas and more jello for supper.  She picked at it, and ate bits and pieces.  The nurses were more than happy to track down whatever she was interested in eating.  After a tiring day of sitting upright and real eating, she wanted to go to sleep early, so we went back to the Ronald McDonald house early.